Tryst

  Now more than ever, I want to go to him. But not for sex. I just want to hold him, make him believe that he’s not alone. But wouldn’t that be another lie?

  “You’re not sorry for that.”

  He lifts his gaze to mine and I see just a glimpse of that vulnerability now. It’s the same look he had in his hotel room. The same one he wore inside the tiny airplane lavatory. But just as quickly as I catch it, it’s gone. “No. I’m not. Do you want me to be?”

  I tell him what he needs to hear because I don’t want to hurt him. I tell him the truth.

  “No.”

  Strained silence crawls all over our midnight-drenched skin like sleepy, little spiders. We stare at each other, waiting for the other to break the trance with a blink, but it never comes. Finally, Ransom releases me by looking away. But he hasn’t retreated. No. In the shallowest of breaths, he’s in front of me, leaning over me, pinning my body between his bare chest and the high back of the chair.

  “Ransom . . .” It’s not even a whisper or a moan. It’s a sigh. Something done out of reflex.

  “I’m not touching you,” he drawls, fanning warm mint-flavored breath over my face. “I promised I wouldn’t touch you, and I won’t.”

  “Then what are you doing?”

  “Smelling you. Seeing you. Trying to let my other senses do what my hands can’t.”

  He lifts a hand from the chair and slowly brings the back of it just mere centimeters from the bust of my nightgown. I open my mouth to protest, and he shushes me.

  “I won’t touch you. Trust me.”

  With that, he runs his hand up to my collarbone, so close that I can feel the sun on his skin. With maddening patience and restraint, he lets it travel down down down, until it stops at my breasts. I can almost feel him there, grazing my nipples with his knuckles, running his thumbs over them, pinching them between his fingers so that heat collects in my belly and slithers like wet paint between my thighs.

  “Look at you. Look how you respond to me . . . not touching you.”

  I peer down to see that my nipples are hard and straining through two layers of satin, staring at him with pleading eyes. He chuckles lightly and his hand is on the move again, this time roaming over the expanse of my belly. Then he sits on his knees and leans back on his feet, letting both his palms hover over the tops of my thighs.

  “I promise you, I won’t touch you. Even if you beg me to. I want to prove to you that I can do this, that I can kick this habit. I want to prove it to myself.”

  His hands move down to my knees, and he makes a slow sweeping motion, willing them to part. And dammit, they do. I do. I open this door. I unlatch Pandora’s Box. He gave me the power to reject him, offered it to me from the tips of those massive, callused fingers, and I didn’t do it. I gave it back to him. I relinquished my willpower, my body, my soul to him, even without his asking.

  I’m a bad wife. And an even worse publicist. But with my sex opening to him like delicate cherry blossom petals at full bloom, I am neither.

  I am his.

  At first, his hands just hover over my thighs, trailing a slow, languid path from my kneecaps to the fabric that covers my swollen clit. Over, between, even under, he teases me with his phantom touch, haunting me with his heat. I need him to touch me, but I can’t bring myself to beg. And even if I did, I know he won’t anyway. He’s enjoying this too much, dark mirth flickering in his heavy-lidded gaze. He’s showing me that he could drive me crazy without even touching me. That even if I never give myself to him again—and I won’t—he can still affect me. He can still fuck me whenever he wants.

  “Lift your nightgown,” he commands, his voice gruff.

  I tell myself that I won’t but my hands are already sliding down my hips and bunching the soft fabric. I fist the satin until the hem disappears inside my palms and cool air meets the heat of my sex.

  Ransom looks down at it—at me—and sucks in a strangled breath. I watch him as he bites his lip so hard that it turns white under the pressure of his teeth. His fingers skim the air over my mound, trembling, pleading. Maybe he’s not as strong as he thinks he is.

  “I won’t touch you,” he rasps, persuading me and himself. Yet, his hands come dangerously close to making contact. So close that I can feel him brush my short, soft hair at the very center, causing me to gasp.

