The Sex Club

by Jasmine Haynes

  She willed herself back into that small room at the club, felt the vibration of a lover's voice inside her, his finger sliding across her.

  I'd make you come over and over against my tongue.

  She pushed her head back into the pillow and moaned. Her husband sucked on her a moment; then swirled his tongue.

  Come for me.

  Her hips bucked against him. She burned. She panted.

  I'm going to see you in my dreams. Only you. With your fingers buried deep in your pussy.

  Suddenly, in her fantasies, she was alone on her bed, touching herself as her nameless lover watched. Hot eyes, hard cock. For her. Only her.

  She came, trapping her husband's head between her thighs and riding his mouth until the shudders died away.

  She stared at him as he lay between her legs. She opened her mouth to say she could blow him if he wanted. The words never made it past her lips. She would not survive the word no. "Thanks, that was great."

  A ton of bricks lay on her chest as he backed off the bed and stood. "Just going to brush my teeth. You wouldn't want me to kiss you with this stuff all over my mouth."

  "No, of course not."

  I'd savor every drop.

  The water ran for a good long while. The toilet seat creaked, he relieved himself, more running water as he washed his hands. Then he crawled into the bed beside her and, with cold hands, pulled her into his arms.

  The scent of toothpaste washed over her cheek as he spoke. "Thanks for letting me do that to you, sweetie. It was nice."

  I'd kill for that.

  "Yeah, it was." They were so fucking polite to each other.

  He didn't say he loved her. Not even between the lines. Would it have mattered even if he had? Love without passion was little more than living with your best friend.

  Some people don't have even that, a little voice whispered. Was she asking for too much? She might find passion elsewhere, but she was terribly afraid that one person wasn't allowed to have it all.

  * * * *

  His cell phone rang just as Stephen threw his keys on the hall table.

  He answered, knowing who it was without asking. "It's none of your business, Stacy."

  "I don't want details. I only want to know if she enjoyed herself."

  She had. For a moment. Until something had frightened her, he couldn't say what. "You need to talk to her, not me. I told you whatever happens stays between Debbie and me."

  "Call her Desiree."

  "That's not her name."

  Once, a long time ago, he'd thought about sleeping with Stacy. Until he'd figured out she was all hard edges. He'd always preferred a softer woman. Like Debbie.

  Silence a moment. "You care about her, don't you?" Stacy sounded almost wistful.

  It pissed him off that she was planning something in that sneaky little brain of hers. "You're not her fairy godmother. You can't wave your magic wand and make her life perfect."

  "I sent her you, and she thinks she can quit her job at the end of the year."

  "Don't take credit for her talent. That's what'll allow her to turn everything around. All you did was network for her."

  "You're being mean, Stephen."

  "Why did you call, Stacy? I'm not a dirty detail kind of guy."

  "I wanted to know if you're seeing her again. That's all. No details."

  "We do all our business through email."

  "No, I mean ... seeing her, like you did tonight."

  He suddenly didn't want Stacy probing Debbie for any of those elusive details. "I won't be seeing her again like that." She'd run. He'd lost. Maybe they'd both lost.

  "You will if you go to the club again."

  "She's not going there again."

  "I slipped the card in the purse she borrowed. She'll find it tomorrow when she cleans everything out before she gives it back to me. I give her three days before she simply has to go again."

  "I really don't think the club was her gig." It wasn't his either. If Stacy hadn't conned him into going, ostensibly to watch out for Debbie, he wouldn't have gone within miles of the place. Though he had to admit there was something about all that rampant sex. In his younger days? Maybe. Now, closing in on the big 5-0, sex wasn't just about ... sex. It was about the relationship, about finding someone who shared your passion. It was about not wanting to face the rest of your life alone. You didn't find the right woman to share your life with at a sex club.

  "Stephen. She needs you. That bastard is cheating on her, I know it. I feel it. She needs you to rescue her from that terrible marriage."

  He was damn tired of this conversation. He'd been listening to different renditions of it for weeks now. "If he is, she's got to deal with it. I can't rescue her. I'm hanging up now, Stacy."

