MEGYN for the WIN
A Romantic Hotwife Novel
By Arnica Butler
*********
Copyright 2017 by Arnica Butler
All rights reserved. No duplicating and no resale, but
feel free to share with friends or family.
Published by Thirteenth Line Publications
This book is a work of fiction. All characters, companies, organizations, products and events in this book, other than those that are clearly in the public domain, are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, companies, organizations, events, or products, is purely coincidental.
All characters depicted in this story are 18 years or older.
Cover characters are models. Image(s) is/are licensed from:
shmeljov / DepositPhotos
Published by Thirteenth Line Publications
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Other Novels by Arnica Butler:
Unlocking Noel
Natalie's Seduction
The Houseguest
Body Of Research
A Well-Laid Trap 1
A Well-Laid Trap 2
The Hobby Job
Not Black And White: A Hotwife Novel
A Gamble: The Making Of A Hotwife
The Tenant: A Very Naughty Hotwife Novel
The Hotwife Summer
A Conventional Hotwife
Grand Slam: An Interracial Hotwife Adventure
Well-Constructed Affairs
Nikita Gets In Too Deep: A Hotwife Exploration
Human Interest 1: A Lead-In To Wife-Watching
Ela's Performance: A Romantic Wife-Watching Novel
A Dark Place: Cuckolded in Lagos
The Hotwife Tattoo
TABLE OF CONTENTS
1: The Ticket
2: A Win
3: A Crack In The Door
4: Shopping
5: Trying Things On
6: The Date
7: Eavesdropping
8: A Little Bit Of Control
9: Charity
10: Afterward
11: Another Chance
12: Philadelphia
13: Training
14: The Club
15: Megyn's Win
More From Arnica
A Thank-You
To my really, really terrific, diligent, and always accommodating BETA readers, Watson and R., who make it possible for me to write and for my readers to enjoy to enjoy quality erotica in a small niche.
I am also so happy to have made you both laugh so hard with Max Riley’s misplaced sock.
1: THE TICKET
“You look great,” I assured Megyn, as she sighed into the sun visor mirror and adjusted her make-up for what seemed like the tenth time. She did look great, specifically because she had taken her hair out of its perpetual pony-tail-bun-type-thing, and put on a dress. While it wasn’t especially risqué – a simple green sheath that looked a bit like a form-fitting, oversized button-down shirt – it was at least hugging her figure in a way far more feminine than the usual yoga pants and stretched sweatshirt.
Megyn looked down at her dress, and adjusted it slightly, with more sighing. The top button of the neckline was just above the line of her cleavage, and since she’d had the kids, her breasts were much larger than before, though still prettily petite. I could tell she would have preferred to close the neckline of the dress up all the way up to her throat.
“It looks nice,” I said, thinking aloud.
Megyn let out an exasperated sigh. She wiggled in her seat and moved the dress around some more. “It’s not too... I don’t know... it’s like some kind of slutty hipster dress or something.” She wiggled again and I smiled at her description.
“Also,” she complained, “I hate this haircut.”
She fluffed her striking auburn hair, which fell just below her shoulders and framed her face very nicely. She’d recently cut off about a foot of very beautiful but overpowering hair, and donated it to a wig-maker. I’d reassured her about the new cut many times, but she insisted it “felt weird.”
She laughed at herself. “Man,” she said. “I am really turning into a hermit.”
I looked over at her. The green of her dress made her eyes take on an almost unnatural emerald hue, the sort of color that would make you turn your head. Her eyes were sparkling, revealing that for all the show she was putting on, she was actually excited to be getting out of the house.
Megyn had recently started working from home, a move we both thought, at the time, would be better for her and the family. Our kids were finally off to school, but this way she could work and still be home for them in the afternoon. A good plan, but one that was slowly driving her a little crazy.
Very selfishly, I had to add: it had taken a toll on her upkeep of her own appearance. Immediately after taking the job, she had vowed to dress in business casual clothes, and get ready every morning, as a way of keeping her day in order. She had stuck to the personal promise for about three weeks, and then the definition of “business casual” had suffered a slow, consistent degradation. Likewise with “doing her hair.”
And while Megyn didn’t need make-up to look good (her skin was flawless, and her features were petite and upturned, giving her the appearance of an impish doll as well as shaving about ten years off her apparent age), it was nice when she put a bit of color on her lips or enhanced her large, pretty eyes with some mascara.
I looked down at her legs. The tunic-dress thingy came to her knees, but because she was sitting it had pulled up slightly and revealed a pretty sliver of her thighs.
One benefit of Megyn working from home was that she now had time to go running, and her legs had been the biggest benefactor of this effort.
“Uh...” Megyn said, lifting a finger against the window and pointing at the restaurant as I passed it by in my distraction.
I smiled, and put my hand on her knee. “I was just so distracted by the sight of your legs,” I said.
Megyn rolled her eyes, but I could tell she enjoyed the flattery. Between staying at home with the kids when they were younger, cutting back on her hours, and now working at home, she had really changed her life a great deal. She used to be in the spotlight, as a spokesperson for a large not-for-profit, running charity events and meeting potential donors. Now, she did outreach from home, and that meant she didn’t go out to dinner unless it was a special occasion.
