by Mariah V Fox
Copyright © 2020 by Mariah Fox & Orange Rock Publishing
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
We sit in the corner of the dusty old bar, so many green decorations hanging from the ceiling that it looks like a leprechaun barfed all over the place. St. Paddy’s Day, the quintessential Boston holiday, everyone out in Celtics gear and ridiculous green hats. My husband wears neither, just a chubster in his pants as he rubs my hand over his crotch under the table. It’s absentminded but it’s getting a reaction out of Little Elliot nonetheless.
“What about him?” he asks, pointing to the tall ginger in the corner, chugging an Irish Car Bomb like a frat boy.
I shake my head. “No, too expected. A redhead on St. Patrick’s Day, really, El?”
I press my hand firmer in his lap. “I was thinking someone more like him. In the red shirt.” My pussy quivers as I point to a gargantuan man holding court by the bar. Now, I wouldn’t mind seeing what he has under the hood. I bet his bangers and mash are out of this world.
I stand to make my move and hear the audible whimper as I remove my hand from my husband’s cock. This isn’t our first rodeo. Not by a long shot. In fact, it’s become our game over this long hard winter to find other long hard things to occupy my time. Sometimes Elliot watches, other times, the adventures are for me alone.
“…And just like that, all my fantasies of climbing that beanstalk are dashed. Girlfriend, two o’clock.” She’s a tall blonde, all sass and class in a tightfitting black skirt. I have nothing on her shocking amount of cleavage and mile long legs. Mile and a half if you count the heels.
Besides, I’m not in the habit of stealing other women’s men. Just because my husband’s very good at sharing, doesn’t mean that other people share the sentiment. Maybe if I asked nicely. What? She can watch. Better yet, I would absolutely let her hold the camera. She wouldn’t have to wear her clothes either, maybe it would actually get me to the Pilates class Elliot’s sister keeps begging me to attend with her.
I plop back on my seat, feeling my shocking amount of cleavage dance. I can’t believe I left the house in this... this thing that basically amounts to what I wore to bed the first time I seduced my husband. Of course, I’m not an animal, I wore jeans over it. Or, you know, the weatherman basically forced me to. This is Boston, remember. It’s March. My clit has frostbite just thinking about it.
“Patience, Brooke. We just got here. We have all night,” Elliot says with a twinkle in his eyes. This man seriously never doesn’t have a sparkle in his irises. I have never seen him as happy as the last few months have made him. It’s fucking sexy as hell.
“I know, you’re right, it’s just–”
“Go get a drink at the bar, see if anyone catches your eye. I’m not going anywhere.”
I know if I can count on one thing it’s that my husband will be sitting right in this very spot, watching my every calculated move as I scope the place out. Elliot’s dependable, nothing if not trustworthy, precisely why we embarked on this hotwife journey in the first place.
I know, I was shocked when he brought it up too, but honestly, I was too turned on to turn him down. He’s still so excited each and every time we score yet another helpless victim that we barely make it home before he’s fucking me in the back of a cab or on the T or… There was one time on an escalator. Don’t ask. I got off three times though so I’m not going to go complaining about the location. If you’re wondering, it was broken. It’s not like we were riding it to the top, hopping off and going back down, although there was some going down if I recall.
My knees wobble as I curse the damn stilettos I forced my feet into. If my ass didn’t look like a 19-year-old in them, I’d be wearing some comfy flats from PriceCut. Honestly, the same could be said for the green lingerie I have under these jeans, riding so far into me with every step that they’re about to give me a hysterectomy.
I spot him, pitch black hair, brown eyes the color of midnight, sitting alone at the bar. I’ve spotted my next victim, and I’m poised and ready to strike. I turn towards Elliot but he’s already eyeing up the competition, hand rubbing furiously under the table in his dimly lit corner. I need to stop calling them victims, that makes it sound like I’m going to wind up on a true crime podcast.
I’d be worried about the state of his pecker if I didn’t know that even with all this activity, it still pales in comparison to how much he wanked it that first year of college. Or the year we got our apartment and he finally didn’t have roommates. Or probably every year leading up to the last couple of our marriage where things started to settle down, sexually. Then he shared his fantasy with me and his poor standing soldier is begging for one last tour of duty on the frontlines. I shoot both of them a little wave over my shoulder as I straddle an impossibly high barstool. Seriously, why do they make these things so tall?
I order a pint of Guinness, brushing him as I walk by, making sure those gorgeous peepers are locked on me raising the beer to my lips. I’m going to pretend it’s chocolate milk or flavored iced coffee, something more… appetizing. Here goes nothing.
I purposely let the foam linger on my upper lip. I watch a lot of romantic comedies, I know it will work. He’ll lean in to wipe it off and it will be an amazing meet cute where he’ll be fantasizing about children with his hair and my eyes and I’ll play hard to get until he just about gives up before I finally relent. Don’t expect that ending from this encounter, you know, ’cause I’m already hitched, but that’s neither here nor there. This will go an entirely different way, straight to my bedroom.
Only, he looks away without so much as indicating for me to swipe my hand across my mouth. Huh. Well. That didn’t go as expected.
