Tryst

  “These people are all married. So are these couples sleeping with other couples? Seems like it could get kinda messy.”

  Justice nods and glances out into the crowd. “We bring in people who are willing to participate, people that are well versed with this lifestyle. Some are professionals. Some just want to guest star for fun. However, this is not sex for hire. All of my employees choose who they play with. Just because they are here, that doesn’t mean they are obligated to fuck you. We hold weekly mixers so the couples can get acquainted with our featured players. Sometimes they connect with someone and decide to take it further. Other times, they just like to come here to have sex with each other.”

  “Wait. So there are singles here too? Staying here on the compound?” I try and fail to keep the alarm out of my voice. That was my only saving grace—knowing that Ransom was surrounded by married couples. It would be much less likely for him to sleep with anyone while we’re here. And yeah, while I know he fucks other women and it is none of my business, I definitely don’t want to be sleeping a few doors down from it.

  “They all go through a strict screening process,” Justice explains. “All STD free and bound under airtight contracts. If they even whisper about this place in their sleep, they forfeit every dime they’ve ever made and will ever make for life.”

  I nod like he’s eased my reservations, though I feel even less confident. Ransom could fuck whomever he wanted, and there’d be no risk of it ending up in the tabloids. This would be like an all-you-can-eat buffet for him. And, of course, the women that I suspect are “guest stars” are all insanely gorgeous and youthful with their round, full breasts and high, perky asses. Perfect.

  “Let’s take a look around. If we stumble upon something that intrigues you or confuses you, we can stop to dig deeper, no pun intended. Shall we?”

  I look at Justice’s expectant guise and offered hand, then turn to my husband. Oddly enough, he looks as if he’s waiting for me to decide too. As if he’s already made up his mind.

  I give each man a shaky palm and stiffen my spine, steeling every nerve within me. “Ok. Let’s do this.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  I haven’t been able to sleep for two nights since the day we got a glimpse of Justice’s playground. I thought I was ready for it. Thought that it was just what we needed to open up the conversation for our marriage and our sex life. But all it’s done is leave me even more confused and obsessive about our issues.

  I can’t get the look on Tucker’s face out of my mind. He looked so fascinated, so engrossed in every single devious act. Several times he would just stop and watch, chewing that full bottom lip with wolfish delight. It didn’t matter who was involved—men, women—it seemed oddly interesting to him.

  We stopped to witness a couple masturbating on the bed. Their eyes stayed locked on each other as they pleasured themselves, and when they came, they did it together. It was as if they didn’t even notice us standing there watching. Like they didn’t give a damn. They were the only two people that existed in their world. Tucker gave them each his attention equally. I assumed most straight men would keep their eyes pinned on the woman and the way her fingers slipped through her slick, pink folds, but he was just as enthralled in the way the man pumped his thick cock and massaged his balls simultaneously. It was . . . unnerving. And I found myself watching my husband, instead of watching the couple’s intimate show.

  There were several group sex scenes—threesomes, foursomes, and all-out orgies. Those seemed to be his favorite. And while I found them so hot that it left a wet spot in my panties, I couldn’t stop speculating why he seemed to find them so enticing.

  After our tour of Oasis’s underground bedlam, Justice gave us homework—a series of questionnaires that would keep us busy for hours, which I was grateful for, considering I was trying to avoid Ransom at all costs. The motive was to have us be honest about our wants and fantasies, and even discuss them candidly. I shouldn’t have been surprised when Tucker checked Yes for sex involving others, but I was. Which was so fucking hypocritical of me considering that we’d already come to that bridge, crossed it, and were considering just burning the fucker down altogether.

  As awkward as it was, we did speak about our expectations . . . sorta. He talked, I listened. He asked questions, and I deflected. The process—which should have been informative and fun, even—was frustrating, and none of it was his fault. I brought him here. I asked him to have an open mind. Now I was being stubborn that he’s willing to try things my way. Be careful what you wish for, and all that jazz.

