The retreat was supposed to be a break. Just Ivy and Caleb, five days in the countryside surrounded by canvases, fields of lavender, and a handful of other creatives. They hadn’t expected to feel so watched.
But then there was Emil.
The resident artist. Older. European. Paint on his hands, always barefoot, always observing. He taught figure drawing in the mornings, cooked barefoot at night, and looked at Ivy like he knew every secret she was about to confess.
The third evening, it rained. Emil invited them to his studio.
Wine was poured. Music played—low and aching. Ivy posed for a quick sketch, draped in a linen robe. Emil’s eyes never left her face. Caleb stood behind her, hands on her shoulders, gaze dark.
“She’s stunning,” Emil murmured. “But I’d rather draw both of you.”
Ivy stood, let the robe fall. Caleb kissed her shoulder as Emil moved closer—no brushes now, just fingers grazing her skin.
“Tell me to stop,” Emil whispered.
She didn’t.
Soon, Emil’s hands were on her thighs, his lips at her neck. Caleb stepped aside, watching his wife tremble under another man’s touch—aroused, not threatened. Invited.
Then Caleb joined—kissing Ivy deeply while Emil knelt between her legs, tongue slow and precise, her moans muffled into Caleb’s chest. Emil stood and kissed Caleb, a quiet heat sparking between them, Ivy watching with wide, hungry eyes.
She guided Emil onto the couch, straddling him while Caleb stroked himself, watching his wife ride another man, her head thrown back, hair wild. Then Caleb came behind her, sliding into her while she was still full of Emil, their hands gripping her hips in tandem, the three of them gasping, grinding, giving in.
Paintings lined the walls. But what they created that night couldn’t be hung or framed.
Just remembered.
And maybe repeated.
