Late ex-wife

I ignored her question. I pushed the study door open and dropped into my chair without looking back at her.

My eyes wandered around the room until they landed on the bottle of whiskey sitting on the shelf across from me. I got up, crossed the room, and poured myself a glass. I emptied it in one gulp, the burn spreading down my throat before I even set the glass back down.

I poured another and drank that one too.

Behind me, I heard the door close quietly. Mira had followed me in.

She walked over slowly and rested a hand on my shoulder.

"Baby."

I stared straight ahead, my eyes fixed on nothing in particular. My mind kept replaying the empty closet, the bare drawers, the officer's voice telling me my wife was dead.

I rubbed my forehead.

"I guess we shouldn't have told her the truth," I said, sitting back in the chair.

Mira came around the desk slowly and lowered herself onto my lap. She slipped one arm around my neck and studied my face for a moment before she spoke.

"I know Aysha was crazy," she said.

I looked up at her.

"But I never thought she'd be crazy enough to kill herself."

My eyes narrowed.

"Kill herself?"

She nodded without any hesitation, like the thought had already settled comfortably in her mind long before I asked.

"How do you know she killed herself?"

She gave a small shrug, the kind that made it sound obvious, like I was the only one in the room who hadn't figured it out yet.

"Isn't it obvious?"

I kept looking at her, waiting.

"She found out about us yesterday." She held up one finger. "She packed all her things." Another finger. "She left the house in the middle of the night." A third finger went up. "And now she's dead the very next morning."

She cupped my face gently with both hands.

"What else could it be, Adrian?"

I looked away from her, my gaze drifting to the stack of papers lying on the corner of the desk. Something about them pulled at me even though I couldn't say why yet.

Mira followed my eyes and smiled.

"Oh," she said. "You still haven't seen it."

She reached across the table, picked up the papers, and placed them in front of me.

"The divorce papers," she said.

I frowned and looked down at them. My eyes dropped straight to the last page. My fingers slowly tightened around the file as I read the signature sitting neatly at the bottom.

Aysha's signature.

I traced it with my thumb, my chest suddenly tight.

"When did she sign this?"

"I told you," Mira said, resting her head against my shoulder. "She packed her things before leaving. She must have signed them before she walked out."

I kept staring at the signature, at the way her name curved at the end the same way it always had, steady and neat even now.

The room stayed quiet for a long moment. I could hear my own breathing, slow and uneven, and the faint sound of Mira's fingers tapping lightly against my collar.

Finally, I folded the papers closed and set them back down on the table.

"I guess," I said, my voice quieter now.

I looked at Mira.

"I guess you're right."

She smiled, satisfied, the way she always did when she got exactly what she wanted from me.

"I know I am."

She leaned forward and kissed me. I hesitated for a second before I responded, my mind still somewhere else entirely, still caught between the empty closet and the woman on the phone and the signature under my thumb.

When we finally pulled apart, she brushed her fingers through my hair and looked at me with something between comfort and satisfaction.

"Why don't I make you feel better?" she said, smiling again. "Then we can start planning a burial for your late ex-wife."

Mira's smile deepened, that familiar predatory glint flashing in her eyes as she shifted on my lap. Her thighs straddled me tighter. She did not wait for permission or words. Her fingers tangled in my hair, yanking my head back just enough to expose my neck. She sank her teeth into the skin there, hard and possessive, like she was marking what had always been hers.

I groaned, the sound raw and involuntary, as the whiskey's heat mixed with the sharp sting of her bite. My hands found her waist, gripping hard enough to bruise. I pulled her down against the growing hardness straining in my pants. She rocked her hips once, slow and deliberate, grinding against me with a filthy little laugh that vibrated against my throat.

"That's it, baby," she whispered. Her breath was hot and wet. "Let me take care of you."

She slid off my lap in one fluid motion, dropping to her knees between my spread legs right there in the study chair. Her hands made quick work of my belt. The zipper rasped loud in the quiet room as she freed me. No teasing this time. Mira wrapped her fingers around my cock, stroking once, twice, before leaning in and taking me deep into her mouth without warning. The wet heat enveloped me. Her tongue swirled messily around the head as she bobbed. Saliva already dripped down her chin and onto my thighs.

"Fuck, Mira," I muttered. My hand fisted in her hair, guiding her rhythm as she sucked harder. She gagged herself on me with eager, sloppy sounds that filled the air. She looked up at me through watery eyes. Her mascara started to smear. The sight of her like that, ruined and hungry, sent a jolt straight through me. I thrust up into her throat, chasing the tight constriction. She took it, moaning around my length like the dirty little secret she was.

She pulled off with a gasp. Strings of spit connected her swollen lips to my glistening cock. "I want you to wreck me," she said, her voice hoarse. Standing up, she shoved her skirt up around her hips. No panties underneath, of course. She climbed back onto me, positioning herself right over my aching dick. She sank down in one rough motion, burying me to the hilt inside her slick, dripping pussy. We both groaned at the same time. The chair creaked under us as she started riding me like she was possessed.

Her nails raked down my chest, tearing at my shirt buttons until they popped off and scattered across the floor. I grabbed her ass, spreading her cheeks as I thrust up to meet her frantic bounces. The wet slap of skin on skin echoed obscenely. She was soaking. Her juices coated my balls and dripped down onto the leather seat with every messy grind. Mira threw her head back. Her tits bounced free as she yanked her top down. I latched onto one nipple, biting and sucking hard while she fucked herself on me faster and wilder.

"Yes, Adrian, harder," she panted. She ground her clit against me on every downstroke. I stood up suddenly, still buried deep inside her. I slammed her back against the desk. Papers flew everywhere. The divorce documents fluttered to the floor unnoticed as I pounded into her. The whiskey bottle rattled dangerously close to the edge. Her legs wrapped around my waist. Her heels dug into my back, urging me deeper. I fucked her like I was punishing the world, brutal and relentless thrusts that made her cry out. Her walls clenched tight around me.

She came first, shuddering violently. Her pussy gushed wet and hot as she screamed my name. Her nails drew blood across my shoulders. But I did not stop. I flipped her over, bending her face down over the desk with her ass up. I drove back in from behind. The angle was savage. My hips slapped against her ass as I reached around to rub her swollen clit. Mira pushed back against me, babbling incoherently. Her second orgasm hit even harder. She squirted messily down her thighs and onto the floor.

I could not hold back anymore. With a guttural groan, I pulled out and spilled across her back and ass. Thick ropes of cum painted her skin as she trembled beneath me. We stayed like that for a long moment, panting, sweat slick and wrecked. The room smelled of sex and whiskey.

Mira turned her head. She smiled that satisfied, wicked smile through the strands of hair stuck to her face. "Feel better now?" she purred. She reached back to smear my cum into her skin like lotion.

I collapsed back into the chair, pulling her onto my lap again. Both of us were a sticky, breathless mess. "Yeah," I said, my voice rough.