Revenge Sex: A West Coast Hotwifing Novel, Book 1

by Jasmine Haynes

  Chapter One

  Her body was lithe, strong, and she worked him from the inside, milked him, turned him mindless. Cat had taken belly dancing lessons a few years ago, and though she’d stopped the dancing, she’d never lost the ability to use those muscles on his cock when he was deep inside her.

  “I want to be fucking you just like this,” she whispered, “straddling your hips, riding you”—she laughed softly, a naughty, sexy sound that tightened every muscle in his groin—“while you’re licking her.”

  Drew squeezed her breast, pinching her nipple hard. She moaned, liking sex with a nibble of pain, loving it when she was spinning him a fantasy at the same time.

  “I want to look down and watch you devouring her pussy.” This time she groaned. Fantasies about other people always made her engine purr louder. But fantasies about their next-door neighbors made his wife come harder than even in the first blush of love when they couldn’t get enough of each other.

  She threw her head back, her gorgeous brown-sugar hair falling over her shoulders. “Oh, Drew, she loves it, moaning, pinching her own nipples.” Cat took him with a faster rhythm, a harder pump, working herself up with her fantasy of their pretty neighbor. “She wants your big hard cock in her, Drew.”

  When she was like this, Cat simply dragged him along. His body quaked and trembled, rising almost on its own to drive hard into her. He grabbed her hips, pistoned deep as she leaned back to give him the best angle for her G-spot. With sharp little stings, her fingernails broke his skin as she braced herself on his thighs.

  “Fuck her,” she cried out, “fuck her hard.”

  Christ, he loved her hot and out of control like this. Then her inner muscles clamped down on him as her orgasm began to ripple through her. She panted, moaned, tightened her thighs along his hips and bucked on him.

  Her climax wrenched his from him, and he shot high inside her, shouting out her name.

  Moments later, his limbs still jerking, he pulled her down, wrapping her in his arms. “Jesus,” he muttered against her fragrant hair.

  “That was so hot, baby. I want us to do her just like that, me on your cock and you with your face buried in her pussy.

  Drew laughed. “God, you’re filthy.”

  She tipped her head back, grinned at him. “And you love it.”

  Yes, he did. “You amaze me.” Cat was special, gorgeous, with a slim, athletic body that made him crazy and a kinky, naughty attitude toward sex that was more male than female. They’d once hired a Las Vegas call girl to watch them have sex. Cat was an exhibitionist. They’d been married for ten years, Cat was thirty-eight, he was seven years older, and their sex life was still fantastic.

  She nuzzled his neck. “I know how much you love licking a woman, and that’s what I want to give you.”

  “You’re too good to me, sweetheart.” He kissed her forehead as if she’d just made him a great meal instead of offered up another woman to him. She honestly did not have a jealous bone in her body. They did a lot of fantasizing, imagining sex with other couples they’d met, threesomes, foursomes. He knew she’d done a threesome before he met her, two men and her, but neither man was her boyfriend. She claimed that doing it with him, her husband, would be entirely different, taking things to a whole new level.

  She stroked his cock to life again. “I just want to make sure you don’t get tired of having sex with me. Men need spice.” She needed spice, and her imagination was fertile with ways of getting it.

  She loved role playing. She’d had him try to pick her up in a bar, pretending they didn’t know each other. He’d practically had to go to blows with another guy that was hitting on her. She’d loved the attention; then she’d fucked him in their car with the bartender having a smoke not ten feet away. She liked it risky, the fear of getting caught, public sex, in the back of a car, a dark bar, once on the hood in a parking garage. She thrived on anything edgy, always coming up with ways to keep their sex fresh. Cat needed to push her sexual limits; she needed fire.

  Six months ago, they’d moved from fantasy into reality. At least they’d tried, meeting a couple off a personal ad Cat saw online. Unfortunately, nothing came of it. The couple was nice enough, married for twenty years, both in their early fifties rather than the mid-forties they’d claimed, and their definition of height-weight proportionate was not quite the same as Cat’s. Ultimately the attraction wasn’t there. Either you felt it, or you didn’t.

