by Xavier Neal
Without needing to be directed, my head turns to spot him watching me from a back corner booth. His hazel gaze is holding my body hostage as it caresses every curve it can reach. Regardless of the thick, cream colored sweater dress I’m wearing, I feel completely naked. Exposed. From here I can see his starvation for me practically has him salivating, and all I wanna do is extend my tongue to taste his arousal.
A defeated sigh escapes.
Yeah. Definitely need to end this before it ever truly begins.
Politely, I inform the waitress I’m actually meeting someone who is already seated and cross over to his booth, doing my best to gracefully maneuver around a few occupied tables, which proves difficult with Hudson’s eyes attached to me.
He doesn’t bother waiting for me to sit down before growling, “Do you have any idea how fucking sexy you look?”
I place my purse beside me prepared to deny the compliment when he continues.
“I wanna drop to my knees and pull off those boots with my teeth.”
Desire snakes itself throughout my system, forcing me to bite my lower lip to stifle my whimper.
He offers me a crooked smirk and tosses his head at the action. “I wanna bite that too.”
God, I wanna let him….I haven’t had this type nor this amount of attention my direction in over a year. That’s all this is. That’s what all of these feelings popping up are really about. It’s not Hudson I want. It’s his response. I want Jason to look at me like this….
Hudson wets his lips slowly and lets his eyes drop to my heaving chest.
Or do I? Because the way my pussy is suddenly aching, I’m not sure my brain can continue to convince my body that’s the whole truth.
“Can I get you something to drink?” The waitress unexpectedly asks.
“Moscato,” the answer is unconsciously breathless.
“We have-”
“Bring her a glass of the most expensive one you have,” Hudson commands without breaking eye contact with me. “I’ll stick with water. Thank you.” Once she’s gone, he smiles brightly. “I’d have a drink with you, Gwenny, but I have to go jogging sometime this afternoon and alcohol makes it more difficult than pizza.”
I fiddle with the sleeves to my dress. “Plans for a workout?”
“Not willingly,” he chuckles.
The sound weasels itself into the corner of my mouth and pulls one side upward.
Why is it that sound invokes the instinct to smile?
“I’m meeting a client.”
Recalling what he does for a living, I question, “Does this client know that?”
Hudson promptly shakes his head. “Of course not. That would make my job easy, and I don’t get the easy cases. The easy cases don’t pay as well. The easy cases don’t keep me in a corner office or a decent downtown apartment.”
“Decent?”
“Well, it’s not as luxurious as the fancy fucking house you live in, but yeah. It’s got a good view and it only cost me an arm instead of both an arm and a leg.”
This time I let myself snicker.
Damn it.
He is not making this easy.
“You have a beautiful smile,” he casually compliments. “So does Jason.”
The mention of my husband’s name successfully pulls my head out of the clouds. “We need to talk about this situation.”
Hudson nods at the same time the waitress places down a glass of wine in front of me.
“The usual?” She directs her question to Hudson.
He gives me an inquisitive look. “What do you like on your pizza?”
“Just about anything.”
“Pineapple.”
“Except that.”
“You don’t like a hint of sweet to cancel the salty?”
His retort sounds identical to something the man I married would say. The thought has a knot swelling so severely the only thing I can do is shake my head.
As if he can read the change, he quickly insists, “The usual minus the pineapple. We’re gonna split it.”
The curly haired woman bobs her head and cheerfully bounces away to a nearby table.
“Here’s what I wanna know,” Hudson begins, successfully blocking the departure speech I was preparing to give. “Why are you doing this?”
Taken off guard by the question, I croak, “Excuse me?”
“Jason I get. He’d rather share you than lose you completely. Makes perfect sense.”
It might if that were true. Jason would rather let me be someone else’s nagging problem than deal with me any longer. That’s why he agreed to this bizarre suggestion.
“But you….” He prolongs the sentence as if still contemplating its end. “You I don’t understand. You clearly love him so much it physically hurts. Sharing yourself doesn’t seem to align with the devotion you obviously have. So, I wanna know why you’re really doing this. Why you were really on that site. Why you really invited me over last night.”
Completely baffled by his observation, I snap, “You don’t know me. You don’t know us. You don’t know that’s how either of us views this situation.”
He has me pinned to a T, but I’m not going to admit that.
“My aunt is a grief counselor,” he confesses on a shrug. “Reading people’s body languages, their emphasis on certain words as well as specific choices in speech are all things I’ve been unconsciously trained to do. People say all sorts of shit without saying much of anything.”
Attractive as fuck and intelligent. Way to make the situation even more difficult.
