One Too Many

by Jade West

  I jumped another mile as the guy at my side landed his fingers on my thigh out of view of my husband, but there was no seediness in his touch, only a squeeze of reassurance that shocked me to my core.

  I remembered what he’d said to me on the sea front. The kind words that had seemed so real.

  And I hated it. All of it.

  Hated how much I wanted them to be true.

  “You’ll be more than enough,” he whispered as Brett put the wine away on the far side of the bar. “I meant every word I said last night. I’d have said a lot more if you’d let me. Maybe if I had you’d have even believed me.”

  His breath tickled my ear, and his fingers squeezed harder before they pulled away.

  It was official, we were all going insane. All three of us.

  I was grateful for the next chug of red that went down my throat.

  If we were going insane, at least the alcohol would ease the ride to crazy town.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Thomas

  I shouldn’t have drank so much rum with Brett Foster and his sweet wife. My legs were uncharacteristically unsteady as I made my way up to my room, my vision swirling uncomfortably as my heart pounded and my drunken belly rolled with the kind of emotional crud I usually kept at bay.

  I’d spent my entire adult life hating the sonofabitch and his bully boy swagger. Years plotting that they’d be the ultimate couple to tear apart and leave broken in my wake.

  Countless nights thinking about her monogamous little cunt sucking me dry, the ultimate gift to the wimpy little teenager who’d jerked one out over her enough times to smart for a fucking lifetime.

  I’d grown too blasé in my memory of him, imagining him as an ignorant grunt of popularity and nothing more. I hadn’t anticipated he’d be more than that. More astute, more perceptive. Smarter. Determined.

  Proud.

  Not proud like I was proud, with ice at the edges of every sentence. Proud like a guy who loved his wife and shrugged off his lot in life as more than enough.

  Maybe it was more than enough.

  I threw my shoes and socks to the floor and braced myself before dropping to the edge of the bed. I steadied my breaths and ran my fingers through my hair. My scalp tingled. Scratchy. A glance in the full-length mirror opposite showed me looking exactly as I’d cultivated for years, swaying and looping in my blurred vision, but still preened and polished all the same. It should have been a relief, but it didn’t stop me feeling the things I spent my days hammering flat inside.

  I felt like a fraud. An imposter in a nice suit. My bare feet still had a dusting of sand between the toes, I could feel it as I scrunched them against the carpet.

  I’d nearly told them after a few more shots. Nearly told them how I knew them and spilled the sorry beans of our rancid history.

  I wondered if they even knew the finer details. Maybe my tale would come as a surprise enough to leave them open-mouthed, dredging through their own memory in crazed confusion as they put the pieces together.

  But I hadn’t told them. Even through the rum, I’d bitten my tongue when it mattered.

  Conversation had flowed far too easily in spite of all that was looming. Questions, so many questions. Questions about London and my life in the city. Questions about my business, about my apartment, my tastes in food. Questions like I was just a regular guest at the bar and the guy didn’t want to punch my throat at the prospect of me stretching his wife’s asshole wide open.

  It had been a long time since I’d talked about my life. Actually talked.

  Drunken fingers stumbled for my phone, calling up Polly’s text message and considering an impromptu reply, even though it was approaching one a.m.

  I wanted to tell her how close I was to victory. How I could almost taste sweet Grace Foster’s cunt on my lips. How I’d fuck the woman so hard she’d never recover, not in a lifetime. How I’d be the man on her mind for all time, fuck her fucking husband and his school sports trophies and his bullish pride.

  I wanted to tell her I was lonely. Lost. Drunk.

  How I was still me. The kid she’d walked along the scraggy path after school and skimmed stones in the brook with. The kid whose glasses she’d repaired with tape after Brett’s bully boy athletics friends threw me on my face for colliding with him on the sports field. The boy whose lip she’d dabbed with a cold flannel to ease the swelling and kindly ignored his teary eyes to save him the embarrassment of his weakness.

  I almost typed out a message.

  My thumb made it to the text box and hovered for a full minute before I came to my senses and cast the phone on the floor.

  I threw myself flat on the bed and stared up at the ceiling, trying in vain to focus on the light as it swung across my vision like the pendulum of death.

  It was just drink. One too many. It’s always that one that sends you over the edge.

  Maybe Grace Foster would be the one to send me over mine.

  Maybe the drink was nothing more than a smart ploy on his part, plying me with easy shots and lulling me into a false sense of camaraderie. Maybe he was laughing with Grace right there and then a few floors down, laughing about how I wasn’t such a cold fish after all, just a sad fucking loser who’d probably only manage to get it up once and leave her be.

  Even through the drunkenness I felt the rage brewing. I remembered him in senior year, shouldering past me every morning in the corridor without even noticing how I’d shrink from him. I remembered how he’d jump into his mother’s sporty convertible after practice and speed off to his cushioned life while I’d cower in the bus shelter with no coat, missing the bus on purpose just to avoid going home to my own mother and whichever brute she’d be shacked up with that month.

  I hated the piece of shit.

  Always had. Always would.

  I hated this place he owned with its quaint old beams and its pretty picnic benches out front. I hated that he’d been given it on a platter and still couldn’t manage to hold onto it.