  “I won’t touch you.” He says it like he’s a dying man and this is his final plea. He repeats it again and again, making it his personal mantra. And while he denounces his carnal needs, he begins to shift. Down. His body is moving down between my thighs until his face is aligned with my pussy.

  I’m afraid to move, afraid to speak. Just the barest flinch, and my clit will be against his mouth, my lips on his, falling into an unintended kiss. So I watch him watch me, not breathing, waiting for him to decide if he’s going to be a liar tonight.

  He inhales. Deeply. He sparks me up, takes a hard drag, sucks me inside his body. The perfume of my slickness coats his nose and throat before he consumes the tiny molecules of my arousal. We moan together, pulling on a double-ended joint of lust and loneliness, letting it take us higher than high. We see the ceiling, know we should stop, but we’re going too fast. And there’s no guarantee we’ll be able to break through and survive the impact.

  He scents my sex a half dozen more times, his reaction to my fragrance growing more vehement with every lungful. I’m so wet, so potent, that I can smell myself too, which only makes me ache more. That coupled with his hot breaths on my even hotter clit and the illicit sounds he makes in the back of his throat, and I know it won’t be much longer. I just need a little more . . . just a little more.

  His moans morph into whispered words, and I still my own whimpers and the beating of my heart to try to make sense of it. Even through the pounding of blood in my ears, I hear him loud and clear.

  She’s an angel without wings

  Sent down to earth to destroy me

  Fucking me so religiously

  Take me to hell, you lovely, damaged thing

  I thought I may have imagined it before.

  That night we spent together in his suite, me flat on my stomach, him inside me, his belly pressed to my ass and his lips on my ear.

  Ransom sang to me . . . is singing to me. Fucking me crazy with the magic of his tongue without physically touching me at all. I won’t make it . . . I won’t last like this. And if I give in to the stinging current this time, if I let him own yet another of my orgasms, will I ever be able to find my way back to the surface? To my marriage? To Tucker?

  I know I look as ridiculous as I feel as I push his face back with trembling hands and scramble from the chair, careful not to touch him any more than I have to.

  “Heidi . . . I’m sorry,” he stammers from the floor, but I just shake my head, unable to hear it. Because I’m not sorry. Not in the least. But I know I should be.

  “It’s ok. I . . . I just need to go.” I pull my robe around me tighter, the move only adding more friction against my already tingling body. “I have to go,” I repeat. But it takes nearly twenty seconds before I regain the function to even move.

  I run away from the scene of the crime and nearly barrel through the door of the Reflection room. I catch Tucker stirring on the bed out of the corner of my eye, but I can’t stop to acknowledge him. That would only make this worse.

  I slam the bathroom door behind me and lock it before falling into it in exasperation. The very second my fingertips meet my slick, swollen clit, the silken flesh quivers. I dip inside to wet my fingers, I stroke the hardened knot that pulses with its own heartbeat, and I fuck myself so violently and desperately that I don’t even hear someone approaching the door until a knock nearly makes me yelp.

  “Babe? Are you ok?” His voice is groggy, concerned, but not skeptical.

  “Yeah,” I manage to whine. I bury two fingers deep inside me as far as they will go. I thrust so hard and fast that it almost hurts. I bite my own lip until I taste blood, ensuring tha
t it does.

  “Something wrong?”

  “Not feeling well. Be there in a sec.”

  I feel it coiling inside me like a deadly snake, its venom trickling down my hand and sliding down my thighs. So wet I add another finger. So wet I feel like I could drown myself.

  “Ok. Well, hurry back to bed so I can take care of you.”

  There it is, pulsing wildly as it swells so much that it pushes my fingers from my body. I fight for control, needing that pressure, needing to burst that bubble with the blunt tips of my nails. It’s so full and slick that I can’t keep a steady rhythm. Yet, I can’t . . . I can’t . . . stop.