  "But..."

  He didn't say goodbye before he punched the end button. Turning the phone off, he closed his eyes. God, he was tired. Leaving a trail of clothes, he made it to the bathroom, took care of the necessities; then crawled into bed.

  He couldn't sleep. When he closed his eyes, he smelled Debbie's light perfume and the heady musk of her arousal. He wasn't into touching another man's wife. He hadn't meant to find his soul mate in a married woman. But he couldn't help wanting her. He'd lived a long time, searching for perfection, his perfection. He'd never married, always thinking that he'd meet her just around the corner. When he finally did, she wasn't free. He knew he was letting Stacy's conviction sway him. He wanted to believe Debbie's husband was a dickhead. He wanted to be her knight in shining armor. He wanted to slip his hand between her legs and bring her to the most delicious orgasm of her life. He wanted to take her with his fingers, his mouth, his cock. He didn't want to wake up in the morning to find her gone as if she'd been nothing more than a dream.

  In the past few months, he'd looked forward to her emails far more than he should have. And yes, at night, he'd imagined her face in his hands, her lips receiving his kiss, her mouth taking his cock. He'd often had to stroke himself to relieve the ache. Tonight, feeling her body tremble in his arms and touching her warmth, tonight had catapulted him into full-blown obsession.

  The sane part of his brain dictated that he set up a meeting, tell her his feelings, and see how she reacted. The crazy half, which also comprised his lower head, said she'd run as fast and far as she could. No, she had to be as obsessed as he was. He had to bind her with his body and his passion.

  He'd spend a fortune to make sure he was at the club every night, hoping Stacy was right, that Debbie would have to go back. She'd have to go back for him.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  She'd dressed like a tart, watched people having sex, and let a man she'd never seen before put his hand between her legs. For the last fifteen minutes, she'd been seriously considering calling the number on the embossed card lying on her worktable.

  God.

  Someone, most likely Stacy, had sneaked the card into her purse last night.

  Debbie took a steadying breath and picked up the soldering iron. Just a couple of blotchy spots there that needed smoothing, and then the piece would be ready for the patina. The carousel horse was her most ambitious work to date, with over a hundred pieces, some of them no bigger than her thumbnail. She had to get down to the shipping place and have her work of art wrapped securely. She'd promised Stephen she'd have it to him by Friday. It would be there early.

  I need to feel you come so bad, my guts ache.

  She closed her eyes. The words shouldn't have been so important, but they were. Her lover's voice filled her head, touched her body, made her hot and wet and shaky. How she longed to feel that way all the time. The emotional high was like a drug spreading through her veins. She was already thinking of him as her lover and wanting more of what he'd given her.

  "Sweetie, what's for lunch?"

  She almost dropped the soldering iron onto the glass.

  Her husband stood with one foot in and one foot out of the garage. For a panicky moment, she thought he might actually come out f
or a look at what she was doing. Then he'd see the card, maybe even guess at all the licentious thoughts filling her as if they were tattooed on her forehead.

  "Hot dogs. I'll be there in a minute."

  "Want me to start the water?"

  "Yeah, sure, thanks."

  Guilty, guilty, guilty flashed like a neon sign above her head. Taking a deep breath, she put the soldering iron back in its holder and wiped her sweaty palms on her jeans. Then she wondered what the hell she was worried about. She could tell him any lie she wanted, and he wouldn't question her. He wouldn't want to know.

  That hurt worse than almost anything else.

  Only infinitesimally worse than the realization that she was a disloyal, ungrateful, heartless bitch. He'd given her almost twenty years of his life. He'd never been unfaithful. He'd encouraged her to pursue her dreams. She couldn't consider retiring from her job if he hadn't supported everything she'd wanted to do with her life. Why did he have to be such a good man? Why couldn't he beat her or verbally abuse her? Something, anything, so she didn't feel so guilty. She gripped the edge of her worktable until her fingers ached.

