Chapter 126: 126. The Moment She Drop Her Towel... That Means Her Guard Is Down**

He lets out a short, derisive laugh, his eyes locking onto hers with intimidating intensity. "He’s out there chasing numbers and status, leaving a woman like you!"

"A woman with this much fire in her to rot in this big, empty tomb." Mike laughed. "He sounds like a man who has forgotten that a wife isn’t just a piece of furniture to be checked on once a month."

He leans forward, his presence suddenly overwhelming, his gaze dropping to the way her hands are white knuckled as she grips the towel.

"He doesn’t deserve you," Mike says, his voice dropping to a dangerous, commanding register. "A man like that... he doesn’t know how to handle a woman who’s starving."

"He doesn’t know how to satisfy the kind of hunger that’s currently making you tremble in that towel..."

"He treats you like some fucking dishwasher or some shit, but we both know you’re not a dishwasher, are you?"

"You’re flesh and blood." He reaches out a hand, beckoning her closer, his eyes burning with a dark, triumphant light. "You’re heat and desire."

"Stop pretending you’re satisfied with his empty words, Marielle..."

"Stop acting like his distant, polite affection is enough to keep you whole."

"You don’t need a man who talks about his golf handicap because we all know what you need was... a man who’s going to make you forget his name entirely."

He pauses, his grin widening as he sees the conflict in her eyes the way she wants to defend her husband, yet how her body is leaning instinctively toward the man sitting on her bed.

’This filthy man with its smartass words... I hate it...’ Marielle thought. ’But damn it... I really don’t have any choices...’

’Gghhh...’

"Come here," he commands, the smugness in his voice replaced by a raw, undeniable authority. "Stop hiding behind that towel and show me exactly how much you’ve been missing."

Marielle feels a surge of white hot resentment, a bitter sting in her chest that makes her want to scream at him. She hates his arrogance; she hates the way he deconstructs her life with such casual, brutal efficiency; and most of all, she hates that he is right.

Every word he says about Arthur is a jagged truth that pierces her pride. She wants to defend her husband, to claim that their marriage is built on a foundation of respect and stability, but the words die in her throat because she knows, deep down, that she is starving for the very chaos Mike represents.

’I have no other choice... it’s the only way that I could accept...’

’It’s already too late...’

’Jay... if only you’re a good son, but you... you already disappointed your mother.’ With a trembling breath, she begins the slow, agonizing process of undressing.

Her fingers, still slightly damp, fumble with the knot of the towel. She feels his eyes on her like a physical weight, heavy and hot, stripping her bare before she even sheds the fabric.

As the towel begins to slip, Mike doesn’t offer a single word of comfort. Instead, he continues his verbal assault, his voice a low, mocking drone.

"Look at you," he sneers, his eyes devouring the curve of her hips as the white fabric falls to her ankles. "Trying to maintain that ’lady like’ composure even as you strip for a man you claim to despise."

"You’re so used to playing the part of the perfect wife that you don’t even realize how much you’re enjoying the humiliation."

The towel pools at her feet, leaving her standing completely naked in the center of the room. She feels incredibly vulnerable, the cool air of the bedroom contrasting sharply with the lingering warmth of the shower.

’Urgh... I hate this... Why do I have to show my body to this fucking brute...?’

Tiny droplets of water still cling to her skin, glistening like diamonds under the dim light of the chandelier, tracing the path of her curves and the heavy, swollen peaks of her breasts.

"Goddamn, you’re a beautiful lie, Marielle," Mike continues, his gaze traveling slowly from her face, down her throat, over the swell of her chest, to the dark, damp curls between her thighs. "A beautiful, poised, empty lie."

"You’ve spent your whole life being ’proper,’ but look at you now..." Mike grinned. "Standing there, dripping and desperate, waiting for a man like me to finally make you feel something real."

’I-I wish I could wipe that smile off his lips... but I can’t disobey him...’ Marielle clenched her fists. ’That’s why I’m here, isn’t it...?’

’If I back out now... things will only get worse for me... for my son... and for my family...’