  Still, I would have rather been caught up with my feelings about me and my husband’s potential alternative lifestyle rather than what was really eating me up inside. I didn’t want to see Ransom, which was pretty easy to achieve considering the size of the compound, yet I missed him. I missed him like he was a million miles away rather than mere yards down the hall. I missed him like he had been my best friend for years and we talked every day. I missed him like he was mine. And none of those reasons made a lick of sense, but that didn’t keep me from wanting them to be true.

  I can’t deny that I’m worried for him. Well, worried for me. Ever since Justice revealed that there were singles here that were down for pretty much anything, I’ve been a nervous wreck about what he could be getting into—quite literally—now that I’m not in the picture. I mean, let’s be honest, I was never in the picture. He was still sleeping with women before and after me, and rightfully so. But I don’t need to know about it. I don’t need it flaunted in my face, wearing a goofy, satisfied grin and messy, just-fucked hair.

  Because of all the random ridiculousness swirling in my head, I’ve been bitchier than usual. Tucker’s been trying everything—suggesting yoga, classes, movies, even a playful couple’s game night—but I’ve shot him down at every turn, feigning work situations that needed my immediate attention, or—you guessed it—cramps. And every time, he’s shrugged his shoulders and taken it like the gentleman that he is, even bringing me pain meds on occasion.

  I stand out on our balcony, overlooking the pool area where nearly a dozen couples splash around and mingle jovially. They all look so normal, so happy. You’d never guess that one is a state senator who likes to get fucked in the ass while eating his wife’s pussy. Or one is a Food Network TV personality who likes to be shackled and blindfolded while her husband whips her until her skin is raw then force-feeds her decadent cakes.

  I watch these people and I both envy and loathe them for being able to accept who and what they are, and have the strength to act on it. I thought sleeping with Ransom was my way of owning my sexuality. A way for me to feel empowered by letting another man screw me into the mattress in a haze of violent passion. It was my way of taking back control—giving the finger to the sick fuck who stole from me. Yet, here we are, more than a decade later, and he’s still taking from me. And I’m letting him.

  I decide that I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep letting my bullshit hang-ups affect my marriage. It isn’t Tucker’s baggage to carry, yet I keep placing it on his shoulders. And being the man that he is, he takes it without complaint.

  I love him. God, I love him. And there will never be another man better than him. There will never be another man who will put up with my mood swings and my bickering and my sexual complications. There will never be a man who was born to be a father, yet has sacrificed that need within him for the woman he loves. I’ll never find a man who loves me harder and fiercer than he does. And if there is something that I can do to show him just an inkling of the gratitude I feel for him, then it’s my duty as a wife to do it.

  I go back inside my room and gather the folder containing the questionnaires and contracts, looking over the details one last time. Then I slip on my sandals and make my way to the room that Justice uses as his office. It used to house the files of his many clients and gave his concierge a place to work, but now he actually uses the thing. Something about separating his work life fr
om his home life, aka life with Ally.

  I find that he isn’t in when I pop my head in so I place the documents inside a sealed envelope and leave it on his desk with his name on it. I’m not worried about anyone nabbing the file. After what I saw in that dark den of sin, I have enough dirt to start a dust storm on Mars. We’re all in the same boat here, and I feel oddly confident that these walls are pretty silent after last year’s debacle.

  I’m turning back to my room, deep in thought about the decision I’ve just made, and contemplating where we go from here, when I nearly take someone out while rounding the corner.

  “Oh! Excuse me,” I stammer, but I’m only met with a deep, throaty chuckle.

  Of course. Of course, this would happen now.

  “Heidi,” Ransom smiles, one corner of his mouth reaching higher than the other.

  “Ransom. Hi.” I clear my throat and touch my hair nervously. “I hope all is well. Enjoying your stay here?”

  He nods. “I am. Thank you.”

  I take in what he’s wearing right now—board shorts, flip-flops, and a sleeveless tank. There’s a towel draped over one arm, and a very familiar navy blue robe on the other.

