Tryst

  For a second I wonder what his motivations could be. Do I really know Tuck? Sure, we’ve been together since I was in undergrad, nearly ten years ago. But do I know him? Does the sudden change in his once mild demeanor stem from a fantasy of his own? A fantasy with another man?

  Seeing the confusion in my eyes, he leans down and whispers in my ear, “This is all for you, babe.”

  I’m still staring at him, mouth agape, when Tucker turns to Ransom and nods. “Yeah. We’re game.”

  It starts off innocently enough, and soon I feel my nerves unwind and actually start to enjoy all the silly little questions. That is, until things take a turn down a slippery slope. One that I knew was coming, yet was too caught up to hit the brakes.

  “What’s your favorite position?”

  “Me on top.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m a dominant bitch. In every way. Plus the friction it creates . . . down there . . . Oh God.”

  “I dare you to kiss your husband.”

  I lean in to press my lips against Tucker, who eagerly accepts.

  “No,” Ransom says, shaking his head. “Really kiss him. Fuck his mouth with your tongue.”

  His brash words rattle me, and I pause to blink a few times before I turn back to Tucker, who is looking at me expectantly. Shit, why am I even nervous? This is my husband. My husband. The man I’ve loved for as long as I can remember. The man who knows me inside and out, and adores me anyway. He’s seen me at my worst, at my best, and everything in between. Kissing him is easy.

  Seeing the resolve in my eyes, Tucker moves in closer, yet doesn’t bring his lips to mine. Instead, his hands slide from the top of my shoulders down to my waist. With a swift movement, he pulls my body to him, until we’re chest to chest. Seeing the awkwardness of this position, I rise up on my knees and steady myself by placing my hands on his shoulders. Warm, strong hands slide up my back, urging me closer, closer . . .

  Our lips collide, moving slowly at first, just tasting. I open my mouth just a fraction to welcome him inside, and he accepts the invitation, parting me wider to stroke his tongue against mine. What begins as soft and sensual quickly erupts into something wild and hungry. Tucker devours my mouth, drinking in my desire as he eases me back onto the couch. Our lips still moving together, our tongues still exploring, I feel his fingers roam my chest and ribs before sliding up to my breasts. He palms them gently, applying pressure at my nipples through the thin fabric. I moan into his mouth, which only spurs him on. I feel the silken straps of my jumpsuit slip down over the tops of my shoulders and cool air hits the top of my chest.

  I should stop this right now. It’s indecent and inappropriate and everything that we’re not. But I can’t stop now. I can’t even attempt to push him off me when his lips move down my jaw to my neck. He sucks my throat gently, raking his teeth over the sensitive, thin skin. I shiver under his body and pull him down closer. There’s something about being loved by Tucker that softens me. His touch makes me feel so tender, so absolutely feminine. I want to be soft and pliant for him. Hell, if I’m really being honest, I want to be weak for him. Almost submissive. I want him to dominate me until I can only mewl and moan at his feet.

  When I feel Tucker’s mouth meet the swell of my breasts, I gasp for breath. The sound is so raw and erotic against the quiet of the room, and it startles me, bringing me back to my senses.

  We’re not alone.

  Feeling me stiffen, Tucker lifts his head and looks down at me, still panting with need. I gently push him back and shift into a sitting position, fixing my disheveled clothing.

  “That was . . . hot. As. Fuck,” Ransom declares, his own voice husky and thick. Forcing myself to look up at him, I can see why. He looks so . . . aroused. His face is flush, his chest moves up and down with his labored breathing, and a thin sheen of sweat covers his forehead. Which is just a fraction of what Tucker is dealing with. His arousal is a little more . . . obvious.

  “Thanks,” is all I can manage to say. Why am I thanking him? I don’t know. With my head still spinning from the kiss and my skin still burning with Tucker’s touch, I don’t know much of anything right now. But as I look over at my husband, I know that something has changed between us, sparking this undeniable need that we both thought had been lost years ago. It’s been so long since he’s kissed me with that level of fervor. I felt wanted by him—desired. And while I knew I was safe in his arms, everything about his touch was verging on madness.

  It’s my turn to ask a question, and I turn to Ransom, who gazes at me expectantly. “How many women have you slept with?”

  He smiles like the cat that ate the canary, as if he knows the answer will shock me. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t. It’s not something I keep up with.”

  “I guess when you go around sticking your dick in anything that moves, keeping tally could be troublesome.”

  I chuckle sardonically at my tasteless jibe, but stop short when I see a quick wince of pain on Ransom’s face. It only lasts a second before he schools his features back into the cool, impassive guise that I’ve grown used to seeing. I cock my head to one side. Could I have . . . hurt his feelings?

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” I try to explain, but he quickly waves it off.

  “No. You’re right. I’ll fuck anything that walks and is halfway decent-looking. I am a musician, after all. I usually have to wear a baseball glove on stage to catch all the pussy that’s thrown at me.”

  He seems satisfied with himself—proud even—so I let the subject drop. Tucker goes next, asking me to name my naughtiest fantasy. I shrug my shoulders, not willing to divulge my secret. He kisses my shoulder as he begs for the truth, but there’s no way I could tell him what I really want. That’d make me seem dirty and immoral. Not to mention make him feel inadequate.

  When Ransom takes control of the game next, I know for sure that whatever he has up his sleeve will leave me humiliated and exposed. I hold my breath and await his retaliation, yet he looks at Tucker instead. Still, he doesn’t hold back on shock factor.