  “Ok . . . ok. I’m coming.”

  And I do.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  My husband holds my hand, our fingers coupled together, and brings my knuckles to brush over his lips. We walk down a long hallway housing a half dozen different rooms that service different purposes. I knew Justice’s place was big; I just didn’t realize how big it was. This much real estate in New York would literally cost an arm and a leg. And probably a kidney too.

  “Here we have the studio where we instruct couples yoga every morning, as well as a course on tantric sex three times a week,” Justice states very matter-of-factly, waving toward the space that looks like . . . well . . . a fitness studio, with its hardwood floors and 360 mirrored walls. A class is in session right now, and both men and women are propped into a bridge pose, their pelvises jutting toward the ceiling.

  We follow him down the hall for a few yards until we come across another door. “Here’s the theater room. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what’s projected on the screen. The seats are cleaned and sanitized after every viewing.”

  Tucker and I take in the plush, oversize loungers that are made for two. The room is draped in darkness, setting the tone for naughty fun in a forbidden place. Makes sense. How many people have messed around in a movie theater with a boyfriend or girlfriend? How many guys have let their hands snake up a girl’s skirt to stroke her clit while she held a giant popcorn bucket in her lap as cover?

  When we come to stop at another room, boasting twin, raised platforms, each skewered with stripper poles, Tucker lets out a low whistle. “Strippers, eh?”

  “My friends Candi and Jewel host two interactive shows every week,” Justice explains. “How many couples have fantasies that revolve around a strip club? It’s a multibillion dollar a year industry, so obviously, the demand is there. The problem is that too many spouses reject them, seeing it as something vile and degrading to their marriage. But, in reality, they are just as intrigued by what goes on behind those doors, and their hatred comes from a place of fear. So not only are we bringing it to them, we’re teaching them how to re-create this experience in their own bedrooms. And we encourage them to enjoy it for what it is—entertainment.”

  I watch Tucker’s expression as he nods in appreciation. Of course, this is no shock to me. I already knew the two strippers were on the payroll. I’m just pleasantly surprised by all that Justice has accomplished with his new training program within a few months. I try not to get into the details with him, considering that I can’t spin what I don’t know. So information is usually offered on a need to know basis. And before now, I didn’t think I needed to know any of this stuff.

  Justice waves in the direction of a pair of doors as couples pass us wearing nothing more than navy blue bathrobes etched with the Oasis logo on the breast pocket. “Through there you’ll find the spa area, both male/female, and coed. Indoor pool, hot tubs, steam rooms, tables for intimate massage, plus a separate entrance to the outdoor pool. And down through here is the . . . communal play area, if you will. We call it the playground. Either you play fair and safely, or you don’t play at all.”

  “Play area?” I frown. This is news to me. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Let me show you.”

  Justice leads us to the door in question and pulls out a key, also tied with a satin ribbon. This one is black, alluding to the dark desires that harbor just on the other side. He unlocks the door and steps aside to let us in first. While the lighting is dim, I can clearly make out a descending staircase.

  “Go down. You’ll come to another door. Also locked,” he instructs from behind us, his tone all business.

  We do as he says, maneuvering our way down the cramped staircase. It’s narrow so Tucker and I must part grasps, him taking the lead as my husband and protector. When we reach the end of the staircase, Justice comes to stand before us, his back to the door protectively.

  “Now before I open this door, I want you to understand something: No marriage is created equal. There’s no handbook, no set of rules and regulations. And in this day and age, people are just trying to hold on to the love that initially sent them down the aisle. They’ve learned to improvise . . . explore. Experiment. And I allow them to do so in a safe, non-judgmental environment where discretion is the golden rule. Any and everything you see behind this door will probably shock you. It may even scare you. But you will refrain from condemning the people that choose to be proactive in their marriages versus succumbing to society’s opinion of what their relationships should be. You won’t find routine within those walls. You won’t see rigidness or censure. What you’ll find is freedom and happiness and, yes, love. Because it takes an immense amount of love to selflessly give your partner what he or she needs sexually. That is one of the greatest sacrifices one can give to another.”

