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I’m used to being unnoticeable when I come here, so I don’t interrupt her creative time. Sometimes, I watch her for hours, just to see her in focus mode. Other times, I feel like she needs a break and serve as a distraction. Those occasions often end up with me fucking her in the midst of her brushes and palettes, and usually results in us looking like a mess. It’s been almost three decades since I met this woman and I still feel that rush of blood to my head—and my cock—whenever I look at her. It doesn’t matter how old we grow, she’s still the woman who tames my wild side, brings light to my darkness and peace to my days. She’s still the freest spirit I’ve ever seen. Right now, she’s clutching Glyn by the shoulder as they stare at a chaotic black-and-red painting on the wall. I say chaotic because I’m artistically illiterate, as Astrid and our sons like to tell me. It’s only Glyn who says, “It’s okay, Dad, you don’t have to understand art to feel it.” Because she’s special, my little