Tryst

  When a bell chimes, signaling that we should all reconvene in the ballroom, the husband, Frank, looks at Tucker and I and asks, “So . . . do you two swing?”

  We look at each other. Look at them. Then back to each other.

  Do we? Is that something that we’re in to?

  I can see Tucker struggling for words—something diplomatic and PC. Me, being the public relations beast that I am, beat him to the punch.

  “While that sounds lovely, Frank, I think we had something different in mind tonight. But you two have fun.”

  “Well, that’s too bad. We were looking to get a little naughty with you both. See you in there.”

  With an accepting nod and a smile, they turn toward the ballroom, leaving me with my still speechless husband.

  “Wow.” He blinks out of his trance and reaches for the last of his scotch. “I didn’t . . . I thought they were just nice people. I mean, we were talking sports. Never once did I think he was interested in sleeping with you.”

  “Or you.” I smile before leaning over to brush my lips over his jaw. “Come on, you handsome devil. Let’s go play in the lion’s den.”

  The space has the feel of country club cocktail party meets underground sex club. The clientele is varied, ranging from their late twenties to their fifties, and now that I see them with their clothes on, they all seem so normal. No different from Tucker and me. No one seems outwardly inappropriate or overly sexual. And if Justice hadn’t entered, with a dozen beautiful, young singles at his flank, I wouldn’t believe that every one of these married couples is battling their own sexual deviances even if you paid me. But then again, within these walls, there is no such thing as a sexual deviance. Only freedom to express and love and feel. Freedom to be who they are, not society’s picture of the perfect pair.

  No one here is perfect. And for some reason, that brings me a little comfort.

  I notice that Ransom isn’t included in the roundup of guest stars, as Justice called them, and that also reassures me. Maybe Justice had a change of heart? Or maybe Ransom just wasn’t interested in hooking up with someone else? Either way, after a glass of bubbly, I find myself loosening and chatting with the other partygoers.

  “Heidi! This must be Tucker,” Ally says as she approaches us, a beaming smile on her face. “About time we meet. I was starting to think our girl made you up.”

  To his surprise, she knocks away his offered hand and hugs him like an old friend. I’m actually shocked to see her here, considering Justice makes it a point to keep her away from all of this. Not to keep her in the dark—complacent and oblivious to his dealings. But to protect her. With Ally’s background and growing up the crème de la crème of the Upper East Side, she may very well know some of Justice’s clients. And in order to avoid any awkwardness for all parties involved, she stays a good distance away. It’s not like she doesn’t know what his job entails. She was one of his star students, after all.

  “So, Heidi, did you hear who was going to be here tonight?” she asks, turning her attention back to me.

  I open my mouth to feign ignorance when I am instantly stunned into silence. Actually, the entire room falls from a jovial roar to a hushed quiet when Ransom enters it, wearing all black from head to toe, a crown full of sexily mussed hair and confidence like a damn war medal.

  I think I hear her squeal something to the effect of, “OhmyGodheissofuckinghot” but I can’t be sure. I’m so completely disarmed by him that I can’t hear anything outside of the rapid pounding inside my chest. I don’t know if I should be seriously worried for my health or exhilarated by his mere presence.

  He doesn’t see me at first. Or maybe he does and just won’t look at me. I can’t deny that things were left in an awkward space the other night when I ran from his room, embarrassed and aroused. We took things too far, and I’m afraid we’ll never be able to retreat from that.

  I know I’m being watched, analyzed, so I take a sip of champagne and turn back to my husband. Ally gives me a quick peck on the cheek and focuses her energy on greeting all the couples, between stealing kisses from Justice when she thinks nobody is watching. And I try my damnedest to act like I’m ok with this. More than ok. I’m downright stoked about the prospect of having to watch my young lover/client fuck someone else while my husband and I get busy doing the same. It just seems like too much. Too much at one time. And I don’t think I’m ready for that.

  Reading the panic in my expression, Tucker leans over and whispers in my ear, asking if I’m ok. I tell him yes. Then I tell him the truth.