  Lying in his arms, Cat plucked at the hair on his chest. “I told Alexis that we always hot-tub in the nude.”

  Drew chuckled. “What did she say to that?”

  He felt Cat’s shrug. “She just gave me a look.”

  Tomorrow they were heading out for Tahoe where they’d rented a house close to the lake for a week. And they’d invited their neighbors. Logan and Alexis Hart had moved into their Saratoga neighborhood a little over a year ago. Alexis was a controller for a Silicon Valley microwave radio manufacturer, and Logan was CEO for a San Francisco-based Fortune 500 company. Like Drew and Cat, they had professional careers, double incomes, and no kids to tie them down. They’d gone from backyard barbecues to dinner and card games that lasted long past midnight. Now this, a week-long Tahoe vacation for some hiking, lake fishing, relaxing. And, if Cat had her way, some very kinky games.

  “I’m dying to see how you’re going to bring up the subject of sex,” he mused.

  Cat puffed a breath across his chest. “We’ve talked about sex before.”

  “Sexual innuendo and jokes. It’s not the same as asking her if she’d like me to...”

  “Make her come with your tongue.” Trust Cat to finish the thought. “Don’t you worry. I’ll find the perfect opening to get the ball rolling.”

  “I’m sure you will.” His wife was out there, known for saying exactly what was on her mind. “What about Logan?”

  She outright snorted. “He’s not going to be any problem at all.”

  Drew had to agree. He didn’t believe Logan was a player, but the man had certainly gotten into the sexual innuendo thing with vigor. When Cat suggested strip poker instead of their regular game of Hearts on one of their card nights, Logan had jumped at the idea. It was Alexis who nixed it. She was a petite, pretty, blue-eyed blonde with sexy curves and mouth-watering breasts, but she was on the shy side, far more reserved than Cat. Drew liked her well enough. She was smart, funny, your basic all-around nice girl next door with the ability to really listen to what a man said, not just lip service. So to speak.

  If Alexis didn’t want to play strip poker, there wasn’t a chance in hell she’d get down and dirty in the hot tub. Therein lay his main reservation about the whole idea; it could backfire and screw up a damn good friendship.

  Cat tweaked his nipple, getting a rise out of his cock. “What if Logan wants a taste of me if you get a taste of his wife?”

  Drew had always known that any kinky play they engaged in wouldn’t be just Cat watching him. She had a downright insatiable appetite for more, more, more. He had no illusions about what he was agreeing to. She would be doing whatever he did and probably a hell of a lot more, but when they finally had sex with another couple, he knew she’d make it totally hot. Maybe he was being led around by his dick—Cat usually managed to get exactly what she wanted—but he’d do it. And suffer the consequences, if any, later.

  Trailing a hand down her abdomen, he delved between her legs, stroking her clit. She was wet and warm. “I’ll be jealous as hell,” he muttered.

  Logan was a couple of years younger than Drew, a few rungs higher on the corporate ladder, CEO of a billion dollar company to Drew’s VP of Engineering for a medium-size software maker. With reddish hair, green eyes, and a gym-toned body Cat had mentioned a lot more than once, Logan was a good-looking guy.

  Cat pushed him aside. “Oh baby, you make me so wet when you get all he-man.” She masturbated for him. He loved to watch. “But if you get her, he’ll insist on having me.”

  “Yeah. He’ll beg to
spread your gorgeous thighs.”

  She moaned, getting herself worked up again with her fantasy scenario. He knew Cat. It was kinky sex, not the man himself that she needed. She wanted the package deal, a foursome. Drew didn’t have to be jealous, but he knew a little jealousy added to her sexual high.

  The real truth? He didn’t know how he’d feel. Fantasizing about other men fucking Cat made him explosive in the heat of the moment. In reality, there might be a whole different set of emotions. He couldn’t be sure which ones he’d succumb to until they actually did it.

  He started down her body, kissing her belly, her mound, then crawling between her legs. “Is this what you want him to do, baby?” He put his tongue to her.

