My Ex-Wife Will Regret Leaving Me

Chapter 002

I shifted my stance, my right arm sliding firmly under her armpit to provide better support as we shuffled toward the elevator. In the process, my palm pressed directly against her right breast. The sensation was immediate and overwhelming; she was incredibly lush, possessing a rare combination of firm elasticity and velvet softness. I couldn’t help but wonder about the man in her life—the husband or boyfriend who likely fell asleep every night with that weight in his hands. A surge of envy, sharp and bitter, flickered through my mind. Driven by a desperate, lonely hunger, I allowed my fingers to shift upward, exerting a gentle but deliberate pressure.

"Mmm..." she let out a soft, hazy moan.

My heart nearly hammered its way out of my ribs. I froze, my grip loosening instantly as adrenaline spiked through my veins. I already had a defense prepared in the back of my mind: if she caught me, I’d play the fool. I’d act as if I were just a clumsy, well-meaning driver struggling to keep her upright. Given her state of complete intoxication, it was a lie she’d likely swallow. But she didn't open her eyes. She remained a dead weight against me, blissfully unaware of the liberties I was taking.

With trembling hands, I fished her keys from her purse, fumbled with the lobby door lock, and managed to steer her into the elevator. I pressed the button for the eighth floor. By now, she was completely incapable of standing on her own. Her head lolled against the mirrored wall of the lift, and she began to dry heave, a low, wet sound emanating from her throat.

Experienced in the messy aftermath of the city's neon nightlife, I reached into my pocket and pulled out a plastic grocery bag I always kept for such emergencies. I waited, bracing for the worst, but it turned out to be a false alarm. She settled back into a stupor, her knees buckling as if she were about to slide right down to the elevator floor. To keep her from collapsing, I pulled her toward me, facing her and placing both of my hands firmly on her rounded, supple hips.

The position was dangerously intimate. Her full chest was pressed flat against mine, and because of the physical reaction I couldn’t suppress, she was effectively pinned against my groin. It had been years since I had been this close to a woman, let alone one of this caliber. The scent of her—a mix of high-end perfume and the heat of her skin—was making my blood boil. I knew there were security cameras in the elevator, but our current pose could easily be excused as a man helping a neighbor. I forced myself to stay still, even as my mind raced with illicit possibilities.

The doors chimed as we reached the twenty-third floor. I led her down the silent, carpeted hallway to apartment number three. I pressed the doorbell, waiting for several long seconds, but no one answered. The silence from within the apartment suggested she lived alone, or at least that no one was home to witness our arrival. The door was equipped with a high-tech biometric scanner. I took a gamble, grabbing her limp right hand and pressing her thumb against the cold glass of the sensor.

Click. The lock disengaged with a satisfying mechanical snap. Luck was on my side; the thumbprint was the correct one. I pushed the door open, feeling like a thief entering a sanctuary. The apartment was cool and smelled of lavender and expensive leather. I fumbled for the light switch, flooding the room with a soft, warm glow, and kicked the door shut behind us. I practically carried her to the large, plush sofa in the living room and let her fall back onto the cushions.

The effort had left me winded. I stood there for a moment, chest heaving, taking in the surroundings. It was a chic, modern space—a two-bedroom layout with an open-plan kitchen and a balcony that likely overlooked the city skyline. This was a world of comfort and status, light-years away from the cramped, dusty rooms I shared with my parents.

"Water... please... water..." she muttered, her voice a fragile rasp.

I scanned the room, spotting the kitchen area. I found a bottle of premium spring water in the refrigerator, poured it into a glass, and returned to the sofa. I sat on the edge, lifting her head slightly to help her drink. She took a few desperate gulps, water trickling down the corner of her mouth and onto her collar.

I intended to ask for the fare and leave. Truly, I did. But as I pulled back, she suddenly reached out and snagged my wrist with surprising strength.

"Don't go!" she cried out.

My heart stopped. My first thought was that she’d realized who I was, but the look in her eyes was glazed, focused on a ghost. She wasn't seeing Sean Barnes, the tricycle driver. She was seeing someone else—a lover, a husband, a "him." I tried to pull away, but she lunged forward, wrapping her arms around my neck and pulling me down into her orbit.