  “Tuck, I don’t know about this. Doesn’t it seem like we’re moving too fast too soon? It’s just . . . maybe we should talk about this before something happens that one of us isn’t prepared for. Something that could seriously affect our marriage and our feelings for each other.”

  Translation: I need you to tell me if you want to sleep with a man, so when it happens, I’m not totally caught off guard. And I need to decide if I can be ok with that, and not see you differently.

  I mean, could we stay married if Tucker hooked up with a dude? And what if he liked it? Doesn’t that make him gay or bi or whatever? That’s cool with me. I’m just not so sure it should be cool for my marriage.

  “Relax, baby. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. Ok? Here, try this.” He flags down a server holding a tray of miniature glasses, all smelling of strong liquor.

  “What the hell is that?” I cringe, accepting the shot glass. It’s a shimmery, iridescent liquid, unlike any alcohol I’ve ever seen. It smells sweet, but is still potent enough for me to know that it packs a punch.

  “Easy. It’s just a little something to help you loosen up. I figured you might need something a bit stronger than champagne. Go ahead—drink up. I promise, you’ll be one hundred percent fine. I am a doctor after all.”

  I look down at the mystery pearlescent elixir in my glass then up at his charming smile, and shrug. It’s one shot. What’s the worst it could do? And like he said, he is a doctor. He’d never give me something that would potentially harm me.

  I put the glass to my lips and tip it back, letting the cool tang of the liquor slide down my tongue and ease down my throat. It feels warm in my tummy, yet icy on my tongue. And I instantly know that it was a tad bit more than just alcohol I consumed.

  Tucker leans in to kiss my temple and whispers, “That’s my girl.”

  The more we talk and smile and laugh, the more I drink and the less apprehensive I feel. I’m so relaxed that I’ve almost forgotten that Ransom is here. Well. Almost.

  “Tucker. Heidi. Good to see you tonight.” He grins when he approaches, totally catching me off guard.

  He shakes Tuck’s hand then turns to me, mischief gleaming in those dark eyes. Then, in slow motion, he leans in and kisses my cheek. But his lips land closer to my ear, giving him the perfect opportunity to rattle me with his words.

  “You look fucking delectable tonight. Good enough to eat,” he half groans for only me to hear. Then as he pulls away, his lips run over my cheek, leaving behind a trail of flames that seem to flare and scatter throughout the rest of my body. I think I thank him. I can’t be sure though.

  After that, something in the evening air shifts. Not just for us, but for everyone. Voices dip into hushed whispers. Eyelids lower into sultry, hooded gazes. Wine and spirits are still present, but it seems as if the servers and their silver trays have been dismissed. Which is smart; Justice is a stickler when it comes to overindulgence and consensual sex. Oh so easily are those lines blurred, opening the gates for speculation and damaging claims, not to mention valid accusations. It’s just not good for business.

  I watch as couples pair up with other couples or singles. They huddle together as if they share some salacious secret that just begs to be told. This is what they came for—to meet others like them. Not only to share their varied interests, but also to explore them . . . enjoy them.

  I feel eyes on me . . . hear whispers inquiring whethe
r or not we’re available for play. When the crowd begins to thin out as people make their way downstairs, I cling to Tucker like my life depends on it. Oddly enough, he seems oblivious to the obvious interest we’re garnering.

  “Hey,” he coos softly, kissing the crown of my head. “How about we just go down and watch? No pressure. We don’t even have to take our clothes off. We don’t have to do anything at all.”

  I look around the room and instantly lock eyes with Ransom, who is surrounded by two couples and even a few singles, all vying for his affections. With his statuesque frame, he easily peers over the horde, gazing at me with perplexity. Maybe he feels it too—this uneasiness. This doubt. Maybe we’re not cut out for kink. Or maybe we’re just not cut out for it with anyone else.

  That can’t be true. It won’t be. Not anymore.

  I look up at my husband and give him a slight smile, stowing my apprehension for the sake of this beautiful, loving man. I don’t get to worry about Ransom’s feelings. I don’t have the right.

