Read Online Romance: The Art of my Love: a story of betrayal, desire, love, and marriage by Tanya Altbridge - Free Book Online Page B

given him a great idea. He had been thinking about it the whole trip and had missed the exit. He got off at the next one and spent a long time feeling his way back.
    “And what is this great idea?” I really want to know. How is Paul going to add passion to his story?
    “It’s really simple. There needs to be a woman. One for both of them.”
    “How so?”
    “Well, our athlete meets a girl. In a bar, maybe. Or at work. Or at work in a bar. I’m not sure yet. Sparks fly, they’re in love, and then he introduces her to his coach. Then everything gets complicated. Because the coach falls in love with her, too.”
    “But you said the coach isn’t a young guy.”
    “He’s not an old man, either. Forty is a little too old to compete, but falling in love... no problem with that.”
    “What about her?” I ask.
    “What about her?” he counters.
    “Who does she love? The athlete or the trainer? What does she do, sleep with both of them?”
    “Yes, she sleeps with both of them. John said that the more sex there is the better. Sex sells. Right now I don’t know myself which one of them she loves. What do you think?” Paul raises his eyes from his plate and looks at me closely.
    I can’t believe it. John is such a bastard. She sleeps with both of them! And now what is she supposed to do? How does she get out of this? And what am I supposed to tell Paul? And why does he look so distraught, like somebody has died or something?
    “How should I know who she loves,” I try joking. “I hardly know them.”
    “I’ll have you read what I’ve come up with so far. But promise me that you’ll tell me what you honestly think.”
    I open my mouth to say that I always tell him the truth, and then I close it again. Today, that would be a lie. Something really has changed between us. Some kind of invisible wall has been erected, and we’re talking to each other through that wall.
    “You look terrible! Are you sick?” I try to change the subject.
    “I didn’t sleep much. Working a lot, same as usual.” Paul obviously doesn’t feel like opening up.
    It’s still pretty light outside, and I tell him I want to work for a while. Paul is also anxious to get back to the computer. I set up my paints and stare stupidly at the canvass. My head is a total muddle. My memory keeps serving up completely unnecessary pictures: Me on the couch. John between my legs. John on the couch. His cock in my mouth. I need to calm down, get myself together.
    It’s gradually getting darker. Paul suggests a walk to the lake. I put on a jacket and we go out. We stroll together slowly along the road. At some point, Paul takes my hand. He has big hands, and long fingers. I know them as well as I know my own. I love to look at them and stroke them. He runs a finger over my hand. Inside me, that taut string comes back to life, the one I sensed that morning during my photo shoot with John. Paul runs his finger alongside one of my fingers. His skin is rougher than mine, and all of its uneven contours and small imperfections resonate deep inside of me. I look up at him.
    “Shall we go back to the house?” Paul pronounces those words so quietly that I intuit what he’s saying rather than really hear it.
    “Okay.” Everything inside me feels squeezed into a painful knot. I’m panicking. I’m going to have to go to bed with him and act as if nothing happened. I won’t be able to. Or will I?
    We go upstairs to the bedroom.
    “I need to take a shower first,” I tell him, and I shut myself in the bathroom. The expression on my face in the mirror is terrified, as if a stampede of wild animals is after me. “What’s going on? Why this panic?” I ask myself sternly. “You had sex with John, and it was great.” “Yes, but I wasn’t supposed to have sex with him,” I answer myself. “I have a husband. Paul. And I love him. It’s rotten to cheat on your husband. How can I look him in the eye after this?” “Yes, but you’ve never had the kind of