My mouth watered. Just then, I couldn’t think of anything I wanted more than a dollop of rich whipped cream. Except maybe for my husband to stop talking. We’d always done better together when we didn’t speak.
“Don’t lie to me, Dana.”
I sighed and set my fork down. “You really want to talk about this, Richard? Now?” I indicated the restaurant around us with a sweep of my hand. From the sparkling chandelier that scattered fragmented golden light over my bland salad, to the affluent clientele dressed in tailored suits and skintight gowns adorned with glittering jewels, Antoine’s wasn’t the kind of place where a scene would go unnoticed.
As always, Richard had picked the restaurant. He read a stellar review in last weekend’s Times and decided it would be the perfect spot for us to celebrate our tenth wedding anniversary. I agreed, already fantasizing about showing up in a black, backless little number that barely came down to mid-thigh. I pictured myself two sizes thinner, fabric draped around my curves like a second skin. I wanted to be the hottest woman here. A goddess, a sex kitten. The object of every man’s fantasy.
All right, so my dreams have never been rooted in reality. If I’d realized that happily-ever-after endings were as unlikely as fat-free chocolate cake, I never would have walked down the aisle.
Besides, it was either go to the fancy restaurant, or tell Richard I’d rather stay home in my pyjamas with a carton of ice cream and the vibrator I hid in the refrigerator crisper.
“Why not?” He dabbed the corner of his mouth with the white linen napkin before setting it back on his lap. “You won’t discuss sex at home.”
“You never ask about it at home.”
“You never talk to me at home.”
I pursed my lips, instantly on the defensive. So what if I couldn’t remember the last time we’d had a civil conversation? I also couldn’t pinpoint exactly when we’d started leading separate lives, only that I liked it.
No. That wasn’t quite right. I’d grown used to it. I told myself that it was well past time I put my childish ideas about love and marriage behind me and came to terms with the fact that married couples ignored each other, slept on their side of the bed careful not to touch, and bickered when someone failed to replace the toilet paper roll.
“What if I let you?”
I paused with a forkful of salad halfway to my mouth. The mini tomato I’d speared fell off and rolled on to the floor. My heartbeat kicked up a notch. “What if you let me do what?”
Richard leaned forward, elbows on the table, dark eyes spearing mine. “Don’t play coy with me, Dana. I’m smarter than you think.”
“I—”
“Save it. I saw the way you eyed the waiter when he walked over here. You stared at his crotch like he’d hidden an icecream cone down his pants. It’s shameful, really. He must be half your age.”
“Asshole,” I said pleasantly, reaching for my glass of champagne. “If you’re considering a mid-life crisis, leave me out of your kinky fantasies. I give you my blessing to buy a fast car and look up your secretary’s skirt.”
My voice hitched on that last bit, and Richard scowled. Just like that, I’d turned back the clock six years. Only it hadn’t been his secretary then; it had been his personal trainer. And he didn’t just look up her skirt. He’d burned a few extra calories fucking her on the fitness circuit after hours.
He stared at me, eyes black and hollow. “That was a long time ago. And you’re not going to believe a word I tell you anyway, so I don’t know why I bother.”
I shrugged, saying nothing.
Richard hesitated, cleared his throat. “Look, Dana … I don’t want to look up Amy’s skirt. I want to look up yours.” He reached across the table for my hand, and the touch of his warm fingers on my wrist made me jump. “Only you won’t let me.”
For a tenuous moment, my breath caught in my throat and I had no reply. I’d grown so used to avoiding Richard’s advances that I’d become an expert at it. Four years ago, I bought my first set of flannel pyjamas. I now owned twelve in different colours, all sporting playful kitten designs. They were the kind with thick elastic bands, and I wore granny panties beneath them. I stuck curlers in my hair and smeared green goo on my face before heading to bed. I’d done everything except tattoo “No Entry” on my crotch.
