FORBIDDEN FRUIT

• Part One • | FIRST FRUIT | Adaline Noble. That's what my name means. Don't believe me? Pull out your phone right now and google my name. Adaline. Noble. That's the first word that pops out. But I'm far from noble. I'm continents away from the meaning of that name. Guess names are not as powerful as they claim. In fact, I would argue that names are the complete opposite of what they mean. I'm the complete opposite of noble. I'm the worst daughter. I ghosted my parents after they tried to pressure me into being a fùcking doctor like them. I completely cut off contact with them. Oh, and I stole a chunk of their money and ran away. I'm the worst friend. I've never had a best friend and that's because I don't show up for birthdays or graduation ceremonies or weddings or baby showers or fùcking funerals. And I guess friends should do a lot of that. Lastly but most importantly, I'm the worst wife. I'm the worst wife to the best husband. I don't cook. I don't clean. I don't do the laundry. And that's because he hired a weekly housekeeper that saves me all of the work. Even though I'm a housewife with no job and no kids and have all the time to do all the chores. He still hired a housekeeper. And sometimes, he even does the cooking when he comes back home from work after a long day. My God. That man can cook. His name is Ace. He's noble. His name doesn't mean noble. It means ‘very good’. And he's very good at everything. He's very good at being a boss. He's very good at being a friend. He's very good at being a son. He's very good at being a husband. And it sucks having a wonderful husband when you are the worst wife. So, I take another shot. Another shot to make me forget that I'm the worst wife. It's loud here. Clubs are supposed to be loud. But this one is louder. And the crowds are wilder. And it's all a bit too much. A bit too intense. Guess it's because the last time I was in a club was probably five years ago. When I was twenty. Young and free and wild. I lost that feeling along the way. And I want it back. I miss it… I miss taking shot after shot after shot. I miss dancing wildly on the dance floor with my hands up in the air and my body swinging. I miss screaming to the lyrics of a song. I miss men looking at me and men touching my body and men moving to the rhythm of my body. It was fun. I want fun. And marriage isn't fun. Well, my sister's marriage is fun. But not mine. My marriage is fine. But not fun. And I guess that's why I'm here tonight. Dressed in a little red dress that shows off my cleavage and my thighs and my long smooth legs. I was kinda hoping that this waist and these thighs would be touched by some sexy stranger but I'm stuck on the stool. Taking shot after shot after shot. Trying to master up the courage to walk to the dance floor. But the burden of guilt weighs heavy on me and keeps me stuck on the seat. I shouldn't be doing this to Ace. He's a good man. A noble man. What the fùck am I doing? Why the fùck am I acting like a fùcking whòre? A whòre with a good husband at home, waiting for her after he made the most delicious dish? Even after he had the most exhausting day at work. But here I am, pounds of makeup on my face, feeling too exposed in this lousy little dress and torturing myself in these horrible heels? Giggling at random men when they offer to buy me drinks and smiling the biggest smile when they compliment me? They are not noble men. Not like my Ace. They are probably brutal husbands who beat their wives. But here I am smiling at them when they call me beautiful and breathtaking and hot and sèxy. Especially sèxy. Seriously, what the fùck is wrong with me? I grab my bag and stand from the stool, ready to leave. This is not my crowd. This is not my place. This was a mistake. Flirting with these random men feels like cheating on my husband. I'm far from noble but I'm not a cheater. And I hate cheaters. Cheaters are selfish partners who don't care about their partner's feelings. But I care about my husband's feelings. That's why I grab my bag and stand from the stool, ready to run home to him. I turn around and bump into a tall tower. “Hello, Beautiful.” His voice is husky. His scent is musky. I'm about to stumble but he's quick to catch me and our eyes lock. And his strong firm hands are wrapped around my waist. And I'm high on adrenaline. I know I'm drunk on liquor. But I'm dead drunk on adrenaline in this moment. And I stare at his eyes in awe for a long moment. He has the most gorgeous green eyes I've ever seen. Greener than his green sweater. “You have the most gorgeous green eyes I've ever seen.” “That's probably the liquor talking.” He chuckles. “But thanks.” “You have the most beautiful voice I've ever heard.” I add. “Be a singer.” “Funny.” He smirks. “I work with singers.” His hands are still wrapped around me. And we are staring at each other. And this moment should be awkward. But strangely, it's not awkward. It's far from awkward. It's electric. And I never want him to let me go. I want to inhale his masculine musky scent. And listen to his husky voice. And dig my fingers deep inside his long dark hair. And stare at his gorgeous green eyes. And I'm the worst wife. I burst into tears. I fall on the seat again and drop my bag on the counter. I drop my face in my hands and sob uncontrollably. Wrecking my makeup. The guilt clawing at me. I'm a mess. “Are you okay?” Tall tower asks, his big rough hands on my cheek. I'm not okay with his big rough hands touching my face. Because that makes me crave his touch more. And I want those big rough hands to touch every part of my body. And… what's so wrong with that? I can't remember the last time the touch of a man made my skin tingle. I can't remember the last time the stare of a man made my heart beat. I can't remember the last time the mere existence of a man brought me so much thirst and thrill. “I'm not okay.” I beat away the tears and meet his gorgeous green eyes. “I want you to fùck me.” His face is crossed with confusion. But that doesn't stop me. And thank God for the liquor. It's definitely to blame for my bravery. And my shamelessness. And my recklessness. “I want you to fùck me.” I repeat. “Take me to your room. Take off my dress. And fùck me on the bed. And fùck me in the shower. And fùck me in the kitchen. And fùck me on the floor. And fùck me in every corner of your house. Fùck me like there's no tomorrow.” There's a pregnant pause, the music swallowing the loud silence. “A one night stand.” I say. “That's all I'm asking for.” Another pregnant pause. “After tonight, we'll go back to being strangers who were drunk and had a dumb drunk one night stand. You'll go back to your normal life. And I'll go back to my normal life. And we'll never ever see each other again.” He takes a moment to digest what I just said. Any sane guy would turn down my stupid offer instantly. All sorts of questions would be roaming through his mind. What if this is a death trap? What if I'm a sèx trafficker? What if I'm a serial killer? And I'm sure those are the exact same questions running through his head. And I don't blame him. And I know that he's looking for a polite way to turn me down. But he proves me wrong. He's not a sane guy. He might be just as insane as I am. He smiles a wicked grin and stretches his hand to me. “Deal.” ••••