  “Sure. Let’s go.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  There’s a sort of out of body sensation that one experiences when they step out of their comfort zone and do the unthinkable. It’s as if you take on another life, switching from existing as the executor to the bystander, watching, anticipating, but not really feeling. Your body feels pleasure, but mentally, you check out. If you don’t, reality will creep in, shattering the illusion and allowing insecurity to slither its way into you like a black oil serpent. And once it settles inside you, purging its disease, you realize that you weren’t just witnessing this depravity. You were living it.

  At least that’s how it is for me.

  We do as Tucker suggests. We watch, we talk; we bite our lips in fascination and desire. And when our own feelings of arousal become too intense to put off any longer, we touch. In front of a room full of people, all of whom are too caught up in their own sexual exploits to give a damn, I let my husband touch me.

  It’s almost chaste at first—a brush of my hair off my shoulders, a soft kiss on my neck, a gentle caress across my collarbone. And while I am somewhat tentative of each touch, my body betrays just how much this experience has truly affected me. Watching people kiss, fondle, lick, suck, and, oh yeah, fuck, is hot as hell. And the carnal, ruthless part of me craves that too. To be kissed, fondled, licked, sucked, and fucked. Desperately. In any and every way I can get it.

  We settle on one of the unoccupied odd-shaped lounge chairs, which is barely wide enough for the both of us. It’s a good central location, giving us a view of the entire room. At every angle we hear people moan and gasp in pleasure. We see them testing the limits of their sexual restraint before thrusting into it headfirst. We even smell the arousal in the air, mixed with the scents of strategically placed jasmine and lavender candles.

  All of it creates a heady cocktail of seduction that tempts my senses yet soothes my trepidation. So when Tucker leans over to kiss my lips, I don’t hesitate. I open for him, allowing his tongue to sweep into my mouth to taste the remnants of champagne and strawberries. I let his body settle over mine, even open my legs as far as they will go in my skintight dress. And I’m not even going through the motions now. I’m enjoying it. I’m present for it. That is, until something nudges me in the back of my head. Call it a hunch or intuition. Maybe it’s my body’s animal instinct. But I know Ransom is here. And I know he’s close, yet not close enough.

  I open my eyes, but I can’t see much more than Tucker’s face. His legs are on either side of the chair, the part of it that’s enhanced with a smaller wave than the one my head rests on, and my ankles are hooked around his ass. He gives me his sexy smile—the one that means he wants me. The one he once used only on designated sex nights. But here we are, deviating from the routine. Doing something so out of the box for us that I can’t understand how it ever existed. How were we ever placated with mediocrity? When both of us are so extraordinary in our professional lives? Shouldn’t we be mad, ravenous beasts in every sense of the word?

  His lips fall to my throat, and he kisses and sucks a path down to my chest. I don’t object when he tongues the tops of my breasts so he takes that as an invitation to slide the straps of my dress down. When I arch into the movement, he goes a step further, sealing our fate and completely taking us from playground spectators to contributors. He pulls my dress down until it gathers around my ribcage, exposing the hardened peaks of my breasts.

  His gaze flickers up to mine as he slowly lowers his face to a pebbled nipple, taking it into his mouth, stroking the stiff bud with the flat of his tongue. I squirm under him, part of me self-conscious of prying eyes and part of me turned on beyond belief. This is different from our time with Ransom. Having Tucker watch me with another man was off-the-charts amazing. But now there are potentially more than two-dozen people watching us, watching the man I love suck and lick my nipples the way he knows I like it, and that . . . that’s beyond incredible.

  I fist his soft hair, drawing him nearer, begging him with my body to lick faster, suck harder, and Tucker reads me like a book, giving me exactly what I need. When I feel his teeth squeeze my inflamed flesh, I don’t even hesitate my moan. I just let it live in this space, in this time without apology, just like us.

