The gallery's polished concrete held the cold of the evening, seeping through the soles of my shoes. The air was thick with drying oil paint and the ghost of spilled wine, the dim spots overhead throwing long shadows across the canvases. Kara stood a few feet ahead of me, her dark bob catching the light as she tilted her head at a painting, and beside her, Xavier leaned in close.

"The motion," Kara was saying, her fingers brushing Xavier's forearm, "it's all in how she holds the brush. You can see it in the stroke—the way it curves here." She traced an arc in the air, and Xavier watched her hand like it was the painting.

"I see it," he said, but he wasn't looking at the canvas. He was looking at her, that boyish grin tugging at his mouth. "You've got an eye for this, Kara."

She laughed, breathless, and brushed a strand of hair from her face. "I've had years of practice. Ethan's the one who taught me to really see—" She glanced back at me, and for a moment, her smile softened. "He's got a good eye too."

I forced a nod, hands shoved in my pockets, knuckles already aching from the grip I had on nothing.

"He's a lucky man," Xavier said, and the way he said it—low, smooth, like he was sharing a secret—made my jaw clench. He was doing it again. Flirting with her, right in front of me, like I was furniture. Like the six years I'd spent watching him grow from a scrawny kid into this—this cocky little shit—meant nothing.

Kara's cheeks flushed, and she ducked her head, but she didn't pull away when his fingers brushed her wrist.

"Xavier," she said, half a warning, half something else entirely.

"What? I'm just appreciating the art." He gestured at the canvas, but his eyes never left hers. "And the artist. You painted all of these?"

"Most of them. The ones in the back are older—"

"I'd love to see those." He said it like he was asking, but it wasn't a question. He was already moving toward the back of the gallery, and Kara followed, her steps light, her hips swaying in that way she had when she was enjoying herself.

I stood there, rooted to the concrete, watching them walk away. The dim light caught the curve of her shoulder, the way her blouse pulled across her back. And Xavier—he looked back once, caught my eye, and winked.

Something hot and ugly twisted in my gut.

"I need the bathroom," I muttered, and my voice came out rougher than I meant it to. Neither of them turned around.

The bathroom was down a narrow hall, past the storage room, the door heavy and solid. I closed it behind me and leaned against the sink, staring at my reflection in the mirror. My jaw was clenched so tight my teeth ached. My hands were shaking.

I heard her laugh through the wall—that breathless, musical sound she made when she was genuinely delighted. And then Xavier's voice, low and teasing, too muffled to make out the words.

My cock was hard. That was the worst part. I was standing in a bathroom, listening to my wife flirt with a man half my age, and I was so hard it hurt. I could feel the heat of it, the ache, the way my body betrayed me without even asking.

I unbuckled my belt, shoved my jeans down, and wrapped my hand around myself. The first stroke was almost painful—I was so worked up, so desperate. I leaned my forehead against the cool tile of the wall and jerked off to the sound of her voice through the drywall.

I imagined him pressing her against the wall, his hand on her throat, his mouth on hers. I imagined her gasping, her legs spreading, the way she'd arch her back when she came. I imagined him fucking her—hard, deep, the way I used to, the way I still did when I wasn't too tired or too angry to remember.

I came fast, too fast, spilling into my hand with a choked grunt. The shame hit me before the pleasure faded. I was jerking off to the thought of my neighbor fucking my wife. My friend. The kid I'd watched grow up. And I was getting off on it.

I washed my hands, ignoring the mess on the floor, and stood there for a long moment, trying to get my breathing under control. The mirror showed me a man I didn't recognize—jaw tight, eyes wild, a flush creeping up his neck.

I should go back out there. I should put a stop to this. I should—

Her laugh came again, sharper this time, edged with something I hadn't heard in years. And then a sound that made my blood run cold and hot at the same time: a muffled gasp, a thud, and the unmistakable rhythm of bodies moving together.

I pushed off the sink and yanked the door open.

The back of the gallery was a small alcove, lit by a single warm spot. And there—in the middle of it, on a low bench that was never meant for this—Xavier had her bent over. Her skirt was bunched at her waist, her panties shoved aside, and he was inside her.

I froze in the doorway.

He was driving into her, deep, his hips slamming against her ass with a wet, rhythmic sound that echoed off the concrete. Her hands were braced on the bench, her head thrown back, her mouth open in a silent cry. And she was looking at me.

Her eyes met mine over her shoulder, and I saw it—the flush on her cheeks, the way her lips parted, the unmistakable glaze of pleasure in her gaze. She wasn't surprised to see me. She wasn't ashamed.

She was enjoying it.