  Once, a few months ago, when she'd been so needy and on the edge, she'd told him she couldn't survive if he didn't have passion for her. He'd only asked why that one thing was so important. Why that one thing, the only thing he couldn't give her, should make her feel as if nothing else in their life together was good enough.

  She still didn't have an answer.

  Nor did he have an answer for why he'd lost interest in her sexually. At least not one that satisfied her. He was busy at work and tired when he came home. He was getting older, and his libido was fading. Sex didn't provide him with the same excitement it had when he was younger. He had a headache. He was getting a cold. He hadn't slept well the night before. Over the years, he'd offered her a dozen choices. A dozen excuses. Of course, they were all about him, never attaching blame to her. How could she fix a problem she didn't even understand? Two bold facts remained. He'd tired of her. She no longer excited him.

  He was still her husband and what she'd done at the club was still wrong.

  Turning off the soldering iron, she reached for the gold card. She stared at it a moment, remembering the touch of another man's hands. Closing her eyes, she tipped her head back. A moan bubbled in her throat. She forced the small sound back down. Then she ripped the card into little pieces and went inside to heat the hotdogs.

  "Are you finished?"

  "Almost. I want to send it off today, though, because it's a pain in the butt to try to ship it during the week."

  "I can do it for you," he offered, pulling the mustard and relish out of the refrigerator.

  Please don't be nice to me. Please. "Thanks. But I can get down there today."

  Putting the condiments on the counter, he turned to study her. "You know, I really admire your diligence and persistence in your work. You never give up. I'm really proud of that. I'm proud of you."

  His words felt as if someone had tied a rope around her neck and thrown her from the highest tree branch. Guilt twisted around her heart and grabbed her belly in a tight, unrelenting grip. "Thanks. That's really sweet."

  I'm gonna die, I'm gonna lay down on the floor, curl into a ball, and die.

  "I'm going to clean out the garage this afternoon."

  "Great." The water hit the boil, and she popped the hot dogs in.

  "Did you check what movies are on tonight?"

  They had every pay channel known to man and still had trouble finding something to watch. "Nothing much worth watching."

  "Do you want to rent something?" He put the buns in the microwave for a quick blast.

  "I'll drop by the video store on my way back from shipping the horse. Anything in particular?"

  "You choose."

  Why did it sound like they were making conversation to fill the empty space between them?

  When the meal was done and the dishes were in the dishwasher, she couldn't get out of the kitchen fast enough. "I have to email Stephen to let him know I'm sending the piece."

  In her office, her foot tapping impatiently, she booted up the computer. Slow, slow, far too slow.

  Do you know how beautiful it is watching a woman touch herself?

  No, she didn't, but she wanted her mystery man to watch her. She wanted to see his eyes on her, watch him strip down and take his cock in his hands because she turned him on. Her pulse beat at the juncture of her thighs. Her clitoris throbbed. Putting a hand to her throat, she burned with the need to touch herself.

  The computer beeped, and she realized she'd been sitting there, lost in fantasy. Lost in the memory of his voice and his hands. She'd thrown the damn card away.

  But she hadn't forgotten the number.

  Stephen had sent her an email asking how she was and if she'd enjoyed her night out with the girls. She'd told him about the bachelorette party. What on earth would he think of her if she told him the truth? Yes, Stephen, I had a wonderful time watching women suck men's cocks and my friend masturbate behind a Plexiglas window. And Stephen, there was this most delicious man...

  She replied to him, saying only that she'd had a nice time and would be shipping out the carousel horse that afternoon. Then she waited for his next email.

  The glass was for a child's playroom. She'd used lead for basic strength and jewels made of a hard plastic for decoration on the saddle. She hoped he'd be pleased with the results. Someday, she'd find the courage to ask him to take her to one of the houses he was working on so she could see the installation. She had yet to see her work in place. Which was kind of crazy.

  "Jewels," he answered a few minutes later. "Great idea. Can't wait to see it. So where'd you go last night?"

  Stephen was always chatty. She'd figured out he did it to put her at ease. Telling her a little about himself and asking questions about her so that she didn't worry so much over his reaction to a new piece she'd sent him. If he'd been strictly business, she'd have been a mess waiting for his email after she'd made a shipment.