How the hell did I fail in picking a viable candidate for this charade? All clues indicated he was a one nightstand champion. The poster boy for easy pussy. An arrogant douche bag with below average social skills. Predictable like a Disney movie plotline. Why is he a damn wild card? More importantly, why can’t I stop myself from craving it?
“I know more about you than you believe I do, Gwenny.”
Thoughtlessly, I roll my eyes and have a small sip of my wine.
“You think I’m wrong?”
“I think you think you’re right.”
Hudson smirks, adjusts his black tie, and states, “You mean to tell me Jason has touched that pretty pussy in the past year?”
My breath is robbed without warning.
“That you don’t feel more like a bitter roommate than a wife?”
The accusation bobs my jaw.
“Am I wrong if I guess Jason doesn’t have any friends or contact other than you, his doctor, and his physical therapist? That the people on the shows he’s binge watching probably get more interaction with him than you do?”
My fingers thoughtlessly creep towards the collar of my dress.
Gah, it’s like they turned up the heater in this place. I know it’s a brick oven restaurant making it naturally a tad bit warmer, but it shouldn’t be this hot. This…suffocating.
Hudson extends his arms cockily across the back of the booth. “Cat got your tongue, Gwenny?”
The repeated nickname receives a gag and a glare.
Hate that in less than a day not only does it flow freely from his perfect lips, but I enjoy the way he says it.
“I wanna know the full story.”
Torn between loving the demands and disgusted by his attitude, I counter, “You’ll get the story I give you and be grateful for it.”
He chuckles again, eyes still shining. “There’s another glimpse of the woman Jason fell in love with.”
Our pizza’s arrival saves me from having to retort.
Once our waitress has given us both plates, is reassured we don’t need anything, and has scampered away to another table, I begin my explanation, “Jason as you know was in a work accident about eighteen months ago. The first month he was in the hospital. The next two in a full-service rehab facility. After that, he was allowed to return home. Because he was still in a wheelchair, we made some minor renovations to our home to make everything as easy as possible. Initially, we kept a pos
itive attitude about the entire thing. We both knew at some point his legs would start to function again. That he would stand on his own. That he would walk. However, as therapy went on, and the progress seemed to…stall he started to change.” Memories of coming home to broken dishes and holes in the wall flood my mind. “A little over a year ago we reached a point where intimacy of any kind became non-existent.”
“Is that when you stopped wearing your wedding ring?”
My eyes threaten to steal a glance at the hand in question. “No. I took that off about six months ago when I woke up one morning and he said to me there wasn’t a thing on this earth worth living for anymore.”
“Doubt he really meant that.”
“Doesn’t matter if he did or didn’t. He said it.” The sympathy in his stare stumbles my speech. “Look, I’ve tried multiple things in multiple ways to reestablish our connection. The fact his dick isn’t responding is not a problem for me.”
Hudson stops chewing to shoot me a sarcastic expression.
“It’s not! I mean, sex with him was amazing, but there’s more to life than that. Hell, there’s more to intimacy than that. Besides, even if there wasn’t the man has a mouth that could put Dyson out of business.”
His loud, open mouthed laugh causes me to smile again.
“Inviting a third person…you…into this marriage wasn’t ever really on the table. I thought just the idea of having to share me would spark something inside of him to fight for us, to fight for what we had. I never fucking imagined he would agree to it, especially once I demanded you had to date both of us.”
“You’re telling me last night was just a game of chicken gone wrong?”
I finally reach for a slice of the thin pizza. “In laymen’s terms, yes.”
Hudson hums and shoves the last of the crust into his mouth.
Silence slinks around the small table, and I find it to be more agonizing than the accusations he was making moments ago.
My attention diverts down to drink in his choice of toppings. Black olives, mushrooms, pepperoni, and sausage. If I would’ve let him keep the pineapple on it, it would be easy to swear my husband was the one who placed the order. It’s mindboggling to me how they look nothing alike yet are eerily similar. Where Hudson has dark features, Jason’s are light. Hudson seems to have a fondness for power ties while Jason basically has to be bribed to put on more than a t-shirt. Both men have impeccable builds, but Jason would be better suited for American football in the way Hudson would be better tailored towards soccer. Maybe that’s where the appeal to Hudson stems from. He looks different yet feels familiar.
“Are you attracted to me?”
The question pulls my eyes up to his. “That doesn’t matter.”
His hazel stare dances with desire. “Answer the question.”
I swallow my pride. “Yes.”
He leans slightly forward as he questions, “Have you thought about me on top of you?” His volume doesn’t drop despite being in a crowded restaurant. “Behind you? Coming inside of you?”
My voice whispers without consent. “Yes.”
