Revenge Sex: A West Coast Hotwifing Novel, Book 1

by Jasmine Haynes

  It was out of the question.

  She gathered the spreadsheets, closed the folder, pushed back from the conference table.

  And he scented on her like a hound dog. Sex. Come. Woman. Her small pendant swung on a thin gold chain. Her cleavage beckoned.

  “Are you all right, Clay?”

  Her words came from far away. There was only lust, desire, her skin, her sexual aroma, and how badly he needed to touch her. He didn’t even feel himself move, yet his hands were on the arms of her chair, rolling her closer, until her knees were between his spread legs.

  “No, I’m not fucking all right,” he growled. Then he did what he’d been thinking about for the last half hour, shoved his hands up her skirt, high on her thighs. “Fuck,” he said through clenched teeth. She wasn’t wearing panties.

  “Clay, what are you doing? Anyone could walk in.” But she didn’t push him away. Instead, she shifted so that his thumb slipped into her heat.

  “I don’t care,” he said, the words guttural. He leaned over her, put his mouth to the creamy skin above her breasts. He tasted salt, he smelled come. He licked her.

  Jessica moaned and held him to her. Clay wanted everything at once, his cock in her, filling her where another man had just been, her nipples in his mouth, his hands everywhere the other had touched.

  Cupping her ass, he hauled her out of the chair and onto his lap. The skirt riding up, she spread her legs over him.

  “We can’t,” she whispered even as he licked her skin, bit her nipple, teased.

  He came up for air. “Oh yes we fucking can.” He was no longer her boss. He was simply a man. Holding her tight against him, he rocked his cock along her center. She’d leave marks on his clothes, a brand. He didn’t give a damn. “He fucked you.”

  “Yes.”

  He shoved a hand between her legs. “You’re so damn wet.” She soaked his fingers as he played her clit. Her body moved, she groaned, clutched him tighter. “Did you call him Mr. Blackwell?” He had to know.

  “Yes.” She rode his fingers, gasping. “I begged him to fuck me.” She put her lips to his ear. “Fuck me, Mr. Blackwell, please fuck me. I need it so bad.” Then her hands were on his belt, working, tugging, unzipping, touching.

  He’d thought he’d die when her fist wrapped around his flesh.

  He caressed her; she stroked him. He entered her with two fingers. She repaid him by reaching down to cup his balls, squeezing, turning him mindless. Mutual satisfaction.

  Then her shudders rippled through him. He didn’t know if it was a full orgasm or simply a series of foreshocks. “How many times did he make you come?”

  “You,” she stressed, “made me come three times.” Then she clamped her teeth on his earlobe. “Make me come now, make me come hard.”

  He went deep inside, his thumb on her clit, his fingers on her G-spot. Her body rode him as much as he fucked her sweet pussy, his cock in her relentless grip all the while. Madness. He felt her contraction around his fingers. God, how it would feel if that was his cock. The orgasm went on and on, shimmying through her body, her scent rising, clouding, intoxicating. He smelled the other man, too.

  He wanted in badly. He should already be inside her, yet with his last micron of sensibility, he remembered protection. He had none. That’s when he clamped his big hand around hers, and with only two more strokes, he covered her sex with his essence.

  * * * * *

  Nothing had ever felt so intimate. Clay rubbed his semen into her mound, her abdomen, concentrating. Jessica pulled his hand up and licked his fingers. Only then did he meet her gaze. There was something in his, a dark thing that called to her, made her want to get crazy all over again.

  “Wear it all afternoon,” he whispered. “Don’t wash it off.”

  “I won’t,” she said with equal softness.

  She’d come in here wanting him to touch her. She’d had sex with Vince to entice Clay. Yet he hadn’t made a move, not the entire half-hour meeting. Until the last moment.

  “You need to go.” His breathing was still harsh.

  “Yes.” She didn’t move. She never wanted to get off his lap.

  “Anyone can open that door. I don’t want them talking about you.”

