Shame (Secrets and Lies Book 2)

by Ainsley Booth

Let me tell you about her. She’s creative as hell. Smart. Gorgeous. Her beauty is quiet, but lasting. She’s prettier now than she was when we met in university, although she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen then, and still is. She’s sexier now, too, in ways I was too selfish to properly explore when I had the chance. She works with her hands, with her entire body, and it shows. She’s got softness, too.

  The way her muscles move beneath her curves is the most erotic thing I can picture.

  Now she deserves the chance to freely be who she wants to be without any pressure.

  If you think you might be the right person to give this woman the happiness she deserves—for a night, a day, a week, a month, or forever—submit your best effort to the P.O. Box listed below. All submissions will be treated with the utmost confidence by the person with the most integrity of anyone I’ve ever known.

  My wife.

  Who I don’t deserve.

  I won’t know the entries. I’ve given her the key to the P.O. Box, and she won’t share them with me. She won’t want to, and that has to be my cross to bear.

  “You’re joking,” I whisper.

  “No.”

  “Luke, this is a hell of a way to tell me that I’m pretty.”

  “That’s not what I’m doing. You are, by the way. Very pretty.”

  “You want me to date other people? Through a system you have set up, rather than just, you know, the normal way.”

  “You don’t need to use the letter if you don’t want to.” He shrugs, his whole body tight. “I just thought—I mean, it’s mostly for you, so you know how I feel about you. Yeah, that’s true. But I’m serious about other people dating you. You dating…other people. That’s—you should have that. If you want it.”

  “And what if I say I do?” I stand up, furious and desperately in need of a cup of tea to restore me to the perfectly reasonable day I had been having up until he gave me this note. “Don’t answer that.”

  I wish I was only angry. Sadness is a bigger emotion. Takes up more space. Lasts a hell of a lot longer.

  I fill the largest mug I own, a handmade thing Luke gave me one year for Christmas that has a chip in it, but I keep because it’s my favourite—and oh, the irony is not lost on me there—and take my time adding milk and sugar.

  The last thing I want is my cheating husband to pimp me out to strangers out of some sense of obligation.

  The way her muscles move beneath her curves is the most erotic thing I can picture.

  What the fuck is that? He has no right to describe me like that. Not anymore.

  I take a steadying breath, pick up my mug, and return to the living room. He hasn’t changed positions at all.

  It’s such a strange idea to consider as I sit across from him, drinking tea out of a mug he gave me, in the loft I bought us to rebuild our lives after his firm almost imploded.

  But maybe he’s right. Maybe I need to test this out. If we’re going to come to an end anyway, why not rip that bandaid off sooner than later?

  “You’re serious,” I repeat for what feels like the tenth time.

  “What’s the saying? If you love something, set it free.”

  My heart pounds in my chest. “And what if I’m not ready to start dating?”

  “It’s up to you. But if you ever want a reference letter for a—”

  “Shut up.” I close my eyes and breathe in the scent of tea. Think about the shape of the mug in my hand, the sounds of Luke being in my apartment again.

  And I imagine everything being different.

  Different men, different mugs.

  22

  Grace

  It takes me two weeks to realize that Luke is serious about this. We both get the all clear from the health clinic, which is a relief.

  I don’t like the idea of him posting that ad about me, although I keep the printout of his letter in my bedside drawer. There’s something deeply kinky about it, and I can’t put my finger on it exactly—but the only place I would consider playing with something like that is The Wheelhouse, and with both Sam and Alex connected to that space, it’s a non-starter for using it to have some side fun outside of my marriage.

  Even if it is officially sanctioned by my husband.

  The idea of it makes me hot and achy, but…no.

  I do like the idea, though. But in reality, I’m not that kind of woman. I’m pretty sure.

  And then something happens that drags me back into the muck, into the despair and the grossness of infidelity.

  I get a phone call from a woman who tracked me down through the gallery.