I turned the car around and pulled into the parking lot. We gave each other a smile, and then went inside to meet our friends Cassie and Kevin.
As I had anticipated, Cassie noticed Megyn’s hair immediately and let out an excruciating peal of excitement about it. She stood up and hugged her, then pushed Megyn in front of her and appraised her appearance.
Cassie, to put it mildly, was our flamboyant friend. She wore a lot of jewelry, spent a lot of time at spas getting mani-pedis, and had her hair styled by an actual stylist twice a week. She was from Jersey and reminded me a lot of Kim Kardashian. When I told her this once while I was drunk, she responded by squealing “I wish,” and slapping her own ass.
Kevin was... well, the kind of guy you’d expect to be married to someone like Cassie. Or not. He seemed both perfectly at ease with his crazy wife and totally unsettled by her. Either way, he worked 60 hours a week at his car dealership to pay, presumably, for her jewelry. Kevin was an old friend of mine, and he’d met Cassie fifteen years ago. I can’t even remember how.
The thing about these two is they were a ton of fun to go out to dinner with.
Megyn was scrunchin
g her nose up and frowning, which was a pretty hard thing for her to pull off because of the shape of her mouth. Even at her most angry or sad, Megyn’s mouth had this little twist at the corners that made it look like she was plotting something. It’s my theory that her features affected her whole personality. She tried not to get mad, for example, because people always assumed she was actually being bitchy and mean-spirited with that little quirk at the corner of her mouth.
“You don’t like it,” Cassie stated. Then she waved her hand, and a fully-stocked Pandora charm bracelet clattered into another expensive-looking, bangle-y thing. “It looks fantastic. It looks perfect. It looks so much better than all that hair. Don’t get me wrong, your hair is gorgeous, gorgeous, but this frames your face better and anyway, now someone has a nice wig.” Cassie’s eyes went up and down Megyn’s body. “Have you lost weight? How do you lose weight if you're sitting in your office all the time?”
“I walk the dog,” Megyn quipped.
They sat down, and I turned to Kevin, who was giving me the “women, amirite?” look.
We ordered some drinks, and the women were sucked into their own conversation while we started talking the usual; business, taxes, business, sports. The food came, and the conversation quieted down as we began to dig into the carb-laden delights of Caravaggios.
“Oh my God,” Cassie said suddenly, about half an hour later, in the midst of a lull in the chewing and conversation. “That reminds me. I have to tell you.” She put her arm on Megyn’s and placed her other hand on her mouth, trying to contain herself. She took an enormous sip of wine next, and waved her hands around, as we all stared at her, rapt with attention. If there was one thing Cassie knew how to do, it was make small talk seem like she was divulging the secrets of the universe.
“Guess who,” she said finally, “is raffling himself off for a date for StreetRise?”
StreetRise was the nonprofit that Megyn had worked for when I first met her. It was an organization that ran multiple programs targeted at helping underprivileged urban youth avoid gangs and drugs, usually by getting them involved in a community-based project in their neighborhoods. They focused on programs for girls and women as well, which had been Megyn’s department.
Megyn brought a glass of wine to her lips and took a sip, her mouth turned up in genuine amusement. “Michael Bolton,” she joked.
Cassie ordinarily might have been annoyed by Megyn’s joke, because she hated it when Megyn stole her thunder, as she occasionally did, with a wry, well-timed quip.
“No,” Cassie said, earnestly. She paused, and Megyn returned her wine glass to the table, feigning disinterest. In fact Megyn was very much interested in what StreetRise was doing because she had loved that job.
“Max Riley,” Cassie said excitedly.
I knew Megyn couldn’t help what she did next, which was jerk her eyes up at Cassie, and let her jaw drop open a tiny bit.
Mine did, too. Just a little.
Even I knew who Max Riley was, and I was the kind of person who couldn’t immediately summon Tom Cruise’s name to mind. I usually referred to him as “You know, the guy, the brown-haired guy with the action movies. Mission Impossible.”
Max Riley was a real celebrity. Originally from the city, he was a Hollywood star, and this year had been superb for him. He played a rough-around the-edges cop on a popular police procedural called El Sereno, and a gangster vigilante on another crime drama called The Hill.
Even I knew all this.
He was also StreetRise’s dream celebrity: he was from a bad neighborhood, he had a ton of money, and everyone liked him on both sides of the tracks.
He was also really, really good-looking. A tall, athletic black man who had almost made it to the NBA, he was six feet, five inches of smooth, sinewy muscle with a model’s symmetrical, masculine features: square jaw, prominent cheekbones, big, sensual lips, and dark eyes burning through the pages of magazines advertising a cologne called “Onyx.”
“Not really,” Megyn said after a pause. Cassie nodded her head like a hummingbird’s wings.
“That’s... I mean, that’s fantastic,” Megyn said, in a tone that indicated she thought it was really not fantastic. She began to stab at her salad, sliding more and more pieces of lettuce onto the tines of her fork as she talked. “So, how does this raffle work?”
