Happy Valentine’s Day, Darling

 

Dive into a world where passion meets power

 

Mary Not Wollstonecraft

 

 

© Copyright 2026 by Mary Not Wollstonecraft

 

NOTE: This work contains material not suitable for anyone under eighteen (18) or those of a delicate nature. This is a story and contains descriptive scenes of a graphic, sexual nature. This tale is a work of pure fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously—any resemblance to actual persons, whether living, deceased, real events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

 

Happy Valentine’s Day, Darling

Friday the 13th—An Unlucky Husband

 

Being a trophy wife isn’t what I thought it would be. The husband’s a titan of business, but no longer a master of lovemaking. If he ever was. Don’t get me wrong, he wasn’t my first bronc, and I’d been fucked by older men before. Before we married, he double-dipped on the little blue pills.

 

Afterward, not so much. Let me say, I’m not unhappy, but I’m disappointed and unfulfilled. The comfort, the money, and the ability to have anything I want are nice compensations. Nonetheless, there’s still an itch Joey can’t scratch.

 

The table does all the talking. Red velvet cloth, smooth as wet paint. Candles, way the fuck too many, crammed in a crystal vase. Fine China. Glasses so thin I fear they’ll break on the first toast. Joey planted a wine decanter dead center, heavy, expensive crystal, brand-new, ribboned with a Valentine’s bow.

 

Another unnecessary gift, given to remind me of his money. The sight gags me before the bouquet fragrance has the opportunity.

 

Pouring me wine, he sloshes and overfills. The first splashes the cuff of his shirt, while another one runs down the stem. Par for the course, Joey doesn’t notice. Because he’s locked onto the guest of honor, who dominates the other end of the table in a crisp indigo suit that must’ve cost more than my first car.

 

Two old men showing off their wealth and taste. One white, looking at least ten years older than he is, the ebony-skinned fellow appears at least 15 years younger than him.

 

Clévon.

 

The name fits him, the way his body molds into the suit. Catching Clévon’s skin, the candlelight accentuates the dark blue-blackness, deep and polished. In the blink of an eye, I feel his gaze. The intensity of his stare causes my cheeks to flush. All the while, he makes believe he’s studying the centerpiece: a massacre of three dozen roses.

 

“Happy Valentine’s, darling,” Joey says, raising his glass in my direction, and before I can answer, “Happy Valentine’s, Clévon! So glad you could make it. Family tradition, right, Janny?”

 

He never calls me Janny in front of others.

 

For one electric second, Clévon’s eyes flit to mine before settling on Joey.

 

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” His accent glides. Not French, not precisely, more continental. Not for the first time this evening, I wonder how my husband managed to land a friend so extremely different than him.

 

Joey fills his own glass and spills again, a constellation of red against the white napkin. “To tradition, to old friends, and to beautiful wives.” Winking at me, he throws the whole pour down in two gulps.

 

With my cheeks hurting from smiling, I sip. The wine’s over-oaked, under-chilled, and hot on the tongue.

 

“Lovely spread, Joey, everything’s amazing.” While I said, I didn’t mean it. No, it’s too much, too gaudy.

 

“Your husband outdid himself, as always. This must’ve taken hours.” Spreading those broad shoulders, Clévon leans back.

 

“Oh, don’t give me all the credit,” Joey says, waving the praise away, but his chest swells behind the buttons. “Janny handled the cake. Wait’ll you’ll see it. Triple chocolate, right?” He leans, bumping his glass, which wobbles dangerously. “Just like college. Back when we had real appetites.”

 

Picturing the cake in the fridge, it’s store-bought, the icing still in its plastic tomb.

 

Joey’s cheeks flush. Gazing at me, turning to Clévon. “You guys want to hear something wild?” He doesn’t wait for a response. “This is the same wine we drank at our wedding. I tracked it down, special order. Guy at the store said, ‘Nobody your age buys Bordeaux.’”

 

Clévon arches an eyebrow. “What does your age mean, exactly?”

 

Joey cackles, way too loud for three people. “It means we’re fucking dinosaurs, is what it means!”

 

Then, I see it, his teeth pink with wine, his hairline retreating, his hands trembling at rest. At fifty-two, he looks no better or worse than most men I know his age, but he can’t stand the comparison. Not tonight.

 

Letting my grin fall.

 

“Can we, please, eat the food before it grows as cold and old as your college memories?”

 

Amused Clévon nods. He picks up his fork with his left hand, his wrist cocked in a sophisticated manner.

 

Joey carves into the meat. Lamb, pink and soft, bleeding over the potatoes. “Dig in, dig in, don’t be shy, Clé,” he urges, stuffs a bite in his mouth, chewing furiously. Swallowing, he follows it with a glass of wine and fills his tumbler again.

 

Clévon spears an asparagus and glances at me before popping it whole. His tongue darts out, catching a drop of butter. It’s beautiful, pick, long, thick, and my own mouth waters.