The apartment was silent. There was no one here to stop me, no one to judge. The thought echoed in my head like a mantra: No one is home. My vision began to blur with a red haze of desire. I could smell the heat coming off her body, a primal, intoxicating scent that made my pulse thrum in my ears. For a second, my conscience flickered—the part of me that wanted to be a good father, a decent man. I carefully laid her back down on the sofa, trying to regain my composure.

Under the bright living room lights, she was even more stunning. Her face was flushed with a deep, tantalizing crimson—the kind of glow that comes from a long night of drinking or the aftermath of an intense physical encounter. Her breathing was frantic now, and those two magnificent peaks of her chest shuddered with every gasp she took. Her blouse had become hopelessly disarrayed during our struggle, leaving her porcelain skin and the lace of her undergarments partially exposed. It was a sight designed to break a man’s will.

My gaze drifted lower. Her long, slender legs, smooth as polished ivory, were draped over the edge of the sofa. Her skirt had ridden up, revealing a pair of purple lace panties. I was paralyzed, caught in a loop of indecision and lust. Just one touch, a voice hissed in my mind. Just one touch, and then you leave.

I swallowed hard, my throat feeling like it was filled with sand. I reached out with a trembling hand, my fingers grazing the cool skin of her thigh. I began to stroke her leg, marveling at the silkiness of her skin. Emboldened by her lack of protest, I moved my hand higher, inching toward the most sensitive territory.

She furrowed her brow and let out a soft groan, shifting her weight. As she moved, she inadvertently clamped her legs together, catching my hand between her thighs. The warmth there was incredible. I don't know where I found the courage—perhaps it was the years of loneliness, or perhaps the sheer beauty of the woman before me—but I didn't pull away. I pushed back, gently but firmly prying her legs apart so I could continue my exploration.

When my fingers finally brushed against the lace of her underwear, a jolt of electricity surged through my entire body. Even through the thin fabric, I could feel the heat radiating from her. My self-control, already fragile, shattered completely. I applied more pressure, my heart racing as I sought a deeper connection.

Suddenly, she twisted her body, letting out a series of low, rhythmic moans. The sound terrified me. My "soldier" below, who had been standing at attention, suddenly wavered as a flash of panic hit me. I froze, holding my breath, waiting to see if she was waking up.

"Miss? Miss?" I whispered urgently.

There was no answer, only her heavy, rhythmic breathing. I stood up, preparing to bolt for the door, when two words drifted up from her lips, soft as a prayer: "Honey... take me. We don't have to wait for the wedding..."

My jaw nearly hit the floor. The implication hit me like a physical blow. Was she a virgin? I thought back to my ex-wife; even when she was seventeen, she was far from inexperienced. I’d spent my life picking up the pieces other men had left behind. The idea of being the first for a woman like this—a high-society beauty in a place like the Riverwood Estates—was a fantasy I never thought possible.

I decided then and there to throw caution to the wind.

If anything, she seemed more eager than I was. She began to writhe against the cushions like a silk-wrapped snake, her hands fumbling blindly with her own clothes, tugging at the straps of her bra. I didn't waste another second. I reached out, my hands finally finding the two mounds of soft, warm flesh I had been dreaming of since the street corner.

The sensation was beyond words. To finally hold her without the barrier of her blazer, to feel the sheer scale and weight of her, was a revelation. She was a masterpiece. I could feel her responding to my touch, her body arching toward me as I began to work on the buttons of her blouse.

One by one, the buttons gave way. I pulled the fabric aside, unmasking her completely, and reached around to unclip the lace bra. As the restraint vanished, her breasts spilled forward, two magnificent, trembling peaks that seemed to glow under the apartment lights. The dark, rose-colored tips were firm, reacting to the cool air and my touch.

I was lost. I leaned in, my hands molding to the shape of her, my thumbs brushing over the sensitive peaks. Her moans grew louder, more frequent, a siren song that pulled me deeper into the abyss. Then, without warning, she reached up, her hands finding the back of my head, and pulled my face down to hers.

She kissed me with a desperate, wine-soaked hunger. I didn't fight it. I met her passion with my own, our tongues tangling in a messy, frantic dance of shared breath and unspoken desires.