Lena scarlets other half

Lena's POV

I stood in Scarlet's living room, wine glass in hand, when the door swung open. There he was—Marcus, the man I'd heard so much about, stepping in with a six-pack under his arm. He's shorter than me, maybe 5'10" to my six feet, stocky and solid, with dark hair spilling over his collar and a thick beard framing his face. His chest hair poked out of his shirt, a wild mat that matched what Scarlet had described—hairy, unpolished, real. He's not my type—not even close—but there's a warmth in his brown eyes, a quiet strength in how he carries himself, that I can see why she loves him. His ass jiggles a little as he sets the beer down, hairy even through his jeans, and I smirk. He's average, sure, but he's hers, and that makes him something special.

"Hey, babe," he says to Scarlet, then stops dead when he sees me. His eyes widen, raking over me—my red hair loose and wild, my black dress clinging to my big tits and thick ass, my muscular arms bare. I catch him lingering on my chest, then my hips, before he snaps his gaze back to my face, flushing red. I've seen that look before—guys who don't know whether to stare or run. Scarlet notices too, her lips twitching, but she doesn't say anything.

"You must be Lena," he says, stepping forward, offering a hand. It's rough, hairy on the knuckles, and his grip's firm. Up close, he smells like sweat and cheap cologne, earthy in a way that's oddly comforting.

"That's me," I reply, smirking wider. "Good to finally meet the guy who's got Scarlet wrapped around his finger."

He chuckles, scratching his neck, and I see the nerves in him—sweet, awkward Marcus, the virgin she turned into her husband. He's not built like me, no hard edges or gym-carved lines, but there's a softness to him, a kindness. I get it now—why she'd die for him. He's not just some hairy schlub; he's real, and that's rare.

Marcus's POV

I walk in, expecting Scarlet's smile, but then I see her—Lena. Holy shit. She's a goddamn amazon, six feet tall, towering over me even at 5'10". Her red hair's a mess of fire, and that dress—she's got tits that could stop traffic, big and round, pushing against the fabric, and an ass so thick it's practically sculpted. Her arms are muscled, strong, like she could bench me without breaking a sweat, but she's still all woman, curves in all the right places. I can't help it—my eyes drift to her chest, then her hips, and I feel my face heat up. Scarlet catches me staring, her blue eyes narrowing with a knowing smirk, but she doesn't call me out. Not yet.

"Lena, huh?" I manage, sticking out my hand. She takes it, her grip firm, her skin rough from calluses. Up close, she's even more intimidating—green eyes sharp, a smirk that says she knows exactly what I'm thinking. She's nothing like me—hairy, average me with my beer gut and ass hair—but I see why Scarlet's drawn to her. She's power wrapped in sex, a storm Scarlet used to ride.

We sit down, Scarlet between us on the couch, and start talking. I crack a beer, my hairy fingers fumbling the cap, and say, "So, Scarlet told me about you two. The past, now… everything." My voice is steady, but my mind's racing. This is my wife's ex—her lover, maybe still—and I'm okay with it. Mostly.

Lena nods, leaning back, her tits shifting under that dress. I glance again, quick, and Scarlet's smirk grows. "She told me you're cool with it," Lena says. "With me being around. That's… big of you."

"Yeah," I say, rubbing my beard. "Look, I love her. To death. She's my world—six feet of blonde perfection I still can't believe picked me. I was a virgin before her, you know? She's my first, my only. But she told me she's bi, that you're part of her, and I can't take that away. It'd be selfish."

Lena's eyes soften, and I keep going, my gaze flicking to her ass as she shifts—damn, it's distracting. "We're figuring this out, right? You fit in because she wants you here. I'm okay with that—with you having a relationship with her. Just women, though. No guys. That's my line. I've got my insecurities—hairy ass, average looks—and if she stepped out with a man, I'd be done. But you? I can handle you."

Scarlet squeezes my hand, her fingers threading through mine, and I feel her love in it. Lena leans forward, her muscular frame tense but open. "I respect that," she says. "I'm not here to break you two. I love her—head over heels, forever kind of love—but I see what you've got. I wanna make this work, Marcus. For her."

I nod, my chest tight but sure. "Then we will. For her."

The doorbell rings—pizza I forgot I ordered—and I stand, my hairy frame shuffling to the door. I open it, the delivery guy blinking at me, but my mind's still on them—Scarlet and Lena, my wife and her flame, waiting behind me as we step into whatever this is together.