  “You don’t know me,” the woman says, her voice breaking. “But I think we both have a problem with Caitlyn Jobst.”

  My stomach drops away, like an endless dark chasm has opened up inside me. I start shaking. “Yes, I know her. Sort of. I mean—”

  “My husband just left me. I think they’ve been having an affair. And you had responded to some of his pictures last month…”

  I remember now. “I was drunk,” I whisper. “And drunk and Facebook don’t really work well together. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. It started something…I asked him about it. He didn’t know who you were, but he got shifty when I asked him about Caitlyn.”

  “She had an affair with my husband, too. I know of one other affair as well. It’s her thing.”

  There’s a long pause. “Did he leave you?”

  My heart cracks open. I don’t know if this answer is better or worse. Like everything else in this fucked up story, it is what it is. “It’s complicated. I asked him to leave. We’re trying to work on it, maybe, but I dunno.”

  “Oh.”

  Yeah, oh. That’s accurate. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I know it’s his fault,” she says. Like I did.

  Like I’m sure we all do, and the thing is, it is his fault. Our partners are absolutely to blame for the fuckery they bring to our lives.

  But at what point can you point to a serial home-wrecker and say, she’s a fucking problem, too? What dark trauma did she suffer as a child that made her grow up to want to destroy the happiness of other women?

  Or maybe it’s the men. Maybe she has twisted Daddy issues. Maybe she wants to hurt them and ruin their lives, and we’re an inconsequential side effect.

  I don’t fucking care anymore.

  I do care about this woman, though. I think she’s fucking brave to reach out to me. I care about being present and hearing her story. “Do you want to grab some coffee and talk?”

  “If you have time.”

  “I have all the time in the world.” I was supposed to go for a walk with Luke. Cancelling is the no-brainer choice.

  Grace: Something’s come up. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.

  Luke: Okay. I love you.

  Grace: I know.

  And I do. But right now, I don’t care.

  There is a brutal double standard for women who have been cheated on. On the hand, they are blamed for it. They weren’t sexy enough, they ignored their husband’s needs. And then, when they find out, they are expected to leave.

  You think people are rewarded for staying with a spouse that betrayed them? Not by people who see them as having agency. Agency means we leave. Period. Agency means, when I’m hurt, I run.

  I’m not exactly running. But I feel pretty fucking lonely in this place of fighting for what I want. Like he can’t possibly love me if he’s hurt me. Like he never loved me, not really, and so I should give him up because he wasn’t good enough for me.

  But there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to give him up. I’ve loved him this whole time. We had a really wonderful life until it fell apart. I want that back. But better this time. I don’t want to try to find that with someone else, either.

  I could have it now.

  So why does it feel so precarious?

  Will it ever not feel this precarious?

  And why, as I head out the door to meet another wronged woman, are my though
ts tangled up in trying to redeem Luke?

  Fuck him.

  Fuck Caitlyn, too.

  23

  Luke

  Grace is mad in a new way, an incandescent way, when she shows up on my doorstep.

  She’s also dressed for sex again, and I notice. I can’t not notice, even if I’m supposed to be letting her go. She’s got a short, swingy skirt on. Easy access. And a halter top that promises she’s not wearing a bra.

  I want to grab her. Pin her down.

  “Come on in,” I say instead, playing at being civilized. “I thought from your text…”

  “Your girlfriend has now wrecked a second marriage in less than a month,” she spits at me.

  I rock back on my heels.

  “Another wife found me. It pays to have a public face, I guess.”

  “How did she connect you to…?”

  Grace waves her hand. “That doesn’t matter.”

  I bet it does. “Uh huh.”

  “But the point is, your little affair wasn’t as benign as you think it was.”

  “I don’t think it was benign. I think I fucked everything up, and I’ve tried to be as honest about that as I can.”

  Another wave.

  Okay. We’re not interested in what I have to say, and that’s fine. It’s not fucking great, but apparently the grief cycle of infidelity is a rollercoaster you didn’t ask to be strapped into, and all I can do now is hold on for dear life.

