My Ex-Wife Will Regret Leaving Me

Chapter 003

The woman’s lips were soft, yet there was a frantic, almost practiced urgency to the way she sought my mouth. For a fleeting second, I felt a twinge of disappointment. She’s experienced, I thought, the bitter taste of reality momentarily dampening my excitement. But I quickly silenced that nagging voice in my head. What was I expecting? A woman this exquisite, found in the predatory shadows of the city's neon nightlife, was bound to have a history. I told myself to be grateful for the windfall that had landed in my lap.

As we kissed, her hand strayed downward, fumbling blindly until she found the heavy ridge of my desire. The touch was like a match to a powder keg. To hell with the consequences, I thought. I was a man who had lived on scraps for years; tonight, I was going to feast. While my mouth remained locked onto hers, my hands became a blur of motion. I reached down, the zipper of her skirt giving way with a sharp, metallic rasp. With one decisive tug, I pulled her skirt and her lace undergarments down past her hips, casting them aside onto the plush carpet.

My palm found the curve of her backside, and I marveled at the firmness of her skin. But as my fingers ventured further, seeking the core of her heat, I froze. She was already slick—not just damp, but completely flooded. It was as if a dam had broken within her.

There was no need for further seduction. The atmosphere in the room was thick with a primal, desperate energy. I fumbled with my own belt, my breath coming in ragged gasps, and kicked my trousers away. I moved between her legs, spreading them wide, the pale ivory of her thighs framing the gateway I had hungered for. As I prepared to lose myself in her, a final, tiny spark of hope flickered in my chest. I eased forward, moving with a sudden, uncharacteristic slowness.

The fit was incredibly tight—far more restrictive than I had anticipated. And then, I hit a distinct, unmistakable barrier.

My heart skipped a beat. A virgin? In this day and age? The thought brought a surge of triumph, immediately followed by a cold spike of terror. If I were caught with an experienced woman of the world, I could perhaps argue consent or a drunken mistake. But this? This was different. This was a line you didn't cross without consequences.

Yet, the momentum was too great to stop. The red mist of lust had claimed me entirely. I gritted my teeth and pushed through the resistance.

She let out a sharp, muffled cry of pain, her brow furrowing in a mask of distress. Instead of stopping me, the sound acted like a stimulant, driving me deeper into a frenzy. I had finally tasted the ultimate prize, and the realization sent me into a rhythmic, desperate motion. At first, she tried to push against my shoulders, her small hands trembling, but as the minutes ticked by, her struggle began to change. The sharp edge of pain seemed to dull into something else—a confused, hazy pleasure born of the substances coursing through her blood. Soon, her body began to arch instinctively, her hips rising to meet mine in a primal, wordless rhythm.

The intensity was more than I could handle. Having been deprived of a woman's touch for so long, I didn't last ten minutes before the first wave of release crashed over me. I collapsed against her, my chest heaving, but the fire hadn't been extinguished. Within twenty minutes, the hunger returned, sharper than before. The second time, I was more composed, more deliberate, ensuring that every sensation was cataloged and savored.

Eventually, the adrenaline began to fade, replaced by a heavy, lethargic exhaustion. I sat on the edge of the sofa, staring at the woman as she drifted into a deep, unnaturally heavy sleep. The initial fear I had felt was replaced by a strange, cold calm. I looked around the expensive apartment, realizing that the security cameras in the halls and the testimony of the guard at the Riverwood Estates meant I was likely trapped.

Let them come, I thought. Even if I spend the next ten years in a cell, tonight was worth it.

I checked the time on my phone: 4:15 AM. To my surprise, the sight of her lying there—hair sprawled across the cushions, skin glowing in the soft light—reignited the flame. I knew I might never see a woman this beautiful again in my life. I was a bottom-feeder, a man the local committee looked at with pity. This was my one moment of transcendence.

I decided I needed a souvenir. I told myself it was just for my own memory, a way to prove to myself that this hadn't been a dream. I began to take photos.

As I moved her into various poses, documenting the stark contrast between her high-society elegance and her current vulnerability, I felt a familiar stir in my loins. Even compared to the early days with Emma Hopkins, I had never felt this level of sustained, frantic attraction. I was obsessed. I took photos of her breasts, the curve of her waist, and the intimate details of our encounter.

Once I was satisfied with the digital evidence, I gave in to the urge one last time. I explored her body with a sense of ownership, moving from one position to another until I was completely spent. I finally collapsed beside her, spread-eagled on the sofa like a man who had just conquered a mountain, waiting for the sun to rise and for the "final judgment" to begin.

As I lay there, my mind began to drift toward the future. Did I really want to go to prison? I thought of my son. I hadn't been much of a father—not because I didn't love him, but because I was a failure by nature. I had brought him into a world of poverty and then allowed his mother to abandon him. Didn't he deserve a father who could provide? A father with leverage?

A dark, opportunistic thought began to take root. What if I used the photos? If she was as wealthy as this apartment suggested, she had everything to lose. Her reputation, her social standing—it was all wrapped up in a neat, bow-tied package that I now held the scissors to.

The clock ticked toward 6:00 AM. I stood up, my mouth dry as parchment, intending to find a glass of water. Just as I turned, I saw her stir. She sat up abruptly, the blanket sliding down to her waist.

Panic flared in my chest. My first instinct was to lunged forward and cover her mouth to stop the inevitable scream. She blinked, her eyes unfocused, a look of profound confusion washing over her delicate features. Then, as her gaze fell upon her own nakedness and then on me, the realization hit her like a physical blow. She opened her mouth to shriek, but I was faster, pinning her against the cushions with my hand firmly over her lips.

She thrashed beneath me, muffled whimpers of terror escaping her throat. I felt a momentary pang of guilt, but I crushed it. This was about survival now.

"Don't scream," I hissed, leaning close so she could see the seriousness in my eyes. "We need to talk. I brought you home last night, and you were the one who wouldn't let me go. I'm a man, and I couldn't say no to someone like you. If you want to call the police, go ahead. I’ll take the fall. But think about the scandal. Think about everyone knowing what happened in this room. It won't just be my life that’s ruined."

I slowly removed my hand, watching her like a hawk. To my surprise, she didn't scream. She scrambled into the corner of the sofa, pulling a decorative pillow over her chest, her eyes wide and brimming with tears.

I let out a short, nervous laugh. "There's no point in hiding now. I've seen everything there is to see. I even took some pictures to remember the night. Want to see?"

I didn't wait for an answer. I pulled up the gallery on my phone and held it out. She looked at the screen, her face turning a ghostly shade of white. She began to shake, silent tears streaming down her cheeks.

"Look, what's your name?" I asked, my voice softening slightly. I truly did feel a twisted sense of obligation to her. "If you don't call the cops, I'll find a way to make it up to you. I know I’m not much, but a woman like you... you deserve some kind of compensation."

She didn't respond. She just stared at the wall, her spirit appearing broken.

"You can still call them," I added quietly, testing the waters.

She finally looked at me, her eyes flashing with a sudden, sharp clarity. "I can't believe it," she whispered. "Those bastards... they must have drugged my drink. And after all that, it's a piece of trash like you who ends up with the prize."

She pointed toward the door, her voice trembling but cold. "Get out. Delete those photos and get out of my sight. I never want to see you again."

I was stunned. I had expected a legal battle or a frantic payout. Instead, she was giving me a free pass. But as I looked at her—this broken goddess in her ivory tower—I realized I didn't want to just walk away. The drug she’d been given had inadvertently handed me a secret, and the power of that secret was far more intoxicating than any drink.