  "A club," she typed.

  "Dancing?"

  "I don't dance."

  "Why not?"

  Why not? She couldn't remember anymore. Her husband hadn't danced with her since her sister's wedding over ten years ago.

  "My husband's self-conscious. He hates dancing." She regretted the email the minute she hit send. The words sounded too much like complaining.

  He didn't reply for awhile. She'd almost given up. Then he wrote, "But do YOU like to dance?"

  This was probably the most personal conversation they'd had. Her stomach fluttered. "Yes, I like to dance." Though she couldn't do much beyond shuffle her feet.

  She waited, a hand over her mouth as she stared at the screen. Stephen was a nice guy. He complimented her, and with a turn of phrase, made her laugh when she felt a little down. From a few things he'd said--maybe something he'd mentioned a couple of months ago about his class reunion--she figured he was close to fifty. He wasn't married, though she didn't know if he had been, and she was pretty sure he didn't have any kids because he never talked about any. He was funny, articulate, and smart.

  Her heart beat a little faster when his address popped up on her screen. There were times she found she'd spent an hour emailing back and forth, and the messages hadn't all been business. More like conversation.

  She had to admit, too, that late at night, something he'd said would come back to her. Make her smile. She'd imagine what he looked like, what his voice would sound like. And yes, she'd put his name to a fantasy lover or two.

  The reality was that she'd had orgasms while imagining Stephen was going down on her. There, the truth.

  They were only talking about dancing. He didn't translate the conversation into something sexual. She did.

  Her hand trembled as she reached for the mouse to open his message when it came.

  "Then you should dance whenever you want to. You can dance with girlfriends, you know."

 
; She laughed to herself, her tension easing; then wrote, "That isn't done."

  He dashed her a reply. "Why not?"

  "You ask why too much." Though she hadn't noticed him doing that before. "Women aren't supposed to dance with women."

  "We're not talking slow-dancing here. Women dance together all the time. Haven't you been watching at those clubs you go to with your friends?"

  She sucked in a breath. She'd been watching, that's for sure. Only it wasn't dancing. Did he think she was some party animal? For God's sake, she was married. A giant-sized fist squeezed her heart. She'd been married last night, but look what she'd done. "I don't go to that many clubs."

  "I wasn't criticizing."

  She was overreacting out of guilt. The admission, if only to herself, that she'd fantasized about Stephen made her suddenly nervous. "I know. I don't want you to think I'm always running around with my friends." And neglecting her duties. Her husband.

  "I don't think that at all. You deserve to go out and enjoy yourself."

  He sounded like Stacy. After last night, she didn't deserve shit. She didn't know what to say or how to reply. Cupping her face, she massaged her temples. What was the big deal? Stephen was being nice. Her own guilty conscience read something into everything he wrote.

  "I enjoy seeing my friends. We've known each other a long time." There, that was non-committal enough.

  "Are you okay?"

  She wasn't used to intuitive men. For a moment, she wanted to scream. No, everything is not okay. Everything is bad, bad, bad. I think I'm becoming a manic-depressive because I'm flipping moods every two seconds.

  "Everything's fine, Stephen. I'd better run if I'm going to get that piece out today. Have a good one. Bye."

  Her stomach trembled. Her hands shook. She wanted to cry. What had she done to herself last night?

  Thank God she'd ripped that damn card into bits.

  * * * *

  Stephen stared at the blinking cursor on his monitor. Shit, shit, shit. He'd pushed too hard. But Christ, what kind of man wouldn't dance with his wife--a wife who liked to dance--because he was self-conscious? She'd told him other things, little details she'd revealed without realizing that they drew a picture Stephen saw clearly. The guy was a self-centered prick who didn't like her friends, wouldn't attend parties she was invited to, and even groused about the family barbecues her sister had once a month. He was a hermit, and he expected her to be one, too. When the hell did he conduct his affairs? Early mornings at the office? Quickies at lunch?