  In the beginning, she’d been the one who’d mentioned discovery. He hadn’t cared. “No one will know,” she said. Yet her skirt was still pushed up her thighs, her pussy exposed, his cock right there, so very tempting.

  “You can’t come in here covered in come again.”

  Her chest tightened. Why couldn’t he just enjoy? “I have a right to have sex at lunch if I want. You should keep your hands to yourself.”

  He grabbed her chin, forced her head up. “You did it on purpose. That’s why you weren’t wearing panties.”

  She held his gaze steadily for five heartbeats. “I never wear panties.”

  His pupils dilated until there was almost nothing of his iris left.

  “I like being naked under my business suits when no one else has a clue.” She was lying, but it was worth that flare of his nostrils.

  “For Christ’s sake, Jessica, we’re at work.”

  She climbed gracefully from his lap—thank God she didn’t scramble—pulled her skirt down, straightened her jacket and the open neck of her blouse. She’d planned it down to the last detail, the open buttons, the lack of underwear, Vince’s semen, her sexual sweat.

  Damn him, Clay had wanted it all.

  But now he was all zipped up, morphing right before her eyes back into Clay, CFO, boss. She wanted to smack him.

  “Didn’t you ever do Ruby at work?” she snapped.

  “Let’s not go there.”

  Jessica clenched her teeth. “You’re right.” She didn’t want to know anything about Ruby. He’d left Ruby, but he clearly wasn’t looking for a replacement. He’d put her in her place, but it was no more than she deserved. What had she been thinking, trying to seduce her boss in his office in the middle of the day?

  She grabbed her file folder off the table, held it up. “I’ll take care of this.” Then she was off to the door.

  “Jessica,” he said.

  She didn’t stop. There wasn’t nothing left to say.

  Yet back in her office, she could feel the warmth of his come on her, smell him, taste him. And she knew she was hopelessly hooked on Clay Blackwell.

  * * * * *

  Jessica wasn’t going to let the end to Wednesday’s afternoon tête-à-tête get to her. And she wouldn’t let it get to her that Clay was his usual professional self over the course of the next two days. He could turn it on and off so easily. Which meant she needed more extreme measures. She certainly wouldn’t give up—though probably she should—but here was the thing: Clay had said they couldn’t do it at work, not that they couldn’t do it somewhere else.

  So, Friday night, after forty-eight hours of Yes, I should versus No, I can’t, Jessica stood in front of her mirrored closet door in panties and bra. What to wear? She’d left work at five, not a minute later, rushing home to her small condo in Mountain View. She’d showered, done her hair, her makeup, then rummaged through her lingerie drawer to find her sexiest panties and bra. Sure, she’d told Clay she didn’t wear panties at work, but she didn’t have the courage to follow through.

  The laced-edged bra pushed her breasts into an actual cleavage. The black, high-cut panties rode the curve of her butt, not quite panties, not quite thong. She thought they called the style cheekies or some such thing.

  She rolled open the closet door. Think sexy. Most of her clothes wouldn’t do, but there was one possibility. Linda had given her the outfit. Linda used to do her nails before she became a real estate agent. They’d become great friends over Jessica’s nails, until eventually, Linda always scheduled Jessica as her last appointment, then they went out for drinks and dinner. Linda knew all about Vince. When she’d gotten her real estate license, Linda had gone through her closet, changing her style for her new career. The ensemble Jessica chose was el
egant yet sexy, a black silk blouse with the sheer sleeves and a slim skirt that outlined her figure.

  She left the blouse unbuttoned to the center clasp of the bra and fastened an onyx tear-drop necklace that hung down into her cleavage. She completed the look with black high heels and black stockings. She rarely wore them, but they were a staple for any woman’s closet.

  She stood back once more to assess herself. Sexy in all black, Jessica smiled. With her blond waves, she looked absolutely fuckable.

  Now, all she needed was the special perfume that would drive Clay mad. At the hollow of her throat. On her lips. Between her breasts. She had one stop to make. It wouldn’t take long. Vince was so easy. All she had to say was that she had an unquenchable desire for a blow job. She’d steep herself in the scent of sex.