Tall, dark, handsome and apparently rude as hell. That is not the spirit. See if I let you plow my potato fields, or kiss my Blarney Stone, or whatever the hell else you do in Ireland. Did I really just waste $6 on this swill? And not to mention my best pickup tactics. There’s only so many times you can pull out that trick, the first sip of each drink and I am not spending any more of my hard earned money on this chocolate beer. Blech!
I think I’m pouting when I catch the eye of a gorgeous espresso brunette passerby. He indicates to his mouth and it’s only then that I realize I’m still wearing a foam mustache. My heartbeat heads considerably lower as he reaches for a pile of napkins on the bartop. All bets are off. Manners get me horny every time.
He stops and stares as I blot my lips with a napkin, half of my ridiculously expensive lipgloss coming off with it. His cheesy grin has me about ready to ride his face right here. Seriously, could he get any cuter? 5’10”, broad shoulders, jeans that hug his bulge like whoa. His eyes are up there but damn, I’m not fucking his eyes.
I gulp as I scan back up his body to his face. The sexy smirk that overtakes it when I meet his gaze makes me pull my bottom lip from between my teeth and go for it.
I lean in for the kiss, heart pounding wildly in my chest. If I thought this was going to get easier as time went on, I’ve been sorely mistaken. Each and every time I approach someone new, my heart hammers like it’s going to jump right out of my ch
est and run through the city without me. To be fair, that might be the only exercise it gets, and it would be valid to just do it for the workout.
His lips are rough and chapped, like he works outside in these harsh Boston winters. His kiss is strong, arms wrapping around my waist, definitely strong, especially as they slide down to cup my jean covered ass.
I let out a yelp as the stranger lifts me from the floor by the butt, not taking his warm, full lips off me. Without me giving them permission to, my legs wrap around his waist until I can feel his trouser snake on my warm, ooey gooey center. He’s turning me into mush as he makes my clit palpitate to the beat of his tongue in my mouth. I feel myself riding his hips like we’re already naked. I have never been kissed like this before, that is for sure.
“It was the shirt, wasn’t it?” he asks, finally pulling away what must be a minute later. “It worked.”
I have no choice but to smile at the Irish accent. “I have to admit, I thought the graphic tee was false advertising, ‘kiss me I’m Irish,’ but you really are, aren’t you?”
“Guilty as charged,” he says in that beyond sexy Irish brogue. My lucky green panties are sopping wet. “Finn McCue.”
“Brooke,” I smile, taking his outstretched hand, not offering a last name. He doesn’t need to know it. This is for one night, if he even gets that lucky. Okay, who am I kidding? Judging by the kiss he just planted on me, he’s going to get four leaf clover lucky! Repeatedly. Over and over again.
“Do you come here often, Brooke?”
It’s not a pickup line, he’s serious. We’re at a bar downtown, a place I can safely say I wouldn’t step foot in any other day of the year.
“I’ve never been, actually. Just stopped by to check out the scenery,” I flirt.
“Oh, like what you see, I trust?”
I grin, chugging the ridiculously thick beer as fast as one can chug Guinness. “Very much so.”
He doesn’t mention my wedding ring and I don’t bring it up. It’s part of the game now, the ring. Not once has it deterred anyone from hitting on me, from kissing me or from taking me to their bed. I’m betting the same will happen tonight as Elliot watches with his pint of green beer.
He likes to sit across the room while I flirt, likes seeing other men pick me up just to know that he is still taking home a desirable woman. It keeps him powering through the days hunched over the computer until the next time he can have me.
The bartender slides us each a whiskey and I know without looking over my shoulder that they’re from my husband. He knows whiskey makes me frisky and tonight will certainly be no exception.
“We didn’t order these, did we?” Finn asks, looking at me with this stupid grin on my face. “I was just about to order another pint of the black stuff.”
“We did,” I laugh, twirling my mousy brown hair around my finger. Maybe, just maybe, if I’d bit the bullet and let my stylist talk me into auburn highlights, I would be an Irish dream that Finn would never forget. I could play into that fantasy for a bit. “But I could get you one of those, whatever it is.”
His smile warms my entire body, especially the parts between my legs, crooked and cocky. He doesn’t have to get affirmation from me that this is a sure thing and I’m pretty sure he knows it has very little to do with his charming accent.
“Guinness. What you’re having. Not really your thing is it?”
“Ick. No. It’s actually kind of gross. Do you drink this stuff all the time? It’s like you dumped a mocha latte in a pitcher of beer and you taste all the grossest parts.”
He kisses me. Instead of being a civilized human and carrying on a conversation, he sticks his tongue in my mouth and…
He’s showing off. This is amazing. If my outfit weren’t so damn tight it would be falling off me right now, begging him to continue his tongue action south of the border as I sat on the bar in front of him. And all these strangers. And my husband. I have a feeling it would be worth it.
I slide closer to him, careful not to fall off the stool and land on the floor. Landing in his lap wouldn’t be that big of a hardship but, knowing me, I’d miss his strong thighs and impressive crotch and land on my face on the polished concrete floor. He’d have to take me to the hospital and have my teeth retrieved from my stomach and, let’s just say, there’s no going back from that.