She stuffed all the lettuce into her mouth – far too much, and I stifled a laugh as she struggled to chew it and look at Cassie with a serious face as she listened to her answer.
Cassie leaned forward. “So, five tickets are fifty dollars, and if you win you get a date with him. Haven’t you seen the ads?” She took out her phone. “It’s that, and all the free advertising. We’ve already raised over $100,000 in tickets alone, and a lot more in additional donations...” Cassie had taken out her phone and was sliding it over so Megyn could see it. “Have you seen this?” She swiped at the phone.
I studied Megyn’s face as she watched the ad. I couldn’t even see the sensual Max Riley, but I could hear his low baritone, tenderly suggesting that the raffle entrants could decide what they wanted for dessert.
I glanced quickly at Kevin, who was shaking his head with the same expression on his face that I imagine I had on mine. Sure, we’re manly men, but a guy like Max Riley has a way of making any guy feel a little inadequate and insufficiently masculine.
I looked back at Megyn, who was trying hard not to let herself smile or get too sucked in by Max Riley, and whose eyes widened a little in spite of herself as he threw out sexual innuendo after sexual innuendo.
The ad ended.
She turned to Cassie and exhaled. “And how much did you say you’ve raised?”
Cassie nodded, as though Megyn had just agreed with her on a key point. “Over $100K, and the campaign’s only 3 days in.”
“But... that’s a lot of money,” Megyn said, truly impressed.
Cassie nodded again. “People are buying tickets from all over the country.”
Megyn shrugged. “Well, that’s... that’s great, then. I can’t believe the luck...” she shook her head. “I would have killed to get Max Riley.”
She was referring to when she worked there. It would have fallen to her to do fundraising events, and there was no way they wouldn’t be successful with a big name like that.
“He just came to us,” Cassie said, reassuringly.
Megyn smiled.
And that seemed to be the end of the conversation.
Cassie straightened up in her chair, though, in this way she has of wiggling self-importantly. A look of mischief crossed her face, and she looked at Kevin. Kevin brought a napkin to his lips and looked down, and I got a cold feeling in my stomach.
Cassie was up to something, and it clearly involved us.
Megyn, too, was on the alert. She caught my eye and gave me a brief look of wild panic, before looking back to Cassie.
Cassie twirled her fork in her spaghetti. “Well, I’m glad you think it’s such a good idea, because....” she smiled and turned her fork again and again, grinning, knowing that she was making everyone nervous.
You just never knew what kind of bombshell Cassie was going to drop on you.
“I went ahead and bought you a ticket.” Cassie brought the spaghetti to her mouth, and pulled it from the fork with her teeth, smiling as she did. She fluttered her eyes at Megyn, and then at me.
Megyn brought her hand to her chest, and used her other hand to pick up her wine. “Oh God,” she said. “I thought you were about to say something serious.”
“Oh this is serious,” Cassie said, dropping her voice and coating it with a sensual slur. “I’m not eligible to win a date with that hunk of manly mandom, but I can live out my dreams vicariously through you.”
“God,” Megyn said, looking at the ceiling and taking a sip of her wine.
Cassie whimpered theatrically. “Please, Megyn. A girl has to have hope in her life.”
Kevin grumbled. “What am I, chopped liver?”
> Cassie slid her arm over the table to take Kevin’s hand. She fluttered her eyes affectionately at him. “Honey. You know you are the only man for me, and you are a hot, Italian sausage...”
I looked at Megyn, who was looking at me. Things always got like this with these two. Megyn stifled a laugh.
“- but honey this is Max. Riley.” Cassie turned to Megyn without letting go of her hand. “Right? I’m right.”
Megyn rolled her eyes again and gave her wine a swirl. “Well...” she said. “Thank you for the ticket.” I could tell she didn’t believe in the slightest that she might win – not with those kinds of odds.
And that, I remember thinking (like a fool), was that.
“So,” I said jovially, as I climbed into the car. “Max Riley, huh?”
Megyn leaned against the headrest. “I know,” she said, exasperated. She shook her head back and forth. “It’s so aggravating. I bet Clarissa or Alyssa or whatever her name is thinks she’s such hot shit now.”
“Clarissa-or-Alyssa” referred to Melissa Douglas, the spritely millennial-something who had replaced Megyn when she had left.
We were talking about two different things, Megyn and I.
“I mean,” I said, trying to bring the conversation around to the part I wanted to talk about. “He is pretty hot. It’s a great campaign.”
Megyn exhaled, annoyed. “It’s so sexist, too,” she continued.
I put the car in reverse and started to back out. “I thought this campaign was targeting the girls’ programs,” I said.
Megyn shot me a look, I could feel it more than I could see it, as I looked out the rear windshield to maneuver through the overcrowded parking lot.
“Whose side are you on?” she snapped.
“Always yours,” I said, sincerely. “Anyway, you have a ticket, maybe you’ll win.”
“Oh God,” she said, flipping the sun visor down and touching her mouth as though anything at all was wrong with her make-up.
“What?” I said. “You wouldn’t want to win a date with the famed Max Riley, action superstar, tall, dark and handsome?”
Megyn For The Win: A Romantic Hotwife Novel Page 1