  With those words, Tucker and I lock eyes and lock hands, just as we were before. However, I hold on to him a little tighter, hoping he can still my trepidation, and I feel just how incredibly grateful I am that he is my husband. It’s no secret that this may be uncomfortable for him, yet he’s here anyway. He’s always here, always patient. He’s the perfect husband, yet I have been a less-than-perfect wife.

  We both look back at Justice and nod our agreement. He turns around and places the onyx-laced key in the lock.

  The first thing that hits us is the noise. The bass is so heavy that I can feel the vibrations through my chest and the tempo is sinuously provocative. It’s like the quintessential sex mix tape, and not just any sex either. Nasty, messy, kinky sex. And that’s exactly what surrounds us at this very moment.

  Large beds are scattered around the room, some canopy (to hold up a variety of chains and cuffs), some round (because apparently, they fit more people), and others rotating (providing a 360 view for . . . everyone). Aside from the three of us, everyone is naked, or wearing the same blue terry cloth robes I saw earlier. The same ones hanging in our en suite bathroom. Come to think of it, I recognize a few of the participants from just minutes before when they disappeared into the spa.

  I try to withhold my gasp, or what Justice would call it—pearl clutching, but there’s just so much . . . sex. Like on every surface, every platform. Even against walls and from ceilings.

  There are men and women on huge wooden crosses, naked and shackled, some with gags in their mouths. They moan and writhe as their lovers perform humiliating acts on them—whipping them, caning them, even pouring hot wax on them. And while many of them cry out, I find that they are not cries of distress, but cries of pleasure. They love it. Some even beg for more.

  I spy at least three sex swings suspended from the ceiling as well as a half dozen oddly shaped lounge chairs that are being used for anything but lounging. There’s a scene merely feet away from where we stand, where a woman is being impaled from behind, her upper torso draped over the chair in a way that gives her lover maximum depth. I hate to admit it, but it looks incredibly hot. So hot that I’m mentally strategizing all the positions that chair would allow.

  There’s not just hetero sex going on in here either, even with people I am positive lead hetero lifestyles. On one of the round beds, there seems to be some kind of conga line of sorts. A man is fucking a woman from behind while her face is pressed between a woman’s thighs. Another man fucks her mouth while he eats a man’s ass. A
nd that guy is balls-deep in a young man who looks no older than eighteen. And that’s really not the most shocking scene around the room.

  Reluctantly, I look over at Tucker and find his eyes fixated on the group sex scene. I can’t read his expression, and I so desperately need to know what he’s thinking. He’s never had an aversion to homosexuality—hello, we live in NYC—but he also has never made me think that he could be into other guys. That night with Ransom, as he watched with his dick in his hands, was as close to kink as he’s ever gotten. And maybe that’s what did it for him . . . not watching me get fucked, but watching another man. Maybe that’s why he came harder than I’ve ever seen him come. Maybe that’s why he seemed so buoyant and sexy. Justice said that one of the greatest sacrifices one can give their spouse is giving their partner what they need sexually. What if Tucker doesn’t need me? Maybe I can’t physically satisfy him? Would I be willing to let him experiment with another man?

  Tucker must feel my hand tense as that realization gnaws at me, and looks down, a mixture of haughty desire and fear on his face. “What’s wrong?”

  I shake my head and return my gaze to the crowd. Now I realize why the music seemed so ridiculously sexual. It’s being remixed by real life moans and mewls.

  “Any questions for me?” Justice asks. “And before you say No, I’m not buying it. Everyone should have questions. And I’m glad to answer them.”

  I look up at the gorgeous man to see that he appears nonplussed. All this must not even phase him. I guess being around it day in and day out makes you pretty immune.