The Portrait of a Good Wife 3

Her Son's Friend, Her Secret Thrill

Age Gap | Older Woman/Younger Man | Housewife Fantasy | Son’s Best Friend

“It looks like your… art… is having an effect on you. Maybe you should put that camera down for a minute and show me what’s causing that… impressive situation. For a more… hands-on artistic analysis, of course.’”

The photo shoot escalates, and with each click of the camera, Claire’s inhibitions melt away. Fueled by wine and a desire she hasn’t felt in years, she decides to take control of the session, turning the camera’s focus from her body to his undeniable reaction, and making an invitation that changes everything.

Read: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4.

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His reaction was everything.

For a split second, he just froze, the camera still held halfway to his face. His dark eyes, which had been full of that intense, artistic focus, widened. The professional mask didn’t just slip; it shattered. I saw a flicker of disbelief, then a wave of raw, undisguised hunger that was so potent it felt like a physical touch. He swallowed, a visible bob of his Adam’s apple. The air in the loft, which had been crackling with artistic tension, was now thick with something much more primal.

He lowered the camera, placing it carefully on the tripod with a soft, final click. It was a deliberate, almost reverent gesture. The art project was officially over. Something else was about to begin.

He didn’t say a word. He just started moving towards the bed, his eyes locked on mine, a slow, predatory grace in his stride. He was like a panther who’d just realized the gazelle wasn’t running away, but was, in fact, patting the ground and asking it to come play.

My heart was doing a frantic drum solo against my ribs. My God, what was I doing? This was insane. This was Alex’s friend. But then he reached the edge of the bed, and the sheer, intoxicating heat rolling off his body chased away every last sensible thought in my head.

He still hadn’t spoken. He just stood there, looking down at me, his gaze sweeping over my naked body, from my mussed-up blonde hair, down to my breasts, my soft stomach, the triangle of blonde curls between my legs, and back up to my eyes. It wasn’t a leering look. It was… worshipful. Like he was trying to memorize every detail.

“Claire,” he finally breathed, my name a rough, husky prayer on his lips.

“Noah,” I whispered back, my voice shaky.

With shaking hands, he reached for the hem of his gray t-shirt and pulled it up and over his head in one smooth motion. My breath caught in my throat. I’d seen that he was in shape, sure. But the reality of his bare torso, just a few feet away, was something else entirely. He was magnificent. His chest was a broad, sculpted expanse of smooth, honey-colored skin, his pectorals perfectly defined, his stomach a roadmap of lean, hard muscle. The intricate black tattoos on his arm stood out in stark, beautiful contrast. He looked like a statue of a god, come to life in a downtown loft.

Then his hands went to the button of his jeans. The sound of it coming undone was like a gunshot in the quiet room. The zipper followed, a rough, tearing sound that seemed to echo the tearing down of the last vestiges of my good sense. He pushed the jeans and his boxers down in one fluid movement, kicking them aside. And then he just stood there, letting me look.

And I looked. Oh, Lord, did I look?