Still Hers

I was supposed to teach her poetry, not fuck her against my desk.

Gianetta Russo was eighteen. Smart-mouthed. Curvy. Too bold for her own good. She had this way of looking at me like she already knew what I sounded like in bed. I told myself it was just a phase. A one-time mistake.

It wasn't.

She's nineteen now. Off at college. Still texting me. Still posting those photos-tan legs, tight skirts, her lips parted just enough. She thinks I'm done with her.

But I'm not.

I'm thirty-five. Married. And still the only one who knows how to touch her right.
She's the worst decision I ever made.
And the one I keep making.