  “Oh yeah.” She moved sinuously. “I want your cock in my mouth at the same time. I want to come on his tongue while you come down my throat.”

  She rose swiftly to climax, her body trembling. Cat loved her fantasies. She cried out, clamping her legs over his ears as she came hard. Drew loved how hot she made herself. He had no doubt that soon, very soon, she was going to make the fantasy into reality.

  He just hoped it wouldn’t mean the end of a good friendship with their neighbors.

  If you enjoyed this excerpt, here’s where you can buy Kinky Neighbors

  Other books by Jasmine Haynes:

  FreeFall

  Beauty or the Bitch

  Past Midnight

  What Happens After Dark

  The Principal’s Office

  Take Your Pleasure

  Take Your Pick

  Try a sample of Jasmine Haynes’s Max Starr Series, an erotic paranormal mystery romance.

  Thirty-something, down-on-her-luck accountant Max Starr has the unfortunate gift of being psychic, a newly-discovered wrinkle in her already messed-up life. Her husband, Cameron, is dead, killed in a botched 7-11 robbery two years ago. She’s cut herself off from friends, moved out of her San Francisco home in favor of a studio apartment, and dumped her flourishing career as a CPA to do temp work.

  And now Max has developed an annoying penchant for attracting the spirits of murdered women. Okay, they possess her. And to exorcize them, Max must unmask their killers. But how?! By stepping into the void their deaths created, taking their jobs, befriending the loved ones they left behind. Max goes wherever she has to go and does whatever she has to do, with a lot of help from the ghost of her late husband Cameron and hunky and very enticing Detective Witt Long.

  Excerpt from Dead to the Max, Book 1

  Copyright 2010 Jasmine Haynes

  Cover design by Rosemary Gunn

  Prologue

  She’d dressed in a long, black skirt and white blouse, flawlessly pressed. She was perfect. The perfect daughter, perfect wife, and perfect employee.

  Tonight she longed to be the perfect lover. They’d stolen quick, furtive moments together, but this was the first time she would have all night with her lover. Her body hummed, with anticipation, with guilt, with fear.

  She’d parked her silver Maxima in the farthest corner of the San Francisco International Airport long-term lot, then caught the shuttle bus to the terminal building. She’d done everything he asked. Except wait outside the terminal. She wasn’t supposed to pace in front of the arrivals monitor, trying to decide if she liked the anxiety, the foreboding.

  She slipped her wedding band and sapphire engagement ring into the inside pocket of her leather purse. His plane was five minutes late. Checking the arrival time for his flight one last time, she crumpled the bit of green paper with the flight information he’d given her, threw it on top of an already full trash can, then walked to the lounge area to take a seat.

  His gaze swept her as he stepped off the escalator outside security, and her heart sank to the toes of her sensible pumps. The glare he shot made her tremble. Was he pissed? Had she ruined everything?

  Two confused, blank-eyed children clung to his big hands.

  His estranged wife met them, ready to take his kids from him.

  He neither kissed nor touched the pretty, plump blonde. Her sole purpose was to pick up the children after they’d returned from a visit with his parents.

  His hands now empty and his bag slung over his shoulder, he walked several steps behind them. His wife chattered at the children and ignored him. Clusters of travelers engulfed them until they disappeared in the throng surrounding the baggage carousel.

  She lingered in the waiting area another ten minutes, then rose, dragging her leather purse up her arm to her shoulder, and headed for the front doors, a lump in her throat. Once outside, she stood at the curb for the next long-term bus. He was at the other end of the island, the way they’d arranged. His wife had unknowingly played into the scheme, telling him she’d pick up the kids but he’d have to take a taxi.

  She wondered why he and his wife still played this silly game.

  The night had cooled. Her silk blouse was thin, but the heat from rumbling buses swept beneath her skirt and set her on fire. She could feel the hot lick of his gaze as if twenty feet didn’t separate them, his anger and desire a potent combination.