  A mistake of my own making, Grace would rightly point out.

  “She decided, over and over again, to fuck married men. Did you know that?”

  “I don’t know. No.”

  “You weren’t the only one.”

  “I guess I wasn’t.”

  “You weren’t the only one to have secrets with her, to be all the little things his wife was not. She was that to other men, too. That’s fucked up, right?”

  “Yes. I guess so. I don’t think about her anymore.”

  “I wish I had that privilege. So she’s moved on to another married man now. And this one doesn’t seem to care about hurting his wife in public. Should I be grateful that at least I don’t have to deal with the humiliation out there, as well as in here?”

  “How did she know to find you, Grace?” I’m yelling a little now. Fuck me. I take a deep breath. “Look, I’m sorry for that woman. I am. But you’ve let someone else’s drama pull you into a tailspin here.”

  “It’s not fucking fair,” she spits at me, shoving me in the chest.

  I catch her by the wrist and pull her onto the couch. “I know.”

  She exhales roughly. “I’m angry.”

  “I know.” I twist a lock of her hair around my finger and tug gently. I yearn for the same fairytale she does, but it’s not realistic.

  She grabs my wrist, stopping me from touching her hair. But then she pulls my touch to her breast and we both gasp.

  “No,” I groan, but I don’t mean it. Still, I try to be better than this. Moving my hands to her shoulders, then her hips, I pull her close. Pretend it’s just a hug. It doesn’t matter that she’s angry. I still love her just as much. If anything, her anger helps. It gives me some direction for the darkness inside. Some form, a clear penance, for the yawning grossness that would otherwise be overwhelming. “Be angry. Be loud. Be whatever you need to be. I’m right here and I’m not going anywhere.”

  “I don’t like this.” She climbs into my lap and I’m helpless to say no. Her skirt rides up high on her thighs.

  The warmth of her body scrambles my brain, and when I lift my hand to her arms, where I can touch her and bring her in close, I feel goosebumps rise on her skin. First the delicate, soft, pale blonde whispers of hair on her arms lift. I’m frozen, barely touching her.

  Then the gooseflesh comes, a ripple of nerves, and I sink my fingers into her skin. It’s just me but that’s wrong, because I’m the devil to her. I’m dangerous.

  And she sighs.

  “We shouldn’t…” I don’t bother finishing that thought. I want to, is the problem.

  She licks her lips. “I want to do something tonight.”

  “Anything.” As long as I can hold her.

  “I want to go out for dinner. Someplace kind of wild and loud.”

  “Deal.” I will make this happen for her. I will fill her day with noise and delight and spoilage the likes of which she’s never had before, so she doesn’t have to feel the anger which is completely justified—but which she hates so much.

  Anger at anger.

  My beautiful wife. Too good for me by a mile. So good it hurts her to stay with me.

  I don’t deserve her love. I hold her tight anyway. “I love you so much,” I tell her as she leans into me. Between us, my cock flexes.

  She rocks against my erection.

  “Careful,” I warn her.

  “I don’t want to be careful.” She pushes up, sitting squarely on my lap as she grinds away. “I want you to fill me up before we go out. I want to feel your come slick on my thighs as we—”

  I shove my hands under her skirt, gripping her hips tight. What I want to do is rip her panties to the side and shove two fingers deep into her cunt. “Dangerous game.”

  She smiles. “Fuck me.”

  I twist her around, so she’s flat on her back on the couch. “No. Not yet.”

  “Not until I’ve dated other people?”

  “Maybe.” I stroke the front of her thighs. Right along the edge of her panties.

  “It’s okay,” she whispers. “I just want to rub against you.”

  Need pools low inside me, her murmured words conjuring a filthy fantasy I can’t fully admit. Forbidden, dangerous thoughts that make me a bad man. She sounds so fucking innocent, a siren-by-accident. An unknowing temptress who will find herself full of cock before she knows it.