  Clay wouldn’t be able to resist her.

  Chapter Twelve

  Jessica felt a momentary panic when she entered the Marriott’s lobby forty-five minutes later. It was a riot of travelers, dragging roller cases, queuing to check in for a weekend conference or getaway, or lining up at the restaurant’s entrance. The hotel bar was on the other side of a waist-high row of planter boxes filled with ferns and philodendrons.

  The panic hit when she saw Clay through the profusion of greenery, seated in a booth opposite Holt Montgomery. Dammit. They were having a business meeting. Couldn’t they have finished that at work? She growled under her breath. The good thing, though, she’d at least picked the right Marriott.

  She flashed on another idea. Originally she’d planned a full frontal assault on his senses along the lines of what she’d done on Wednesday. But what if she made him think she’d found a man right here? Even better.

  With an exaggerated sway of her hips, she entered the bar without looking in their direction. The booths and most of the tables were filled, yet it wasn’t particularly noisy despite the number of people. The flickering candles were reflected in the glossy black tile floor as she headed straight for the bar and an empty seat on the end. Propping herself on the barstool, she set her large purse—filled with all the necessities a girl needed to totally wow her man—on the floor beside her. Then she smiled at the bartender. Clay’s booth was visible in the mirror. He was looking her way. Perfect.

  “What can I get you?” In his twenties, the bartender was tall, lean, and cute. He’d come to her ahead of the two gentleman already signaling him.

  “A chardonnay, please.”

  “Any particular vintage?” He listed off an impressive quantity.

  The house wine, she wanted to say because she was thrifty by nature, but the occasion called for something special. “What would you recommend?”

  “The Wente is a good bet. They’re a local winery over in Livermore.”

  “I’ll try that one.”

  “Great.” He gave her a smile as he left to fill her order.

  Her gaze drifted to the reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Clay nursed a tall mug of beer. Without his suit jacket, his shirtsleeves were rolled up, his tie missing, and his dress shirt undone a couple of buttons. She drank in the sight of him in his casual repose. Never had there been a sexier CFO.

  Holt talked at him animatedly, his hands cutting through the air. In his early fifties, the CEO was an exceptionally good-looking man, with thick wiry gray hair and gray eyes that saw right through you if you were trying to feed him a load of bull. Though not as tall as Clay, he cut a commanding figure in a boardroom, and she had a lot of respect for him. But she was ready for him to take his leave.

  “Here you go.” The bartender waited for her to try the wine. After she sipped, he tipped his head at her. “Good?”

  “Great.” She wasn’t a connoisseur, but it was smooth and mellow.

  He gave her a thumbs-up, then backed off as one of the guys he’d been ignoring snapped his fingers.

  Twenty-something, or a man like Clay, who was seasoned, successful, handsome as the devil? Definitely Clay. Or someone like Holt Montgomery. Older men were so much sexier. Why Ruby had given Bradley the time of day was a mystery to her.

  Not that it mattered. Ruby had offered Jessica a chance she’d never dreamed of having. She wasn’t a home wrecker, but Ruby had wrecked her own home. Jessica intended to pick up the pieces.

  “Is this seat taken?”

  She startled, holding the stem of the wineglass too tightly and sloshing a few drops over the rim. “No,” she answered the man after recovering.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  She’d been concentrating on Clay and hadn’t realized anyone was near until the man had spoken. “You didn’t,” she said, smiling. “In fact, I’ve been saving that chair for you.” He was exactly her type.

  He raised a brow.

  Okay, maybe that was going too far. She didn’t know how to flirt, especially with an attractive man in his midforties who wore a business suit as if it were a second skin. Add to it the short dark hair with a smattering of gray just like Clay’s, well, in a word, he was exactly what she was looking for.

  And she’d blown it by being too forward. “Sorry,” she said. “That just popped out. I wasn’t saving it, so feel free.”

  He settled onto the barstool. “My lucky day then.”

  Okay, that was a bit flirty. Maybe she hadn’t blown it after all. She glanced in the mirror. Holt was still talking, but Clay was watching her.