 

“Janny, you’re quiet. You okay?” Joey asks.

 

Since the two of them haven’t given me time to speak, I balk at the statement. But I’ve barely touched my plate. “Soaking it in.”

 

The conversation buckles along. Joey tries stories from college. Correcting all the details, Clévon maintains his almost infuriatingly smooth smile. My laugh tracks every punchline, but I feel myself splitting: one part hovering at the ceiling, watching the play unfold, the other part waiting for the next drink Joey will guzzle, edging toward too drunk to keep going.

 

By the end of the first course, Joey’s voice grows slippery, the words lengthening and slurring. “Did you know,” he asks, pointing a fork at Clévon, “this guy almost became a professional boxer? Could’ve gone Olympic, right?”

 

“Wasn’t in the cards. My parents had other ideas.” Clévon shrugs, his massive shoulders.

 

“Oh, baby, he’s being modest,” Joey says. “Guy’s a beast. Show her your knuckles, Clé.”

 

Clévon offers a hand for inspection. The fingers seem normal—long, elegant, with perfect nails. But I remember stories of bar fights, knuckles split on cheekbones, stories Joey would tell with pride. Offering them up as if he were the hero, a vicarious indulgence of my vain man.

 

Glancing from one man to the other, something ancient lives in my chest: a kind of possession, an urge to test the theory.

 

Joey drains his glass, stands with a wobble. “A toast!” He holds the bottle aloft and sloshes a fresh inch for everyone. “Wa..wai…wait, wait, let me get this ri…right.”

 

Squinting, trying to focus on his words. “To friendship,” he says, clearing his head, “and to second chances, and to never le…let…letting old wounds fester.” He gestures with the glass, wine painting a thin arc through the air. “And to my love…lovely…beautiful wife, who puts up with my shit.”

 

“And to you, man. For being here. For being real.” Tipping the glass at Clévon, Joey winks.

 

Clévon raises his glass.

 

“Happy Valentine’s Day.”

 

“Naw…no, no, that’s to…to…tomorrow. Happy pre-Valentine.”

 

Thinking Joey’s finished, I almost speak, but he keeps going. Maybe he’s sobering a bit, as he studders less now.

 

“You know what I love about this guy?” he says, but he forgets the sentence and starts again, so no more sober than before. “You know what I love about this guy?” He gestures again, knocking a candle into the flowers. Wax oozes onto the petals, snuffing a rose. “He knows how to live. He never complains. He never lets life pass him by.”

 

He turns to me. “You should take notes, Janny. Learn from the master.”

 

With a sharp clack, I set my glass down. “Tell you what, sweetie pie, I’d settle for learning how to avoid fire hazards.”

 

Uncomprehending, he squints at me and laughs.

 

“Oh, right! The candles. Little ambiance never hurt anyone.” He fumbles in his pocket for a lighter, a cheap blue Bic, and starts flicking it under a fresh taper. The flame jumps, skitters across the base of the candle, licking the wax.

 

He leans too close, the sleeve of his shirt hovering above the tablecloth. The tip of the flame grazes velvet, and for a second, nothing happens. Then the fabric erupts.

 

It’s not the slow burn you see in movies. The fire runs toward a fuse, hungry and instant, engulfing the nearest cluster of roses and devouring the lace trim.

 

“Oh, shit on a stack of Bibles!” Joey yelps, snatching a napkin and slapping at the fire. The napkin catches, flaming up, a torch to spark a blaze. He drops it, eyes wide, and lunges for the wine, too late. Flames sprint down the table toward me.

 

Fast and smooth, Clévon moves, grabbing the empty salad bowl and upending it over the largest flame. The bowl blackens. He rips off his jacket, smothering the rest, muscled arms flexing as he holds it down.

 

Smoke fills the room, thick and ugly. Coughing, my eyes stinging, I back away from the table. Joey stands at the head, arms raised in surrender, mouth hanging open. “God, I’m so sorry,” he stammers, voice cracking. “I…I...wanted…”

 

Clévon glances up, still pinning the jacket to the table. “Open a fucking window, Joey.”

 

Throwing the sash wide and letting February air blast in, I do it myself. The cold feels good, clearing the smoke from my lungs.

 

A mess of embarrassment and adrenaline, Joey’s face mottles red and white. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he mutters, pacing in a tight circle, avoiding my eyes.

 

In this moment, I glance at Clévon, who stands calm and upright, the only man in the room with his shirt still tucked and his dignity intact.

 

Joey stares at the ruined table. “Thinking, I need to regroup,” he says, voice small. “Jus…just give me a min…minum…minute.”

 

He flees, trailing shame and smoke, the thump of his steps heavy down the stairs to the basement.

 

A new silence descends, heavier than the smoke. The candles sputter in their graves. The bouquet leans to one side, nearly molten. My hands shake, but I keep them in my lap, twisting the napkin until it almost tears.