I rest my palms down on his thighs and lean into his mouth, letting his hands wander along my lower back. If I weren’t wearing a skintight lace bodysuit, he’d have his fingers on my skin right now. I could really go for that.
“So, are you from the city or just stopping by?” he asks, finally pulling away for a breath.
“I live a few blocks over, walked here actually. Does that get your motor running?” I’m so close I’m sure he can feel my breath on his face.
He laughs, bringing the glass to his lips to take his first sip. He’s surprisingly delicate with it when I thought he’d take it in two gulps. Maybe that bodes well for his performance in the sack. If he’s slow and meticulous with his drinking, maybe he’ll be the same way with his eating. Yes, I rolled my eyes at myself. That, right there, is why I think before I speak.
“What about you, just visiting or are you a Bostonian too?”
“No, just stopping by. Headed to Vancouver for a bit. Got some work on a TV show that films there. Legal Vigilance. Don’t know what channel it airs on in the States. Ever heard of it?”
I almost squirtgun whiskey out of my nose. That shoots me upright real quick. Heard of it? I may or may not have banged the lead actor on a rooftop across town on Halloween.
“Might have heard of it. Aaron Callahan and I, we’re on a first name basis.”
He doesn’t know how to take it, doesn’t know me well enough to know if I’m kidding and I can’t help but tease him a little more.
“He might call me Princess though, so if you get a chance, ask him about Halloween.”
I don’t elaborate. I don’t want him to think that this is an ongoing thing in my life. I mean, it is, but guys don’t need to know that. They like to think they’re the only ones you’ve stepped out on your husband with, they certainly don’t need to go comparing themselves with Aaron Freakin’ Callahan. If they’re comparing dingalings, there would certainly be an uptick in the sale of penis enhancing drugs. Let me tell you that.
Finn looks intrigued. Not just by the story, by me. He looks like he wants to read my mind and it’s driving him crazy that he can’t peg me.
“Can I get you another?” I ask, making a mental note to cut myself off after this one. If this is me when I’m barely tipsy, you do not want to see me when I’m drunk. I will make a fool of myself and end up sobbing on the bathroom floor after telling you my life story. You will know more than you ever wanted to know about the hotwife lifestyle and the shape, size, smell and taste of a dozen dicks that I have been able to indulge myself in since I started it, give or take. I should probably make a list, you know, to reference back to. There could be a size comparison and a tally of how many times they made me cum and–
Finn’s laughter interrupts my thoughts. I can’t tell you if he answered my invitation for more drinks but two have suddenly appeared in front of me.
“If you have a coat around here, I’d love to take you outside. There’s something I’d like to show you.”
Please tell me it’s in his pants. I would kill to see what’s in his pants. I don’t say this of course, I’m trying to play it cool, instead, I point to my kelly green peacoat on a peg by the door. Words aren’t working for me right now and if I say anything, I’m damn sure going to make an arse of myself.
“Lead the way,” he chuckles, helping me from the barstool and to my feet, immediately slipping his hand into my back jeans pocket. Whatever he has to show me, I will willingly go see.
I shiver as Finn leads me to the street, pointing up towards the skyline that we can barely make out from here. It’s lit up green, copious amounts of clovers and emerald lights reflect back
at me.
“It’s beautiful,” I sigh, resting my head on his shoulder to steal some of his warmth. His hand is still in my back pocket so I go for his, sliding my fingers into his impossibly tight jeans. His ass is unlike any I’ve ever felt before, so soft and squishy, perfectly filling out those designer blues.
“All those bevvies keeping you warm?”
I nod, hair falling onto his chest as I try not to shiver. Truth be told, my core is on fire, it might just be my extremities that are freezing. Save for the hand in his back pocket, I feel like I could turn into a Brook-sicle at any moment.
“There’s more on the other side, through the alley. If you want to bobble on over.”
His hands begin to rub circles on my asscheek and I get the idea this little adventure was more for privacy than actually seeing the Irish pride of Boston.
“I’ll go anywhere you want to take me.”
He grins but doesn’t say anything, just squeezes my booty tighter as he leads me towards the alley. Now, don’t go picturing a sketchy, trash filled corridor, it’s actually meticulously clean. Sure, there’s a dumpster but it smells like fresh baked bread from the bakery that shares the alley. The cobblestones are–
I nearly fall on my ass. High heels and cobblestones, this city is not made for walking.
“Hold on there,” he laughs, squeezing me tighter around the waist as I squeal. “Am I going to need to carry you?”
“What? No. I am perfectly capable of walking.” Am I?
“Are you? You look like you’re ’bout to fall on your arse.”
“It sounds so much better when you say it. Arse. Arse. Arse.”
Finn backs me against the wall and lays a panty dropper on me. He’s right, if he wasn’t holding me up, I would have fallen flat on my bloody arse.
I can’t breathe as he kisses me, calloused hands removing themselves from my backside to wander under my coat. A shiver runs through me, this time, not from the below freezing temperatures, as he fiddles with my jeans zipper. I fight the urge to stop him as a mob of drinkers exit the bar a mere twenty feet from us. Instead, I kiss him harder, pushing my coochie closer to him as he struggles.