  Warmth spread through her belly. She stuck out her hand. “I’m Linda.”

  He shook with a firm grip, warm skin, dry palms, no wedding ring. “Mitch.”

  Mitch sounded real. She didn’t know why she’d given him her friend’s name. “Here on business?”

  “Conference. What about you?”

  Trying to pick up a man so I can excite my boss out of his mind. “Purely pleasure.” She smiled. Then she thought of another game. “Actually business and pleasure.”

  He raised a brow again. “That deserves explanation.”

  “Well...” She glanced around, making sure no one was listening, then turned her gaze back to Clay in the mirror. He was throwing a few bills on the table. Holt pushed them back and threw down a few of his own, then rose from the booth.

  Clay was leaving, dammit. Then Holt gave a mock salute and exited. Clay stayed right where he was. And looked at her. Had he figured out she could see him in the mirror?

  “Well,” she went on, lowering her voice. “I’m a working girl.”

  “What kind of work?” Mitch asked solemnly, as if he’d never heard the term.

  “Wor-king,” she enunciated clearly, then noticed the sparkle in his blue eyes.

  “Ah,” he said, then signaled the bartender. “I think I need a drink for this discussion.”

  The young man was there in an instant. Because of her, she wondered? “Yes, sir?”

  “House scotch on the rocks.”

  Ooh, she liked him. Frugal. Jessica sipped her wine.

  “All right, tell me more,” Mitch said after the bartender left to make his drink.

  “What would you like to know?”

  “Do you come here often?”

  “I make the rounds.” She crossed her legs. He watched the movement.

  “How many people are you with in one night?”

  “Depends.”

  They paused as the bartender set his scotch on the counter. The young man eyed her speculatively before heading to the other end of the bar, where a waitress was waving at him.

  “Cheers.” Mitch tipped his glass to her. “Okay, depends on what?”

  “On how much time a man wants to spend.” So far she hadn’t had anywhere near enough time with Clay. She wanted hours, and she wanted them tonight.

  Mitch jiggled the ice in his glass. “Do you do anything?”

  “Well, yeah. I guess. Like what?”

  “Another woman?”

  She laughed. “Not that anything.”

  His mouth quirked in a half smile. “How about two men at once?”

  She almost gaped,
wondering if he was egging her on. “Not at the same time, if you know what I mean. But together in the same bed.” She thought of Clay. And Vince. One doing this, the other doing that. Her skin flushed with the heat of her imagination.

  Seeing it, Mitch’s eyes glittered like jewels in the flicker of a nearby candle. “And what particular acts do you do?”

  “Um, well.” She sat up straight. “No animals or vegetables.”

  He laughed out loud, catching the attention of the bartender, a couple of men at the bar. And Clay. She was sure he’d drained more than half the beer he’d been merely nursing earlier.

  “That certainly limits things,” Mitch said, then sipped his scotch. “No animals, vegetables, or DP?”

  “DP?” she asked.

  He leaned in close. “Dual penetration.”

  “Ohh,” she said, elongating the word.

  “You really should learn the appropriate terminology for your trade.”

  “I’m very new at it.”

  “Lost your regular job?” He crunched an ice cube.

  “Lost my sugar daddy.” See, she did know some terminology. “But I’ve found someone who’s helping me out.”

  “Helping you?” He had a nice smile, and he was certainly enjoying this, though she didn’t believe for a minute that he was buying anything she said.

  “Yes. He’s my protection. He sits in the bar, watches to make sure I’m okay, has the room all ready, then I give him the money when I come back down.” Oh, Clay would love that role.

  Mitch pulled back. “All of it?”

  “He takes 25 percent and gives me the rest.”

  “Wow. Like an agent.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “The guy in that booth over there.” She pointed in the mirror.

  Mitch turned and looked directly at Clay. “He seems like an ordinary business man.”

  She looked at Clay, too, meeting his penetrating gaze for the first time. “I’d call him the CFO, since he helps me take care of the money aspect.”