  But this is Grace.

  She does know it. She’s a sex connoisseur, and she’s tapped into something here.

  “We can’t have sex,” I mutter again.

  Her voice goes soft and dreamy. “I know.” Then she rolls her hips. “Is this okay?”

  “Does it feel good?”

  “Mmm hmm.”

  “You can rub against me, as long as it feels good.” I’m going to hell. I roll us around so I’m on the bottom and she’s perched on top of me. I stroke her back with my fingertips. “Be a good girl for me and figure out what feels good.”

  She mewls at that, a horny, wild sound I’ve never heard before, and her thighs clench down on my hips. Slowly, she rocks against my erection, and I whisper filth into her ear.

  “There are two ways it can feel good. You have a perfect, wet little hole that wants a cock in it, and that will feel nice, if you rub that opening against my cock. Mmm. See how hard I get when you do that? That makes me want to do bad things to you. But I won’t. We can’t. You need to keep your panties on, okay?”

  “Mmm hmm.” She shudders. “Oh, this feels so good.”

  I drift my hands lower, to cup her ass and adjust her angle a little. “And there’s another spot you can rub against me.”

  “My clit,” she whispers. “I like that spot. I touch it at night.”

  Now it’s my turn to make feral, ungodly sounds. “Tell me about that.”

  “That’s how I get to sleep at night. I rub my clit with two fingers, around and around, and think about bad men who call themselves Daddy touching me under the covers.”

  Her words slide into my brain and push on live wires I have never consciously allowed myself to connect before. “Grace…” I gasp as she rocks her hips. “Yes. Fuck. Rub against me.”

  She presses her face into my neck, her breath hot against my skin, and I jerk my hips, desperate to come with her, wishing we weren’t closed, wishing I knew how to do this without hurting, wishing I was touching her under a blanket and making her come on my fingers first, then my cock.

  “You can always ask me for this,” I settle on, my voice cracking as her breath quickens, her hips flyi
ng now. “This is safe. This is just for us. Nobody else will ever know that we like this. God, you feel good. Yes. Come for me. Come on Daddy’s cock, Grace. Do it. Fuck. Fuck, you’re so little, so perfect, so hot, fuck I’m coming Grace…”

  “Do you still want dinner?”

  She looks at me wide-eyed. “Uh…”

  “Fuck, was that too far?”

  “No.” She whispers it. A single sound. Then she shakes her head. “That was hot.”

  “I didn’t think—”

  “I started it.” She kisses me, quickly, then glances down at my crotch. “Do you need to clean up?”

  “Yeah.” Which is easier said than done in a single room loft. I get my, my pants a sticky disaster, and ignore that the best I can as I grab a change of clothes from the suitcase on the floor. Then I toss them on the bed, because fuck it, she’s my fucking wife, and I cross to the bathroom instead.

  Leaving the door open as I strip out of my clothes, I wet a washcloth and scrub jizz off my belly. Then I stalk back to the bed and pull on boxers and fresh jeans. Good enough for now.

  “You’re freaking out,” she finally says.

  I shrug.

  “It’s okay, Luke. It was just sex.”

  That was not just anything. “Mmm hmmm.”

  “Look at me.” She says it softly, and I blink down at her. She has a smile that matches the tone of her voice. Gentle.

  I don’t want gentle, I want safe.

  Maybe for the first time, I get the difference. She’s being gentle as fuck with me, but this doesn’t feel safe at all. “Those things I said…”

  “Were fine. And hot. And what I needed to get off in a pretty spectacular way.” She stands and adjusts her halter top. “Now to answer your question, yes, I do still want dinner, but I’m going to have to change first, because there’s no way I’m leaving the building like this.”

  24

  Grace

  We don’t do it again. I don’t know why. I don’t feel like seducing him again, probably, and he doesn’t initiate it, which irritates me for reasons I know I have no right to be irritated by. So after another week, I decide, fuck it, I’m going to try his dating plan.