 

Clévon surveys the damage and peeks at me. His lips stretch at the corners. Not a smile…a private joke. Typical Joey, clumsy, drunk, inept, how’d he become a billionaire?

 

Fighting the urge to laugh, or scream, or throw something. Instead, I breathe, let the air fill my lungs, and meet Clévon’s gaze until I win.

 

With surgical calm, Clévon clears the debris. He shakes out the jacket—smoke-stained, not ruined—and drapes it over the back of his chair as if nothing happened. He’s already pouring new wine, the label hidden by his thumb. Hovering at the window, my arms folded, allowing the cold air to soothe me.

 

And he joins me, fresh glass in hand.

 

“May I?” He offers the wine, out of my reach, forcing me to step close. My fingers graze his, and he doesn’t let go right away. A second beat, a testing of weight.

 

I drink. It burns, but the taste is cleaner than before. I meet Clév’s eyes over the rim. “I should apologize for the show,” I say, voice raw.

 

When his eyes settle on the ruined table, he smiles.

 

“Most memorable Valentine’s I’ve had in years.” There seems to be a guarantee in the statement.

 

I glance at the empty stairwell, back at him. “Do you think he’s okay?”

 

Untroubled, Clévon nods. “Snockered to the gills, but Joey’s resilient. He’ll reappear with a better story. But not tonight.”

 

Forcing a laugh. “Better be carrying a new tablecloth,” I say, forcing a laugh.

 

Stepping closer, heat radiating off him, Clév tucks a stray hair behind my ear. His hand lingers at the nape of my neck.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

The question sounds different from his mouth. I blush, hate myself for doing so.

 

“Yeah, I’m fine. Lil’ bit embarrassed.”

 

“Don’t be.” His thumb strokes my collarbone, barely grazing skin. “You wear it well.”

 

So, I sip again, the wine emboldening. “You’re very good at this.”

 

“At what?”

 

“Play acting as if everything’s under control.”

 

Slow and private, he leers. “Who’s pretending?”

 

We stand silent, the only sound the clock on the mantel. I sense his hand drifting lower, settling at the small of my back. I don’t step away.

 

“Let’s move,” he says, and steers me from the window. The touch is gentle but final; he expects to be obeyed. In the living room, he gestures to the sofa, and I perch at the edge, legs crossed, arms folded.

 

And much closer than I expect, he sits beside me. The distance shrinks to a single inhale. “I love the dress,” he says, eyes tracking the line of my hem, the curve of my knee. “You’re so, fucking...dangerous.”

 

“Is that a compliment?”

 

“The highest. Red’s a statement color. Demanding attention, my attention.” Letting the sentence settle, he leans back.

 

“Joey picked it.”

 

He studies my face.

 

“Interesting. Did he really?”

 

I nod.

 

“He said it would match the wine.”

 

He laughs, low in his chest.

 

“He’s a romantic.”

 

Absently, I drink again. My glass is empty before I notice. Clévon takes it from my hand, refills, and sets it on the table. His knee touches mine.

 

I glance at the door, expecting Joey to burst in with a mop and a forced smile. The house stays silent.

 

Clévon turns to face me, his hand heavy on my knee. “May I ask you a question?”

 

I nod.

 

“Did you know I was coming tonight?”

 

The question knocks me off balance. “Joey mentioned it last week. He said you had a new assignment. Something classified?”

 

A quirky grin settles on his beautiful lip.

 

“The work I do is always classified.” He draws a fingertip over my kneecap, idle and precise. “But that’s not what I meant.”

 

“What, then?”

 

“Did you know why I was coming?”

 

I search his face for a hint, anything to tell me if I’m in on the joke or the butt of it. “Should I?”

 

He leans in, close enough that I can taste the word.

 

“You do now.”

 

I want to laugh, but my throat closes. Instead, I breathe in his cologne, sharp and clean, and watch his hands as they map my thigh.

 

“Do you always get what you want?” I ask.

 

He considers this, eyes fixed on my lips. “When it matters.”

 

I say, “And does this matter?”

 

He closes the gap, mouth brushing my cheek. His lips are dry, the kiss ghostly. “I’ve been waiting for this since the first time he sent me your picture,” he says, so quiet I almost miss it.

 

The room tilts. I see myself from outside: an ideal wife, a guest second to none, about to ruin everything with a single motion. But I don’t move away. I tilt my head, offering the hollow behind my ear. His mouth finds it, teeth grazing the skin. I shiver, the motion transfers a rush of heat through my cunt.

 

With that, he pulls me into his lap, the move so swift and sure I gasp. My legs straddle his, hem riding high, and for a moment I’m exposed and helpless. I think of the window, open and cold, but he blocks the view, all I see is him.

 

There’s no hesitation, he kisses me, full on this time. His tongue presses inside, demanding. I yield. I want to. I want more.