  Need, hunger, dread, and excitement formed a squirming package in her stomach. Butterflies. Spontaneous combustion.

  He sat in the back of the bus, she in the front. They neither spoke nor looked at each other. The ride to long-term was the longest ten minutes she’d ever known. Finally they turned down her aisle. She couldn’t believe she was doing this, couldn’t imagine stopping it now. Wouldn’t stop it even if her life depended on it.

  She exited from the front of the shuttle, he from the rear, the overnight bag now in his hand. Pulling out her keys, she pressed the remote alarm.

  The bus pulled away. Her heart hammered.

  His bag was on the ground beside them and his hands were up her skirt before she had the car door open.

  He dragged her into the back seat. She spread her legs over him, straddling his thighs. The roof of the car scuffed her hair. Tugging on his zipper, she took him in her hand. He sucked in a breath; in the past, he’d always initiated. There wasn’t time to fish the condoms out of her purse. When she slid down onto him, he groaned, but he didn’t take his eyes off her face.

  She’d never been so wet, so vocal, or come so willingly in her life.

  Three power-thrusts later, he came.

  She screamed.

  * * * * *

  She screamed out her orgasm. Tears gummed her lashes and rolled down her cheeks. Hands circled her throat. From the floor of the car, the rumpled bit of green notepaper, the one she’d thrown away, taunted her, and the empty condom wrapper shouted her shame. How had it come to this?

  In that moment, before fear gripped her, before instinct took over, when her guilt was strongest, she welcomed Death. Welcomed it as the life was choked from her, welcomed it until her eyeballs ached and colors exploded behind her lids. Until blood from her bitten tongue leaked down her raw, bruised throat. And then her body fought for survival.

  She tore at the fingers, shrieked, twisted, kicked, scratched, and punched. And still she couldn’t drag in a breath. Terror fisted around her heart and squeezed. Fear of death. Fear of life. Fear like she’d never known. Not even the night someone put a bullet in Cameron’s head.

  Max Starr woke clawing at her throat, Cameron’s name breaking the thrall of the dream. Blood drummed in her ears. Her heart pounded against the wall of her chest.

  But she could breathe. Oh God, she could breathe, sweet, clean air smelling of early morning, green leaves, and hope. She was here, in her bedroom, where she belonged. Safe.

  “Are you all right?” Cameron’s voice, not spoken but inside her head, comforting, familiar, the way a dead husband’s voice should be, the only way a crazy, grieving widow should hear her husband’s ghost. But she’d have given anything to feel his arms around her right now. For real, not just in the erotic dreams he brought her.

  Sometimes fantasies weren’t enough.

  Like now, when her throat still a
ched. She lightly caressed the flesh, her fingers cool, her skin tender with residual effects of the nightmare.

  “It was a dream,” she murmured for both their benefits. Maybe her worst nightmare--except for that night two years ago when Cameron was killed--but still just a dream. After a deep inhale, then a long sigh, the tension dribbled out her fingertips and the soles of her feet.

  Physical, reality-based sensation returned--sheets tangled around her legs, her back stuck to the cotton. She pushed the bedclothes aside to let cool air from the open window blow across her naked body. In the elm outside her window, the stray black cat gave a pathetic mewl. She shouldn’t have fed it yesterday, but knew she’d do the same thing today. Her racing heart eased into a steady, normal beat.

  “That was a vision, Max, not a dream.” Cameron’s voice again, always with her, inside her.

  It had been his name that woke her. It wasn’t part of the dream, vision, whatever it was; his name was something she’d interjected into a reality that didn’t belong to her. Even now she sensed remnants of another’s strong emotions inextricably linked with her own.

  In the dark corner across the room, dear departed Cameron’s eyes flashed. Despite the two years since his death, those glittering points of light, all she ever really saw of him, still gave her a little jolt, part excitement, part fright. The red tip of his spectral cigarette glowed. He’d loved them when he was alive. They’d been the death of him in the end, not by cancer, but by gunshot at the corner 7-Eleven where he’d gone to buy his last pack.