Scarlet’s crossroads.

Below is an updated story from Scarlet's POV, reflecting the revised character details: Scarlet at 6 feet, Marcus at 5'10", Marcus being a virgin before

I'll never forget the day Marcus stumbled into my life. Three years ago, I was perched on a barstool, all six feet of me—long blonde legs crossed, my chest straining against a low-cut top—when he walked in. Marcus was 5'10", just shy of my height, with a stocky build and a mess of dark hair spilling over his collar. He was cute in an unassuming way, his brown eyes wide and nervous as he approached me. I could tell he wasn't used to this—talking to women, let alone someone like me. Later, he confessed he'd been a virgin before that night, a 28-year-old guy who'd never found the right moment. I was his first everything—first kiss, first fuck, first love—and damn if that didn't make me feel powerful.

He was so earnest, so gentle, fumbling through our first time together like he was afraid I'd break. I guided him, showed him how to touch me, how to move inside me—his hairy chest pressed against my smooth skin, his thick cock trembling as he came too fast. But he learned quick, and God, does he love me. Marcus is the kind of guy who'd walk through fire for me—hairy ass and all—and I love him to death too. His rough edges, the way his beard scratches my thighs when he goes down on me, the way he groans my name like I'm his whole world—it's home. I'd die for him, no question.

But there's a part of me he doesn't know, a part I've buried deep. Before Marcus, I was wild for women—their soft curves, their slick heat, the way they'd moan under my hands. I'd fucked plenty, but none stuck with me like Lena. She was my height, six feet of redheaded perfection—big tits that spilled out of her sports bras, an ass so round and firm it begged to be grabbed, and a muscular frame that still screamed feminine. Lena was a strict lesbian, all fire and control, and she fucked me like she owned me. I'd lose myself in her—her strong thighs pinning me down, her fingers pumping inside me, her tongue on my clit until I was screaming. I loved her body, loved how it moved, loved the way she'd smirk when I came, her red hair plastered to her sweaty forehead. We burned hot for six months until she walked away, unwilling to share me with my hunger for men.

I thought I'd left her behind. Then yesterday happened.

I was out running errands—picking up dry cleaning, grabbing coffee—when I saw her. Lena, standing outside the grocery store, loading bags into her truck. She hadn't changed a bit—still tall, still stacked, her red hair catching the sunlight, her biceps flexing under a tight tank top. My heart slammed against my ribs, and before I could think, my feet carried me over.

"Lena?" My voice came out shakier than I meant it to.

She turned, those green eyes locking onto mine, and fuck, it was like no time had passed. "Scarlet," she said, her lips curling into that familiar smirk. "Still looking like trouble."

I laughed, brushing my blonde hair back, suddenly aware of how my shorts hugged my ass, how my tank top clung to my tits. "You're one to talk. What are you doing here?"

"Moved back a month ago," she said, leaning against her truck. Her gaze flicked over me, slow and deliberate, lingering on my chest, my hips. "You look good."

"So do you." Too good. My mouth went dry, memories flooding back—her muscular body grinding against mine, her big breasts bouncing as she rode me, the way her ass flexed when I grabbed it. I shifted, thighs pressing together, hoping she didn't notice the heat creeping up my neck.

We talked—small stuff at first, catching up on jobs, moves, life. But then it shifted. "You still with that guy?" she asked, her tone casual but her eyes sharp.

"Marcus. Yeah. Married now." I flashed my ring, like it'd anchor me. "He's amazing."

"Sounds like a lucky bastard," she said, stepping closer. "But I bet he doesn't know you like I did." Her voice dropped, husky, and my breath hitched. She was right. Marcus didn't know about my past, didn't know how I'd writhe under Lena's touch, how I'd beg for more as she fucked me senseless.

"Lena, don't," I said, but it was weak, and she knew it. She reached out, brushing her fingers against my arm, her skin warm and rough from calluses. My body lit up, a traitor to the life I'd built.

"I still think about you," she admitted, her eyes dark. "The way you'd scream my name. Nobody's ever matched that."

I swallowed hard, my pulse racing. "I think about you too," I confessed, the words slipping out before I could stop them. "But I love him, Lena. I can't—"

"I'm not asking you to leave him," she cut in, her hand lingering. "Just saying what's true. You feel it too, don't you?"

I did. Standing there, inches from her, I wanted to grab her, kiss her, feel her strong body press me against that truck and take me like she used to. My pussy throbbed at the thought, wet and aching, but Marcus's face flashed in my mind—his goofy smile, his hairy chest heaving as he fucked me, his whispered "I love you" after. I couldn't betray him. Could I?

"I have to go," I said, stepping back, my voice tight. "It was good seeing you."

"Yeah," she replied, her smirk fading into something softer. "Take care, Scarlet."

I walked away, legs shaky, my errands forgotten. All I could think about was Lena's touch, her body, and the secret I'd kept from Marcus—the part of me that still burned for her. I love my husband to death, and he loves me the same. But now, with Lena back in the picture, I don't know how long I can keep pretending that part of me doesn't exist.