  The fabric of my dress eases down farther, stopping at the lacy waistband of my thong. It feels too heavy, too hot on my blistering skin, and I want it off me. Tucker doesn’t waste a single second yanking it over my stomach and hips when I lift my ass from the lounger. I fumble with the buttons of his shirt, needing him to feel what I feel—this heat that can only be extinguished with the brush of another’s flushed skin, and he aids me in my efforts by yanking it over his head. I move down to the belt of his slacks, then the clasp, until he is just like me—nearly naked in his underwear and exposed. Vulnerable.

  Our lips lock as if we have just discovered our weakness. As if we are Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, post apple. Only the discovery of our sin does not hinder us. It only rouses us, making us crave this evil more. Creating a hunger inside that can only be sated with more wickedness.

  He pulls his lips away only to lave my breasts once more before moving down to my navel. He swirls his tongue inside the tiny dip, kisses a trail from hipbone to hipbone, and then nibbles the edge of my panties. I know what he requires: permission. A sign that I want this to go further. That I want to do this as badly as he does. Tonight is in my hands. I can say no, and we can keep this right where it is—safe. Or I can raise my hips a fraction, allowing him access to my nakedness, and open the door to everything my marriage was missing before. Excitement. Danger. Passion.

  His underwear meets mine on the floor almost simultaneously, and we are skin to skin. Nothing between us—no secrets, no fear, no frustration. Just me and my husband, as it should be.

  There’s nothing safe about the way he touches me after that. Nothing gentle about how he pushes my back into the rounded chair. Nothing sweet about how he grips my thighs with enough force to score my skin, and spreads my legs as far as they will go, causing a cool blast of air to touch my wetness. I groan as he sits up and slides his palms to my ass. And when he aligns his dick with my slick entrance, I moan his name, begging him to take me now, fuck me now. And I don’t have to beg for long.

  He fills me in one swift, hard stroke. With the position this chair allows—my pelvis tilted and my body curved, I feel him deeper than ever before. We stay locked like that for a long time, him barely thrusting, our joined sex grinding together, as we kiss passionately with uncontrollable hunger. When his hips finally flex and he pulls out just a bit, I shiver with the need to feel him again. That depth, that warmth. His body completely submerged in mine.

  He fucks me then. Not his version of fucking. Not the soft-core shit I sometimes find on his computer. My husband fucks me how I need to be fucked. Hard, fast, and violent. Like he hates me. Like he needs to fuck the disgust and loathing out of me for all these years of discontent. All th
e years of shame and frustration. And for all the ways he couldn’t love me how I needed to be loved because of what had been done to me.

  I think I always knew where the root of our problems stemmed. It was in fear. Fear of hurting me both physically and mentally. Fear of him feeling like the monster that had stripped me of my dignity and robbed me of the privilege of being a mother. We were both so scared for so long that there was no more room to feel anything else. We had built our home on an eggshell foundation, and we tiptoed around the truth, hoping that all we had constructed would not crumble under the weight of our own selfishness. And here we are, taking a wrecking ball to that home. Crushing it, dismantling it, together.

  When I rake my nails over his chest, he answers me by plowing in harder, hard enough to make me yelp with pain. It doesn’t stop him. He leans over to take a nipple in his mouth, his strokes still deliciously brutal, and bites the puckered bud before sucking nearly my entire breast into his mouth like a starving infant. I pull his hair, telling him to take more, telling him he’s a greedy bastard, and he moves to the other breast, assaulting that one as well. It’s only when he comes up for air that I realize that we’ve slid to the peak of the rounded chair and Tucker is standing, his fingernails digging into my ass, his cock so far inside me, I can taste the first drops of his release just begging to be freed.

  I gasp for air, the oxygen in the room suddenly becoming too thin, yet thick with lavender-tinged smoke. My chest heaves wildly and sweat rolls between my breasts, making my nipples harder than diamonds. They ache with the need to be touched and pinched. Bitten until the pink peaks become red and raw. I reach for Tucker, searching for him to anchor me, feeling so high that I may float away if he doesn’t hold on. He grabs on to my shoulder with one hand to level his strokes, and wraps the other around my throat.