  “Going for a swim?” I ask, trying to school my voice into something that resembles nonchalance.

  “That’s the plan. I heard there was a spa around here with an indoor pool and a couple different specialty rooms. Thought I’d check them out. Should be fun.”

  My mouth drops and my eyes grow in size. I mean to respond but no sound comes out. Not even a peep.

  Ransom is going to the spa. And he’s got that terry cloth robe with the Oasis insignia on it. It could be innocent fun or it could be something else. And if it is—if he is going back there for more than just a massage and a mud mask—it won’t be just to watch. Ransom is going to play. And I can only imagine that he’d be the shiniest, most enticing new toy on the playground.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Things are in motion.

  The contracts have been approved. The questionnaires have been evaluated. And Tucker seems to grow more and more excited by the prospect of going through with this. The mixer is tomorrow night and that’s where we will meet other couples and singles that are like us. So I’m not surprised when I receive a text from Justice, asking me to meet him in his office. Maybe he’s had a change of heart. Or maybe he can see through my bullshit, and is ready to call me out on it. Part of me hopes for the former, but is more confident in the latter.

  When I arrive, he doesn’t look angry or annoyed, which totally puts me on guard. Justice Drake without a sneer screwed onto his face? This must be serious.

  “I wanted to ask you something, and I need you to be totally honest with me,” he says as soon as I sit down, not even bothering with pleasantries. “Do you have feelings for Ransom?”

  I almost choke on my own saliva, so completely caught off guard by his candid inquiry. “What? Why do you ask that?”

  “Because I need to know before we go any further. I need to know that your heart will be in this one hundred percent.” He leans forward, digging his elbows into the tops of his knees and steeples his fingers in front of a proud, prominent chin smattered with a thin dusting of stubble. “So tell me, Heidi . . . Is there something there with him? Other than physical attraction?”

  I think about what he’s asking me, taking a beat to let the question permeate my initial, guarded reaction. Do I care for Ransom? Well, of course I care about him. He’s my client. And I’m not so cold that I can’t feel for someone I’ve shared such intimacy with. But beyond that—if sex were never that magnet between us, drawing us to each other on the most basal physical level—would I want him? Would I feel the same yearning inside me that keeps me up at night, imagining my hands are his hands as I touch myself while lying beside my sleeping husband?

  I don’t know.

  I don’t know what I’d feel for him.

  “No,” I answer, knowing that is as close to the truth as I’m going to get. It’s necessary. It’s a lie, yet a necessary one.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course, I’m sure. It’s not like that between us. Sure, that night we shared was hot, but I love my husband. And I want to make sure this works with him. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

  Justice nods and sits upright. “Good. I’m glad to hear that. Because he’s coming to the mixer.”

  “What?” This time, my disbelief is much more evident. “Why would he do that?”

  “Because he’s a young man with a crazy libido. Because he’s single. Why not? He’ll be here for the next week at least. You think he hasn’t got an itch that needs scratching? Especially when he’s surrounded by sex every damn day? Besides, I’d rather him get his rocks off in a safe, consensual environment than fucking around with one of the wives on the low.” His eyes narrow just a fraction, making those dark aqua eyes look downright villainous.

  “But I thought the program was for couples only. How could you possibly allow him to engage in . . . whatever . . . with other married people? He’s not a professional. He’s a musician. Surely, this can’t be healthy.”

  Justice shrugs as if my words have just hit an iceberg without so much as a shiver. “My house, my rules. Besides, I think this will be a better solution, considering . . .”

  “Considering what?”

  I can see him weighing his words in his mind before simply shrugging again. “He’s agreed to it. He’s even looking forward to it.”

  I bite down the urge to label him a liar along with some very colorful adjectives, and I shut my trap. Ransom agreed to this? He wants to go to this mixer? To meet other couples to potentially play with?