He watches her flinch at his words, a dark satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. He isn’t just taking her body; he is systematically dismantling her ego.

Then, his expression shifts from mockery to pure, unadulterated command. He sits up straighter on the bed, his muscular frame tensing.

"Don’t just stand there like a statue," he growls, his voice dropping into a deep, authoritative rumble that leaves no room for argument. "I want to see all of you... and I mean it... Every inch of that frustrated body."

’Just for a while... I’ll let him have his way with me...’

"Yes..." Marielle replied in a low tone.

He points to the space above her. "Hands behind your head now!"

"Interlace your fingers and pull your elbows back."

Marielle hesitates for a fraction of a second, her instinct to cover herself still fighting against her surrender. But the look in Mike’s eyes, that predatory, demanding stare, forces her hand.

She slowly raises her arms, her muscles trembling slightly from the effort and the sheer tension of the moment. She interlaces her fingers behind her head, pulling her elbows wide.

The movement is a total surrender. It thrusts her chest forward, making her massive breasts lift and strain, the water droplets dancing on her skin.

It arches her back, emphasizing the deep curve of her waist and the dramatic flair of her hips. She is completely exposed, her body presented to him like a feast laid out on a silver platter.

Mike lets out a low, guttural sound, half growl and half groan, as he takes in the sight of her. "Shhhesshhh~!"

"There you go... it’s what I like to see from you," he whispers, his eyes burning with a hunger that promises to consume her. "Show me exactly what you’ve been hiding under all that dignity."

The air in the room seems to vanish as Mike slides off the bed with the silent, heavy grace of a predator. He doesn’t walk toward her, but he stalks her, his eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that makes her feel like she’s being hunted.

Marielle stands frozen, her arms still locked behind her head, her chest heaving with shallow, terrified, and traitorously excited breaths. The droplets of water on her skin catch the light as she trembles, her body a taut bowstring ready to snap.

He reaches her in three long strides. The sheer heat radiating from his massive, tanned body hits her before he even touches her.

Without a word of warning, his large, heavy hands reach out and seize her. He doesn’t just touch her, but he claims her, his palms slamming into the undersides of her massive breasts, lifting their heavy weight with a strength that is both bruising and intoxicating.

He squeezes the soft, pale flesh, his fingers sinking deep into her, molding her to his will. "It still has a good quality... well, it’s another proof that your husband never gives you anything good."

"And... you’re even more delicious than you look," he growls against her skin, his breath hot and smelling of raw masculinity.

Before she can even gasp, he lunges forward. He buries his face between the deep, soft valley of her cleavage, his nose and mouth pressing hard against the swell of her breasts.

"This is some good shit right here... better than drugs."

Marielle’s head lolls back, her eyes fluttering shut as the sensation of his stubble and the heat of his face against her sensitive skin sends a jolt of electricity straight to her core. "Grrgghh..."

Then, he bites.

He sinks his teeth into the soft, heavy mound of her left breast, a sharp, sudden nip that is half pain and half ecstasy. The sensation is so intense, so primal, that a loud, melodic moan begins to rise from her throat.

Panicked by the thought of how much she is enjoying the moment, how much she is losing herself to the man who is mocking her, she bites her lip, forcing the sound back down.

"Mmmph...!" she whimpers, the sound muffled and strangled as she tries to suppress the vocalization of her pleasure. Her body arches instinctively toward him, her pussy twitching violently at the sudden, sharp stimulus.

Mike pulls back just an inch, his lips glistening, his eyes dark with a terrifying, lustful dominance. He sees the way she is struggling to keep her composure, the way she is trying to hide her reaction.

"Don’t you dare try to hide it," he commands, his voice a low, vibrating growl that brooks no disobedience.

He reaches up, his large hands gripping her waist to steady her, but his gaze is a warning. "And listen to me carefully, Marielle."

"You’ll stay exactly like this."

"Do not move."

"Do not drop your hands."

"And of course... don’t try to cover yourself up like a shy little girl or you and your family are fucked!"