“Jason isn’t touching you. You wanna be touched. I wanna be the one to do it.” The words sound more like a declaration than a casual statement. “This idea may have started off as just a way to rile your husband up, but it could turn out to be everything the two of you need. Don’t back out of this situation because of some misplaced guilt for wanting more than the co-existence you two have created. Embrace the opportunity for change because if you let me,” his fingers slip between mine, “I’ll take care of you until he remembers how.”
Hudson’s fingers flex and the softest moan is stolen.
Damn, it feels amazing to be touched. To be acknowledged. To be…wanted.
Am I really harming anything by letting him in? Will our marriage end up completely destroyed if we continue on this path? Is it worth the risk of ruining our lives for a few moments of satisfaction? Will Jason resent me for letting another man take me in ways no one else has since we exchanged vows? Will he eventually hate me for it? Will I ultimately hate myself? Is the slim possibility for pleasure worth the shambles we’ll most likely be left in or would it better to walk away right now unscathed?
The world is an ungrateful fucking place. People are an ungrateful fucking species. The petty bullshit they focus on, fight about, make shows about, is infuriating. It’s the primary reason I prefer to watch the animal planet or ESPN. You know, on the days I do feel like turning on the television. On the days where I don’t feel like lying in bed, begging death to yank me out of the prison my body has become.
My hand reaches for the remote at the same time the doorbell rings. Unsure who it could be but certain I don’t care; I change the channel from the obnoxious sitcom to a show about pets that don’t get along.
Right.
Because that matters more than people who can’t fucking stand each other?
The doorbell rings again except this time it is proceeded by incessant knocking. A heavy groan of irritation falls from me, and I wheel myself across our hardwood floors for the front door. I don’t even have time to touch the knob before the harsh pounding starts again.
Swinging it open, I’m taken off guard by the sight of Hudson’s grinning face and glowing demeanor.
He’s impossible to hate. Believe me, I’ve been trying. From the moment we met Sunday night all I’ve been trying to do is make him less fucking perfect than he is. Great job. Great sense of humor. Great fucking body since my wife couldn’t stop herself from staring at it like she was judging for Outside The Lines’ Sexiest Man of the Month Award. Not that I can fucking blame her. It’s not like I give her anything worth staring at any more. It’s not like she can admire the way my ass looks in my gray sweats. Flat. It looks fucking flat. Over a year of sitting around on it because my goddamn legs are on strike has erased any proof I ever used to even have a body worth taking a second look at.
Ha.
I can hate something about him. He makes me more fucking self-conscious than I already am.
“Gwen’s not home.”
The crispness of my tone is intended to have him leave, yet his smile expands. “I know.”
Of course he knows. He’s blowing up her phone constantly with texts.
I don’t wanna know what they say. I don’t wanna know when they date. I don’t wanna know about all the things he’s giving her that I can’t.
“I’m here for you.”
Instinctively, my reaction is to laugh.
I’m not dating another man. It’s fucked up enough I’m consenting to my wife doing it. And the only reason that’s even a goddamn option is because I can’t stomach the guilt that comes from simply looking at her. She is wasting her life away by staying beside me because she took a vow, in the middle of a butterfly garden, in front of people we don’t even associate with any more, to stick with me through sickness and in health. She doesn’t love me anymore. Fucked up thing is, I completely understand why and accept it.
“That’s the agreement, right?” Hudson wets his lips and my eyes dart to observe the action. “I have to date both of you.”
His mouth catches a glimpse of the sunlight, and a deep groan festers in the back of my throat.
What the hell is that?
Why the hell am I growling? Why the hell am I staring at the way his full lips are parted? Why the hell am I starting to wonder what sound he would make if I snatched the bottom one into my mouth using my teeth?
“About that-”
“Brought beer,” he announces at the same time he lifts the plastic bag up. “More of a whiskey man, but the company that makes my favorite whiskey bought this beer brand last year, and I gotta admit, shit’s good. Better than whatever that shit was you two served me the other night.”
I don’t respond.
“You strike me as a beer man, Blondie.”
“Don’t drink.”
Hudson’s cut face flashes confusion.
&nbs
p; Something inside pushes me to add, “At least not since the accident.”
He grows a triumphant grin though I’m not sure if it’s because he thinks he’s got a new beer guzzling buddy or because he got me to confess more than intended.
How the hell did he do that? One puzzled look and suddenly he has me wrapped around his fucking finger? What the hell is the matter with me? I’m not even interested in same sex shit. To each their own. Whose cock a person sucks behind closed doors is no body’s business except theirs. Personally? I’m not sucking any. Not now. Not ever. And damn sure not the same dude who’s going to shove his dick into parts of my wife I haven’t felt in over a year.