  I feel sick to my stomach. This can’t be right. Ransom wouldn’t do this . . . to me. He knows I’ll be there with Tucker. How does he expect me to just stand there and watch him charm and flirt his way into some other couple’s bed?

  I know it’s ridiculous of me to feel any type of possessiveness, but fuck that. He came here with us. He knows us. And if he’s going to screw anyone, it will be us.

  Us.

  Shit.

  Why didn’t I see this coming? If Tucker is interested in exploring his sexuality, and if I’m going to try to support him in that, could I really consider Ransom as a possible candidate? I mean, shit, I don’t even know if he swings that way, but I know plenty of musicians that do. Artistic souls are different. They’re all about feeling with their whole body, without labels or restraints. I could name a dozen rock stars that live totally normal, hetero lives but have swam in the male pond a time or two. It’s no big deal. But when it comes to Ransom and my husband? It totally fucking is.

  “Heidi? Hey, you all right?”

  I startle at the sound of my name and focus my dazed eyes on Justice’s face. “Huh?”

  “I asked if you were okay with that. With Ransom being there, and potentially coming down to the playground.”

  What could I say? No? After just telling him that I have no feelings for Ransom? Yeah, I could chalk it up to a conflict of professional interest but he’d know that’s bullshit, considering he’s my client too. And hell, what if Ransom has already been down there? He said he was going to the spa. Was that code for something else entirely?

  “Sure. Of course I am.” Liar. I am such a fucking liar. “Whatever he wants to do, it’s none of my business as long as it doesn’t make any waves in the press. Other than that, we’re good.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.” Justice nods, and I take that as my cue to get the hell out of his suddenly cramped office. He doesn’t stop me, but I feel that intense blue gaze on me even after I’ve disappeared from view.

  I head straight to my room and have unscheduled sex with my husband. I even come. I just can’t tell who it was who owned my orgasm.

  THE MIXER IS held in the ballroom after dinner. Most of the couples choose to dine together, laughing and bonding over succulent meats, buttery shellfish, and rich wine. We’ve taken our meals in
our room since we’ve been here, but Tucker insists we go down and join the group. “How will we connect with these people if we don’t interact with them?” he says. “We don’t want to come across as unapproachable.”

  He’s right, of course. He’s always right.

  So I slip into a sexy, black Herve Leger number that hugs every inch of my slight curves, slide my pedicured feet into Valentino, and let my fine, white-blonde hair fall down my back in soft waves. When I step from the bathroom, my makeup on and expertly accessorized, Tucker nearly drops the glass of scotch at his lips.

  “Wow. Baby, you look . . . wow.”

  “Do I seem approachable?” I ask, doing a spin move so he can see the dress’s deep dip in the back. “Does this say, ‘Hi, we’re the DuCanes. And we’d like to get kinky with you’?”

  He laughs at my jibe before coming to stand before me, close enough that I can feel him growing in his slacks. “You’re saying that and so much more, Bunny. But, seriously, don’t even think about it like that. We don’t have to invite anyone to jump into bed with us. There’s no rule that you can’t be completely monogamous while on the playground. I saw plenty of couples that only had sex with each other, and that’s completely fine for me.”

  “But I thought . . . ?” Wait. So he doesn’t want to experiment? He doesn’t want to have sex with a . . . ?

  “Let’s just see where tonight takes us. No rules, no plans. Let’s just see. Hell, we might just call it a night and end up here alone with some more of Riku’s key lime pie.”

  I nod in agreement. Maybe that’s for the best. I can’t see myself wanting to explore with some random stranger. And I damn sure don’t want to watch Ransom doing the same. I don’t think I could take it.

  Dinner is fabulous, as expected, and we end up sharing a table with a couple from Cleveland. They don’t tell us much about their lives back at home other than being part owners of the Cavaliers, which, of course, steers the conversation to basketball and whether or not LeBron will lead his team to victory. The guys chat stats while the wives chat about new movie releases and handbags. Just easy, casual conversation.