The Kinky Housewife (The Wife Next Door #2)

1. The Scent of Lavender

The Scent of Lavender

The key scraped in the rusty lock, the sound echoing down the hallway. Markus turned it and pushed open the heavy wooden door. The smell of damp stone, old dust, and mold from the stairwell stayed outside.

In here, inside the Kellers’ apartment, it was another world: cool, quiet, with a faint scent of lavender.

Markus stopped just inside the door. One shoulder sagged under the weight of the leather bag, its corners already scuffed.

In his other hand, he held a bouquet of roses wrapped in plain brown paper, along with a bright red velvet box that he carried carefully.

The lavender scent from the diffuser in the corner of the living room enveloped him.

The tension left his face. After the long days in Frankfurt—contracts, polite handshakes, cheap perfume in hotel lobbies, bitter wine—this apartment was his only refuge.

They had been forced to give up their villa and move here.

But wherever Nadja was, it was clean and warm.

Markus called out, “Nadja?”

No answer.

He stepped into the living room. Early sunlight slanted through the curtains and struck the polished hardwood floor.

The designer sofa—one of the few expensive pieces of furniture they had kept after selling the house—stood untouched.

The cushions had been fluffed and arranged with exacting care.

The glass coffee table gleamed, without so much as a single scratch.

Everything was so orderly it almost felt sterile.

It was quiet enough that Markus could even hear the soft hum of the diffuser.

He set the leather bag down on the rug but kept the roses and the red box in his hands. The corners of his mouth lifted into a gentle smile. Nadja was probably still curled up in bed asleep.

“Sweetheart?”

Silence again.

Markus walked on and eased down the handle of the bedroom door.

Morning sunlight shimmered through the thin white curtains. The spotless white sheet had been pulled smooth, the two pillows neatly arranged side by side.

No Nadja.

Markus stopped in the doorway. His heart skipped a beat. The surprise he had imagined the entire way home dissolved into nothing. His gaze drifted to the opposite wall and settled on the large wedding photograph.

It had been summer, somewhere in a coastal town in Italy.

Back when Markus had still believed the whole world lay at his feet.

In the photograph, sunlight fell across Nadja’s bare shoulders and full cleavage.

She had not played the shy, traditional bride.

Her white satin dress plunged low, emphasizing her curves without the slightest hint of modesty.

Her ash-gray eyes gleamed with pride and sensuality at once.

But when she looked up at him, there was nothing in that gaze except pure devotion.

And a wild, burning love.

Markus still remembered exactly how the blood had rushed to his face that day. Dozens of men had stared at his wife with naked desire, but she had nestled into his arms.

She belonged only to him.

As he looked at Nadja’s smile in the photograph, his expression darkened.

His chest tightened painfully with regret and self-reproach.

A woman like Nadja deserved a life worthy of her.

Not this existence in a run-down rental apartment, all because of his mistakes.

A mountain of debt weighed on his shoulders, but what humiliated him most was the fact that Nadja had never turned her back on him.

During the darkest days, she had swallowed her pride, become a simple housewife, endured every restriction, and waited for him patiently.

His fingers tightened around the small velvet box. This gift had been the first thing he thought of when a way out had finally begun to take shape in Frankfurt. Warmth spread through his chest, driving away some of his leaden exhaustion.

Hang in there, Markus. The worst is almost over.

He told himself that and clenched his teeth slightly. He would clean up this mess with his own hands. He would get her out of here.

And he would bring back that radiant pride in his wife.

Back in the living room, Markus set the bouquet and the red box on the glass table. The two objects looked a little lost there in the apartment that was far too clean, far too quiet.

He took out his phone. For a moment, he hesitated. Then, since Nadja wasn’t home, he quickly typed a message:

“I’m back.” “Where are you?”

He waited. No read receipt, no sign that she was typing. Markus smiled to reassure himself. She was probably out for her morning workout. Nothing to worry about.

He loosened his tie and opened the top three buttons of his shirt.

He shrugged off the suit jacket, which smelled of train cars, stale smoke, and other people’s bodies, and tossed it over the back of the sofa.

His shoulder joints cracked. He wanted to change into something comfortable before Nadja got back.

But just as he was pulling one arm free of his sleeve, a dull, rhythmic noise came through the shared wall from Karl Seifert’s apartment.

Clack… creak… clack… creak…

At first Markus only frowned. He thought the old man had dropped something, or that his old bed was squeaking because someone was moving it. But then the rhythm grew steadier.

Harder.

Panting breaths joined it, rough and heavy, only slightly muffled by plaster and masonry.

Markus froze.

He turned and took two steps closer to the wall. His exhaustion vanished. The cheap apartment building’s thin wall dulled the sounds and broke them up, but they were still clear enough for Markus to understand exactly what was happening on the other side.

A hoarse male voice carried through, raspy and breathless.

“… I’m gonna come…” “… so good…”

A woman’s whimper followed right after—small, choked, half swallowed by the wall. The wet slap of naked skin blended with the rhythmic squeak of an old mattress.

“… your pussy… so fucking good…” Karl Seifert’s voice came through in a deep, filthy groan.

The woman on the other side was almost impossible to understand. All Markus could hear from her were quick, shallow breaths and broken sounds tearing from her throat.

Markus took a step back. He cursed himself for listening at all. It was private. His neighbor’s business. And yet the corner of his mouth twitched until an incredulous, almost amused grin stole across his face.

It was unbelievable.

The image of the friendly, skinny man in his sixties who did nothing but smoke on the balcony, read the newspaper, and drink tea every day suddenly became absurdly obscene.

Who would have thought the nice old gentleman wasn’t nearly as lonely as Markus had always assumed?

A widow, maybe? Or a whore?

But the muffled moans and wet, thrusting sounds kept coming mercilessly through the thin wall. They went straight into his ears and sent a rush of heat straight to his groin.

His cock rubbed against the fabric of his suit pants. It twitched and turned rock-hard—a reaction completely beyond his control.

That absurd arousal only made him think of his own wife’s body all the more.

Markus grimaced. He hurriedly straightened his shirt and adjusted his leather belt, as though that could somehow hide his embarrassing erection in the middle of the empty living room.

I’m just completely exhausted, he thought irritably.

If Nadja knew he was listening to the old neighbor fuck and getting hard from it, she would die laughing.

Behind the wall, the sounds kept up their hard rhythm for a little longer. Then they gradually faded and sank into silence.

Markus took a deep breath and deliberately turned away.

He dropped onto the sofa. His tired body sank into the soft cushions. His phone screen remained dark on the glass table.

Still no answer from Nadja.

The bouquet of roses and the red gift box lay motionless beside it. The diffuser continued releasing its steady lavender scent, filling the neat, silent apartment.

But the sounds from moments ago had left an invisible, dirty stain in that immaculate room.

Markus reached for his phone one more time, but exhaustion dragged his eyelids down. His eyes closed. His head sank back against the sofa.

A short while later, his breathing became slow and even.

He fell into a deep sleep while the secret on the other side of the wall remained quietly in its place.