It wasn’t that I didn’t like sex. I thought of it constantly, wished for it incessantly. Nor was Richard’s appearance the problem. I’d thought him irresistible once. His thick hair had been black then and hung down to his shoulders; now he wore it cut short, and grey showed at his temples. His suit jacket hugged broad shoulders, and although he didn’t spend all his time at the gym like he once had, he still rose early to swim laps around the pool.
I waited for the urge to pull back my hand. For so long, the only reaction I had to my husband’s touch was stark, pulsing anger. Sometimes, the spark of fury ignited my imagination and I’d picture him fucking his whore. That’s when the slow burn of maddening rage would combine with sullen waves of revulsion to form the kind of temper that landed people in jail.
None of those turbulent responses came this time. Instead, the sultry warmth Richard’s fingers had kindled in my wrist shot up my arm. My nipples tightened, fuelled by the intensity in his gaze.
Left momentarily speechless, I licked my lips. He focused on them, parted his as though he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.
When he finally spoke, his tone took on a sharp edge. “How long will you hold my mistake against me?” His grip tightened on my wrist. Pain flowered in a savage burst that chased the lingering flash of awareness from my skin. “Another year? Two? Twenty? I need to know.” He sucked in a breath. “I need to know, because if you won’t put the past behind us, I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” I yanked my hand away and slammed my open palm on to the table. The silverware clattered. A few heads turned in our direction and I could hear curious murmurs from the diners around us. “Leave me? Fine, then. Leave me.”
He furrowed his brows and slanted a glance at our neighbours. “Why not?” His voice was a low, violent whisper that hit me with the force of a slap. “You left me long ago.”
Abruptly, Richard leaned back in his chair and signalled the waiter. “You want to punish me, Dana? You’ll do it tonight. You’re going to get it out of your system, teach me a lesson, show me the error of my ways. And in the morning, you’ll let me prove to you that I’ve spent the last six years regretting what I’ve done.”
The waiter hurried over, and I had to bite my tongue while he cleared our plates. Knowing Richard watched me, I looked the boy over again. He was young, maybe twenty-three, maybe slightly older. Dark stubble cast a shadow over his lean cheeks and square jaw. He’d slicked back his hair, allowing a light brown strand to escape and curl over his forehead for that 1950s movie star allure. He probably thought it made him look cool. I thought it only made him look younger.
I homed in on his behind as he walked away, admiring the smooth flex of the cheeks beneath the bulky fabric of his uniform pants. A sigh flew from my lips as I contemplated the myriad wicked things I could do to that ass if I only had a dollop of that whipped cream I’d been craving.
He disappeared behind the swinging kitchen doors, and I turned back. The Saturday night crowd was surprisingly loud for such a posh place, only Richard and I sat in silence, the weight of our stillness a marked contrast to the laughter and buzzing energy around us. I waited for him to say something first, to chastise my lecherous behaviour or let me in on his plan, but he simply watched me. The impulse to squirm in my seat made every muscle in my body coil with tension, but I didn’t move an inch.
Whatever happened, I was suddenly glad I hadn’t stayed home tonight. This evening would decide the fate of our marriage once and for all, and I was relieved to know the end was near. We couldn’t go on like this.
I couldn’t go on like this.
“Will there be anything else, sir?”
I gl
anced up, startled. I hadn’t noticed the waiter approach.
“Yes. Hold up a minute.” Richard pulled out his wallet and opened it to reveal a fat stack of hundred-dollar bills.
I watched the waiter’s eyes widen. “I’ll bring your check.”
Richard smiled. It was a nasty, predatory smile that sent a shiver crawling down my spine and a rush of wanton anxiety pooling between my legs.
“This isn’t for the restaurant. It’s for you.”
The waiter’s throat worked as he swallowed hard. His gaze flicked from Richard to me.
I shrugged. I wanted to tell him that this was all for my benefit, that he was no more than a pawn in a game that would end badly for all of us. I didn’t, though. I took another sip of champagne and let the bubbles take the edge off my nerves.
He turned back to my husband. “I don’t understand.”
“What’s your name, son?” Richard asked, pocketing his wallet.
“Brent.”