Something inside me cracked. I stood there, frozen, watching my wife get fucked by a man who wasn't me, and the worst part—the part I couldn't admit—was that I was hard again. My cock was straining against my jeans, aching, leaking, betraying me completely.

Xavier saw me. His eyes locked on mine over Kara's shoulder, and instead of stopping, instead of pulling out, he grinned—that fucking grin—and drove deeper.

"Ethan," he said, his voice rough, breathless. "Glad you could join us."

I couldn't move. My hands were shaking at my sides, my knuckles white, but I couldn't move. I could only watch as he pulled almost all the way out and slammed back in, making her cry out, making her body jerk against the bench.

"She's so tight," he said, and he wasn't gloating—he sounded almost reverent. "God, Ethan, she's so fucking tight."

Kara moaned, a low, desperate sound, and her fingers clawed at the bench. "Xavier—"

"Tell him," he said, slowing his rhythm, making her wait. "Tell him how good it feels."

She turned her head, her eyes finding mine again, and I saw the truth in them—the truth I'd been avoiding for years. "It feels—" she gasped as he thrust deep, "—it feels so good, Ethan."

I came. Right there, in my jeans, like a teenager. I came so hard my vision went white, my knees buckling, my hand flying to the doorframe to keep from falling. The shame was a physical weight, crushing me, even as the pleasure ripped through my body.

Xavier laughed, low and dark, and picked up the pace. "Look at him, Kara. Look at your husband, coming in his pants watching me fuck you."

She moaned, her body arching, and I watched her come undone. I watched him drive into her, his hips slamming against her ass, the wet sound of it filling the room. I watched her cunt grip him, slick and swollen and desperate, and I felt my cock twitch again, already half-hard even though I'd just come.

"I'm close," he said, and his voice was strained now, his rhythm faltering. "Kara—where do you want it?"

She reached back, grabbed his hip, pulled him deeper. "Inside," she gasped. "Please, Xavier, inside—"

He drove home, once, twice, three times, and then he was coming, his body shuddering against hers, his face contorted with the force of it. I watched him spill inside her, his cock pulsing, and I heard her cry out as she came with him, her body clenching around him, milking him dry.

For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of their breathing, the smell of sex and sweat, the sight of my wife bent over a bench with another man's cum dripping out of her.

And I came again. A third time, my body betraying me completely, my face breaking as the pleasure and the shame and the rage all collided into something I couldn't name.

Xavier pulled out, slow, deliberate, and let his cock slip free of her with a wet sound. He turned to look at me, his chest heaving, his grin still in place, and I saw the glint in his eye—the one that said he knew exactly what he'd done, and he wasn't sorry.

"Thanks for the tour, Ethan," he said, and his voice was light, mocking, as he tucked himself back into his jeans. "Kara's a hell of a docent."

My hand was still white-knuckled on the doorframe, my jeans wet and cold against my thighs. The word hung in the air between us—docent—and I could feel the heat of it, the way he'd turned my wife into a museum piece and me into the visitor who'd wandered in by accident.

Kara straightened slowly, her skirt falling back into place with a soft rustle. She didn't fix her blouse. She didn't look away from me. She just stood there, her chest still heaving, her lips parted, the flush on her cheeks deepening as she watched me watch her.

"Ethan," she said, and her voice was raw, scraped clean of everything I knew. "I—"

"Don't." The word came out of me before I knew I'd said it. My throat was tight, my jaw aching from the clench I couldn't release. "Don't explain it."

Xavier zipped his jeans, slow, deliberate, the sound of it loud in the quiet gallery. He ran a hand through his dark hair, that grin still tugging at his mouth, and I saw the way his eyes flicked between us—watching, calculating, enjoying the show.

"I should get back to the front," he said, and his voice was light, almost bored. "Make sure the doors are locked." He paused, looking at me over his shoulder. "You two take your time."

He walked past me, close enough that I caught the smell of him—sweat and sex and something younger, something I'd forgotten I ever had. He didn't look back. The door swung shut behind him with a soft click, and then there were just the two of us.

Kara took a step toward me, and I flinched. I didn't mean to. The movement was there before I could stop it, my body reacting to her like she was a stranger, like the woman who'd just come on another man's cock was someone I didn't know.

She stopped. Her hand, half-raised, fell back to her side.

"I'm not sorry," she said, and the words were quiet, steady, like she'd been waiting to say them for years. "I know that's not what you want to hear. But I'm not."

I stared at her. The dim spot above the bench caught the curve of her shoulder, the way her dark bob had come loose from its sleek cut, strands of it sticking to the sweat on her neck. She looked younger like this—unmade, raw, the careful composure she wore like armor stripped away.

"That's the problem," I said, and my voice cracked on the last word. "I don't know what I want to hear."