  How he’d sell out the one thing worth anything.

  It was like this every time I offered cash for a woman with a ring on her finger. They’d always talk themselves into it as though it was no big deal. Cheapening their union to whatever monetary value I’d placed on them.

  What they’d never found out, not a single one of them, was that I’d give them the money regardless if they’d just say no.

  If they could stand shoulder to shoulder, composed and confident and committed to each other above a strange man’s cash enough to tell me no, thanks, never, no fucking way, I’d shake their hands and deposit the money into their account and walk away with a smile.

  Sad but true.

  I’d hoped this would be the time. Another case of sad but true.

  No matter how much I hated the cunt, or how many times I’d jerked off to his wife when she was just a girl at the same school, I still hoped he’d be able to prove me wrong about life, love and the idiots who believed in any kind of romantic permanence.

  I’d hoped maybe it would even make me hate him less. Enough to go on my merry way and find whatever shred of peace was out there waiting one day.

  Maybe even with Polly.

  I rolled onto my side and retched into my mouth. Definitely too much drink.

  One thing I hated even more than Brett Foster was feeling a lack of control.

  I’d be in control when it mattered though. Cold, hard and calculated as I took my fill of his wife and everything she had to give.

  I’d take her to places she’d never imagine, never even hoped for. I’d imprint myself so deep inside her that she’d never be able to let me go. Show her a whole other world in that one filthy night, one at odds with her sweet little picture of paradise in this quaint little cove on the edge of nowhere.

  I’d hurt her so bad she’d beg me for more.

  Love it all better with enough skill that she’d cry for the ache all over again.

  I’d snake my way inside her, through her slic
k wet pussy and the butterflies in her belly, right the way to her pounding heart, where I’d take it. Take her. Own her. Steal her.

  And then leave her behind to pick up the pieces.

  She’d call. They always did.

  Only maybe this time I’d come back for her.

  Brett

  I was surprised I could get it up after so much rum, but I could. My dick was throbbing proud as I stepped into the shower after my sweet Grace. She was still smiling from the wine, giggling as she soaped up her hair, leaning back against the tiles as my bulk filled the cubicle alongside her.

  “I’m drunk,” she laughed, like I didn’t know.

  “We’re all a little drunk this evening,” I said back, my dick in my hand as I let the jet of hot water slam against my shoulders.

  She pressed her body to mine, pinning my cock between us as I wrapped her in my arms and held her tight.

  “Maybe we should tell him no,” I whispered aloud. “Tell him to stick his money and fuck off. If I didn’t know better, I’d even say maybe he wasn’t such a cunt after all. Maybe he could recommend us to his rich city friends and come back for more rum. Maybe we’d even like the guy one day.”

  Her eyes were wide as they stared up at mine, her tipsy grin still bright. “Maybe.”

  Her belly ground against the ridge of me. I hissed out a groan.

  “Fifty grand,” she said. “It’s a lot of money to turn down.” She ground harder against my dick. “Clearly the prospect of a healthy bank balance is exciting you.”

  But that wasn’t the reason I was hard. It wasn’t about the money.

  It wasn’t about the guy’s seedy cash from some weird ass currency investment, or how many posh towels Grace could fill our hotel with on the back of it.

  It wasn’t even about the to-pay pile, or sleeping easily at night.

  It was about how much another guy wanted my woman. How hungry his eyes were for what was mine.

  How the jealousy was addictive, raw, more intoxicating than the gutful of rum I’d downed with the asshole as he’d sat across from me.

  How she’d still be mine afterward. How I’d see the pain in his eyes at walking away from the woman he’d find was everything and more.

  We’d had rum and a conversation that made the guy vaguely palatable. That didn’t mean I wouldn’t enjoy watching him craving my woman when his fill was long spent.

  Maybe I was a cunt, too.

  Maybe Grace liked cunts.

  Fuck, I was drunk.

  “You won’t fall in love with him, right?” I asked aloud and her face crumpled up with laughter.

  “Are you fucking crazy?” She tapped my forehead. “I love you, Brett Foster.”

  I grabbed her ass and hitched her up on me, loving the way her shampoo slid over my fingers as she tipped her head back and rinsed it clean.

  “He’s hot though. Rich. Cocky,” I goaded.

  “And you’re you. No contest.”

  She moaned as I shifted her high enough to take my cock. She was ready for me, nicely wet as I dropped her onto my full length. Her arms wrapped around my neck, her whole body rippling as she squirmed for rhythm.

  “I’ll hold back,” she told me. “When you’re watching, I mean. He’s just a guy who’s paying. I won’t want it. He won’t make me come, not like you do.”

  She was definitely fucking drunk.

  “And what if he does?” I grunted. “What if he makes you scream for him?”

  The way her pussy clenched told me everything.

  Strangely, I didn’t fucking care.

  “You can come for him,” I added. “If I’m watching, I’d rather be watching you having a good fucking time.”

  Her lips found mine, her tongue pushing deep as she whimpered.

  “You don’t mean that,” she hissed as she pulled away.

  I did mean that. A combination of hard on and rum and her tight wet pussy milking me dry.