Richard crooked his finger, beckoning Brent closer. The boy dropped to a crouch and leaned forwards, eyebrows raised in interest.
“Do you like women, Brent?”
The waiter’s smile faltered a little. Suspicion replaced the delight that had lit his eyes just moments earlier. “Yes, sir.”
“I’ll get right to the point, then. How much do you make working here? Eight bucks an hour?”
“Nine fifty, sir.”
“Nine fifty … That’s not bad, Brent, not bad.”
Richard paused and looked over at me. My stomach tightened. Without tearing his gaze from mine, he said, in that same bland voice I was beginning to hate, “I’ll give you ten thousand dollars to sleep with my wife.”
Looking back, I can’t help but think it should have taken more convincing. More theatrics, maybe. I’d expected Brent to be shocked, and he was, but the surprise wore off quickly, the lure of cash dislodging any misgivings he might have had.
We didn’t even have to wait until Brent’s shift ended. He faked some sort of fast-acting illness and followed us out to the car, while the restaurant manager scowled and shouted orders to the other waiters to pick up the slack.
The drive home is a blur, fragmented by flashes of memory: Richard’s big hands cradling the smooth leather of the steering wheel; the minty scent of Brent’s breath from the back seat; New York’s city lights bouncing off the tinted windows of our BMW as we zoomed through Manhattan towards our loft. And my silk covered legs, crossing of their own accord, pressing down on the throbbing pressure building at the apex of my thighs.
The security guard in the lobby, a big black man whose uniform jacket was at least two sizes too small for his substantial muscles, nodded at Richard as the three of us whirled through the revolving doors. His gaze flicked over Brent, but he was too well trained to let his curiosity show.
While we stood in front of the bank of elevators waiting for the one that would take us to the penthouse, I leaned into Richard and whispered, “All right, you’ve made your point. Send the boy home.”
The only answer he gave me was a narrow, cryptic tilt of the lips and, as the elevator doors split open with a ding, a chill crept through my veins. He’d given me no reason to think he was bluffing, but I knew him. Richard coloured within the lines. He followed a set of rules that would make the morality police proud. Even when he cheated on me, I’m sure he did it missionary style and used a condom. Good Catholic boys everywhere would have been proud.
But this … this was different. For both of us.
Brent stepped into the elevator after Richard. When I hesitated, Richard grabbed me by the shoulder and yanked me inside just before the doors closed in my face. His rough handling knocked me off balance, and I stumbled on my high heels, pitching forwards. I fell against Brent, who steadied me with a gentle hand.
“Whoa, careful, ma’am.”
I cringed and backed away until there was nowhere else to go. “Call me Dana, please.”
My spine pressed against the mirrored surface of one wall. Twin images of Richard and Brent stared back from the two mirrors in front and to the right of me.
“Be a good girl, Dana, and hike up your skirt,” Richard said. “Show us that pretty pussy you hide so well.”
My mouth went dry. If I wanted out of this game, now was the time to do it. I could refuse. If Richard insisted, I could hurl myself at the row of elevator buttons and slam my hand against the big red alarm. The burly security guard would come running to my rescue.
Truth be told, I considered it … for about two seconds. But the growing thrill of this indecent act filled me with a sense of anticipation. I caught the sides of my floor-length silk skirt and fisted my palms into the fabric before tugging it up … and up … and up.
The men’s gazes followed the line of flesh I revealed. A jolt of awareness flashed through me. I was in charge here. This night, this game, would go nowhere if I chose to end it. I set the pace. I had full control.
I breathed in sharply and my lungs filled with a heady rush of power. I could smell my own arousal, a musky aroma that seeped through the wetness that plastered my panties to my skin. I pulled my skirt up to my waist and revealed my underwear – a plain black cotton number that covered more of me than it displayed.
A spark of disappointment flashed in Brent’s eyes, but Richard’s gaze darkened. The bulge tenting his black suit pants made my pulse speed. I found it difficult to believe that he still wanted me despite the lack of a killer black dress, despite the middle-aged body shaped more by chocolate sundaes than by hours at the gym, despite these horrid panties that hadn’t belonged to my grandmother, but could have.
Still, I’d be a fool to ignore the growing evidence. Was it Brent’s presence that turned him on? Or could it really have been the sight of me, the knowledge that only that strip of fabric kept him from feasting his eyes upon my cunt?
I hooked my fingertips into the waistband of my panties and yanked them down around my upper thighs. I bared my mound of dark curls, my pink, protruding labia, the pool of moisture slicking the crotch of my underwear. They could see it all.
Emboldened, I used my index and middle fingers to part the folds of my sex. I exposed everything I had, held myself open, and trembled while I waited for one of them to do something.
Before either man moved, the elevator dinged, announcing its arrival at the penthouse floor. Richard punched in the key code, and the doors slid open into our living room.
Brent stepped out first. I made to follow him, but Richard held out his arm, stopping me. “Take off your underwear. That’s right … good girl. All the way off.”
I obeyed, still hoisting my skirt around my waist. I wobbled on my heels as I lifted one leg, then the other, and soon had the panties down.
“Leave them,” Richard said when I moved to pick them up. “Leave them right there. I want the world to know what a filthy, horny wife I have.”
I stared at the fabric that so clearly betrayed my wantonness. The panties had bunched on one side, but the crotch area lay uncreased, and the slick smear of my cream glistened shamelessly from the cotton strip.
The old Dana, the one who’d spent years waiting for one last excuse to leave, would have picked up the underwear and thrown them at Richard’s head before packing her bags and calling her lawyer. Or calling her lawyer and having him pack her bags.
I, however, did none of those things. Something had changed in that elevator. I wasn’t yet certain it was a positive change, only that I wasn’t willing to walk away until we’d played this game through to its conclusion.
Confusion made my head swim. Anxiety blended with arousal to form a miasma of uncertainty and apprehension. Yet despite the chaotic turmoil of emotions stirring inside me, I understood that no matter what happened tonight, my marriage would never be the same. And that frightened me more than anything.
More than being at the mercy of two men. More than fucking a stranger while my husband watched. More than letting down my guard and tr
usting them – trusting Richard – to bring me back to reality unharmed.
“Well?” Richard asked when I showed no sign of stepping over the threshold. “Are you coming in?”
I stepped inside and the metal doors whooshed closed behind me, sealing me inside a softly lit room as familiar to me as those panties I’d left behind. My heels made a tapping sound on the hardwood floor that echoed off the rose-coloured walls. I’d painted them a light fluorescent pink in an act of sheer rebellion. To my frustration, Richard claimed to like the colour. I hated it.
The energy in the room was palpable. It thrummed against my skin, causing goosebumps to rise along my arms. Tension filled my veins and welled up in my throat before exploding in the last sound I’d expected to ever hear reverberating through this house.
A giggle. My giggle.
Richard looked as startled as I felt. I slammed my palm over my mouth, but it was too late. He’d heard it, and he wasn’t about to let me get away with it.
With a snap of his fingers, Richard had Brent’s attention as closely as he had mine. He made a small inclination with his head, which must have meant something to Brent because before I could comprehend what had just happened, the younger man strolled across the hardwood floor, dropped to his knees, and tore my skirt.
The sound of the fabric tearing sent a frisson of raw delight scraping across my nerves. He’d ripped the skirt before realizing it tied at the side. I helped with that, just as I helped him remove my blouse and bra. In less than a minute, I stood in nothing but my heels, shivering in the wake of the air-conditioned breeze blowing over my skin.
My knees quivered. Brent used his hands to part my thighs, and I reached out to clench my fingers in his hair.
“That’s right,” Richard murmured, walking around us both. His voice traced a path along my naked body, dominating me with nothing more than words. “He’s going to lick you, and you’re going to let him. You get me, Dana? You’re not going to push him away, or squirm out of his reach, or pretend you don’t like it as you’ve done to me. He’s going to tongue fuck you into oblivion if that’s what I want him to do.”
The Mammoth Book of Threesomes and Moresomes Page 2
