💮͓̽His Mistress💮

Between Duties and Desires.

💮Raul💮

After a long, exhausting day at the publishing company, I finally made my way back to my condo in Paris.

The city lights blurred past the windshield, and all I could think about was how badly I wanted to sink into silence—and maybe a drink.

As soon as I walked through the door, the rich, savory scent of stewed chicken hit me, wrapping around me like a warm welcome.

My stomach responded immediately, and I found myself licking my lips unconsciously.

Catalina.

I guessed she was in the kitchen. Without making a sound, I climbed the stairs and headed straight to our bedroom to freshen up.

I changed into a pair of white sweats, tossing my shirt onto the bed, already mentally checking out from the day.

When I came downstairs, she was setting the table, her movements graceful—too graceful. She must've heard me because her head snapped up and her eyes locked on mine.

She was dressed in gray lingerie. The lace barely concealed her pink nipples, and her pale skin seemed to glow under the warm kitchen lights.

Her shiny blonde hair was tied in a high ponytail, and her long, toned legs looked like they belonged in a catalog.

"Baby," she smiled sweetly, her voice airy and flirtatious as she made her way toward me.

Without hesitation, she jumped into my arms, wrapping her legs around my waist and her arms around my neck.

She tugged at my hair playfully.

Fuelled by desires, I responded instinctively, my hands gripping her waist, pulling her flush against me—hard.

"You're doing it again," she whispered with a pout, brushing her lips against my ear. "You know I don't like it when you're so rough."

I exhaled sharply, more out of irritation than anything else. I released her without a word and walked away, heading straight to the table.

Catalina and I—we don't speak the same language when it comes to sex. She wants tender kisses, candlelight, a soft moan on clean sheets.

The kind of lovemaking you'd find in some indie romantic film.

But me?

I want fire. I want a woman who craves being at my mercy, who loses herself under my touch.

I want moans that echo off walls, wrists pinned above her head, and that desperate look in her eyes right before I make her fall apart. I want teasing, control, begging—and everything in between.

Catalina doesn't get that. Or she refuses to.

Since we got married, sex has become this rigid routine—always in our bedroom, always gentle, always the same boring rhythm that leaves me feeling more frustrated than fulfilled.

She plays the perfect wife on the outside, but underneath it all... she's hiding. From me. From herself.

I know her better than she thinks. Her every little manipulation. Her rehearsed sweetness. It's all smoke and mirrors, and I see straight through it.

She tries, I'll give her that. Sometimes she lights a candle or starts a little foreplay like she's doing me some kind of favor.

But the second I deepen the moment—like the time I pinned her wrists or tried to take control—she retreats, shuts down, pulls away like I've done something cruel.

I remember the day I gave her one light spank on the ass—something playful, teasing. She burst into tears. Actual sobbing.

It was almost comical. I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing.