I STILL LOVE YOU, BUT...

CHAPTER 9

IRIS

I am a pro in the art of seduction.

Every man I have met has sucuumbed to me.

Oh, they try to fight it at first, of course, but they give in, inevitably. "Men are animals, my girl," my mother said once, when she was in a particularly mellow mood, huffing out a perfect ring of smoke. "It's in their natures to cheat. It's just a question of when, and with whom."

When I grew older, the truth of my mother's words were driven home to me. The boys at school lusted after me. Men of all ages wanted me --- including the fathers of those horny boys who wanted to get into my knickers. I saw the way they looked at me when their sons brought me home, how their eyes would linger on my thighs under my short skirts, my breasts straining under the buttons. Some did more than look; some waited till their sons were out of earshot, then offered me money for a quick fuck --- I agreed readily enough; all I had to do was open my legs --- in some old man's car, in his garage, in the storeroom, on his marital bed, in the garden shed --- and it was enough money to get me a nice, hot meal, rather than the cold and congealed leftovers in the fridge, and sometimes, if the old fuckers were feeling extra generous --- several hot meals, lasting a few weeks, a nice dress, even a new lipstick.

Men have a predisposition to cheat. No man could resist me, none at all, and I continued to fuck other men after I married Edward. I didn't need the money, I was rich enough, but I was bored. Sex with Ed was unsatisfying, a chore. I faked my orgasms, and I craved more. If I couldn't get it from my husband, I would get it from other men.

I drifted into affairs, short-lived ones; they didn't last, but they helped to tide me over. When Ed pawed my breasts, and thrusted his feeble penis into me, I moaned appropriately, and thought idly of my lovers. It made sex with Ed more bearable that way.

And then, one day, when I had just turned thirty-five, I came home to find my husband and a young man sitting on the couch of my sitting room.

"Darling," Ed got to his feet, beaming. "Meet Tristan. He's Philip's son --- you remember Philip Remington, don't you? My mate from Oxford. Tristan's here to do an interning stint at Beaufort Corp. Tristan, this is my beautiful wife, Iris."

Ed mopped his forehead. There was a damp brownish patch on his shirt; he had spilled coffee on it. I could see a speck of green on an incisor. Spinach, probably, from breakfast. I felt the familiar crawl of irritation lick at me, but forgot it in an instant, because the young man had already risen to his feet with a quick, lithe movement.

My breath caught in my throat.

He was absolutely stunning.

He completely overshadowed my amiable, unremarkable husband.

They stood there, side by side. The young man and my husband. A gilded, golden palace and a shabby old shack.

He was very tall --- easily towering over Ed by a head and a half --- and lean, his thick, dark hair a contrast to Ed's sparse hair crowning his head, and my eyes swept over that hard, toned body --- so different from Ed's soft, spongy one --- and up his face --- and my throat went dry. Now, there was a man. He had a lean, tanned face, an aquiline nose, and an arrogant, handsome face. A future CEO. He had his legacy stamped all over that face, in the way he carried himself. Rich and entitled.

He was young, with a sheen about his eyes and a lightness in his limbs, and beautiful in the way only the young can be beautiful.

"Tristan," I murmured, running my eyes appreciatively over him, making sure he saw it, "We had dinner with your father a few years ago, and he mentioned you. I'm not sure why, but I'd always imagined you were a little boy."