  “Come for him,” I grunted. “It’s once in a lifetime. Enjoy it.”

  “You were suggesting we tell him no a few minutes ago,” she giggled, bouncing deeper to take her fill. “I can’t keep up with the crazy of all this.”

  It was crazy.

  I was feeling it right through me, my brain spinning, trying to straighten out twisting senses that wouldn’t fall into order.

  I’d given up trying by the time my sweet, horny wife came for me, riding my dick like a woman possessed, grunting and humping and grinding for more.

  I shot my load inside her with a grin on my rum-drunk face.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Grace

  Thomas Heath wasn’t at breakfast next morning. Brett and I hovered around the dining room, nursing hangovers right the way through the allotted time, but he didn’t show.

  I took it more personally than I wanted to, as though he was taking a step back from us somehow, offsetting the easiness we’d grudgingly reached in each other’s company after a drink or ten.

  He may not have shown that morning, but his parcels did. The couriers started arriving just after breakfast, dropping them off in one long troop at our reception desk.

  It felt strange signing for the things he’d be using so filthily on my body.

  All of them were in plain packaging and their discretion made me nervous, wondering just what was waiting for me inside. Whips, chains, donkey-sized dildos? A rainbow-tailed butt plug that plays music in your asshole?

  I had no idea.

  When we were kids, my sister rescued a canary from some family down the street who weren’t taking proper care of him. He would have these crazy moments in his cage when he first arrived, hopping from perch to perch so fast he was a bouncing pinball of feathers and squawks just busting to get free.

  My heart felt just like that.

  My pussy, well that felt like something entirely different.

  Brett shook one of the smaller parcels when he passed by with a load of flattened cardboard for the recycling bin. He pulled a face at the thump of whatever solid item was inside.

  “Maybe he wants to dress up as a rubber chicken,” he told me, with an easy laugh at odds with his hangover. “Maybe he’s been getting farmyard fantasy props. You can be the farmer, he can be a dirty little piggy boy.”

  He snorted and raised his fists as flailing trotters until I rolled my eyes.

  “As if,” I snapped, taking my hangover a whole lot worse than he was.

  “Relax,” he said. “Anything too crazy and I’ll shove the whole fucking truck load up his ass before I kick him out on it.”

  I don’t think he was even joking.

  Late afternoon came and the deliveries eased off. Still there was no sign of our only remaining guest. I took the time to call my sister back home in Gloucestershire, reminiscing about the little yellow bird before letting her know the tides may well be turning on our quiet beach. It was exactly the call I needed to refocus my scattered senses, savouring the prospect of being able to return the couple of grand she’d lent us through sheer desperation a few months back.

  The interaction did me some good. Enough that I made myself a tall latte and took a window seat in the empty bar while Brett busied himself in the cellar. I pinged a few of my old school friends on social media, no longer fearing the moment I’d have to tell them we were bailing on the dream we’d thrown everything into. I browsed other hotels on our online booking portal, seeking inspiration for some choice purchases once the cash was in our account.

  And I stared.

  Up at the stairs he may appear down at any time. Out at the rough white waves through the window as the sun sank beyond, hoping to catch sight of him enjoying the same view with a cigar and flyaway hair. But there wasn’t a sign of him. Nothing.

  I considered calling his extension from the front desk and letting him know about his deliveries, but there was no way he wouldn’t be well aware what was due. I even considered rapping on his bedroom door and offering him them across the threshold as an ice-breaking gestu
re for the day, but I was too scared of his cold stare frying my heart alive.

  Thomas Heath from North London was a very slippery fish indeed. The rum had opened him up enough to tell us about his flash apartment in the city, with its floor to ceiling windows and its twinkling urban skyline. Even now, I couldn’t imagine him with holes in his shoes back at whatever school he trudged along to every morning. London must have been a shitty place to grow up on the breadline. No wonder he’d made it his life’s mission to step up the financial ladder.

  I typed his name into social media, seeing as I was still back and forth trawling my own timeline. I was expecting nothing, just a sea of Thomas Heaths from all over the world, but there he was, right at the top of the listings. One mutual friend.

  I had to blink hard a few times over to make sure I wasn’t losing my mind, but no. It was him. The same cold stare behind his expensive glasses, the same perfect clip of his dark sandy beard.

  I couldn’t believe for the life of me that we had even a single friend in common, but there it was, the name in tiny italics.

  Polly Piper.

  I had to click on her name before I remembered her, and even then the recollection was hazy at best. She’d been a friend of my sister’s once upon a time way back when. In the same school year, the year below mine. A quiet girl with curly red hair and freckles. That’s the only real reason I remembered her. I scrolled through her profile to find she was still living in Gloucester, working at the bakery we used to grab a sneaky doughnut from on the way back home some days.

  How the fuck did Polly Piper know Thomas Heath?

  She had other friends in common with me, but nobody I’d really spoken to in years, just the same sorry batch of school mates you add out of courtesy when their requests come through.

  I pinged through a message to my sister, but she wasn’t showing as online. She rarely was these days. Two kids and a full-time nursing job put paid to that.

  Do you still speak to Polly Piper?