  “I dare you . . . to let me touch your wife.”

  An audible gasp escapes my kiss-swollen lips and I turn to Tucker, awaiting his wrath. He returns Ransom’s intent stare, his expression unreadable. Yet, the younger man doesn’t back down, cocking a challenging brow at Tuck’s silence. He remains unmovable, a master at the art of restraint from his years as a shrink. No doubt he’s had to answer some odd questions, but never any involving his wife.

  “I don’t let Heidi do anything. She has her own mind . . . her own body.”

  “So maybe I should be asking her.” A sinister smile on his lips, Ransom angles his focus on me. “Heidi, would you let me touch you?”

  My first reaction is to say no—hell no. But Tucker quickly grasps my knee, capturing my attention.

  “This is what you want,” he whispers. “He . . . is what you want. And I can accept that. This is your fantasy, baby. Let me help you make it come true.”

  I search his face, waiting for him to break into laughter, but he’s completely serious. My husband is telling me to let another man put his hands on me—his wife. This isn’t right. This isn’t what married people are supposed to do. But even as that rational part of my brain lists all the reasons why I shouldn’t allow this to go any further, my body is already tingling with anticipation. My face and chest are flush. My nipples harden in exhilaration. And my mouth waters with the prospect of tasting Ransom’s skin.

  Oh, God. I do want this. And now the decision is mine and mine alone.

  “So?” Ransom asks, awaiting our fate.

  Say no.

  Say no.

  Grab Tucker’s hand and get the fuck out of here. Go home and make love to him. Let that kind, good, gentle man be enough.

  Once again, Ransom Reed steals the truth from my lips, forcing me to abandon all decency and sanity. Making me take the sanctity of my marria
ge and soil it with my own slick arousal.

  In one single breath, I shatter ten years of devotion, trust, and love. And although I know what I’m destroying by lighting this fire, I can’t do much more than stand back and watch it all go up in flames.

  “Yes.”

  He’s on his feet, stalking toward me before I even get the word out.

  Chapter Six

  I’m not supposed to like this.

  I’m not supposed to feel like I’m dying every second that passes without this stranger’s hands on me. I shouldn’t shiver as he towers over me, dissecting me with the darkest, sultriest eyes I’ve ever seen. And my breath shouldn’t be coming out in short, eager pants.

  I’m not supposed to be here. But I am.

  I’m not supposed to want this. But I do.

  And even knowing my husband is merely a foot away, glaring at us so intensely that I can feel the burn of those bright blue eyes, I can’t force myself to be ashamed enough to stop. If anything, it just makes me want this more.

  I gaze up at Ransom and wait, unable to do much else. The first stroke of his hand against my cheek is gentle, tender. His fingers lightly graze a path from the bottom of my jaw up to the shell of my ear. I exhale and let my eyes close, wrapped up in the feel of his skin. His hand is warm, his fingers strong and slightly callused, probably from years and years of playing guitar. They glide down to the nape of my neck before tangling in my hair. I open my eyes and gasp when he gently pulls at the strands at my scalp and I raise my chin in defiance. Or to give him better access.

  My nipples strain against silk with every erratic breath. He seems bigger this close to me—taller. His tanned arms are roped with muscle and I can clearly see defined abs through the white cotton of his tee. Oh, how I want to reach out and rake my fingertips over that stomach. Desperate to be closer, I turn my head toward the bare skin of his forearm and inhale his intoxicating scent of spiced smoke and clean sweat with a heady¸ masculine undertone that makes my mouth water.

  I’m inhaling once more when Ransom quickly pulls away, taking the haze of passion with him. His demeanor is cool and collected yet the fire in his dark eyes rages with uncontained chaos. I swallow down the disappointment at the loss of contact and try to steady my breathing. Now that I’m not completely wrapped up in his touch, my head swims with a tidal wave of emotions—guilt, excitement, shame, fear. But mostly need. The need to feel those hands on me again. The need to abandon all my inhibitions and be totally unchained in my desires. But I need my husband too. As much as I want to explore this . . . this thing . . . with Ransom, I need Tucker just as badly.

  As rejection and confusion set in, I gaze over at Tucker, who continues to watch us with rapt attention. I expect him to be angry at my reaction to Ransom’s touch, but he isn’t. He looks just as aroused as I, and again, I question his motives. But his eyes aren’t on Ransom at all. He’s staring at me, studying the pink flush that contrasts with my pale skin. Watching the way my chest rises and falls rapidly. Yearning to touch my slightly parted lips with his own. Aching to run his tongue over my pebbled nipples that are clearly on display through my flimsy jumpsuit.

  Tucker hasn’t looked at me this way since . . . since before I can remember. And it took another man touching me to bring him back to me. It took another man touching me to bring me back to him.

  “Tucker,” Ransom rasps, cutting into the tense moment. “Your wife is exquisite.”

  “She is, isn’t she,” my husband agrees.

  “The things I would do to her . . . the pleasure I could bring her. Oh, how she’d sing.” He turns to me, a dark hunger in his eyes. “Do you sing, Heidi?”

  Sing?

  I’m not even sure what that means, or if I should want it. Who am I kidding? Of course, I want it. I want whatever he’s willing to give me.

  “What?” I breathe, unable to ask him more than that. A sinister smile appears on his lips.

  “When you come . . . do you sing? I want to know if you sing when you come.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  “Well, I’d like to find out.”

  I don’t even know what to say to that. He wants to know if I sing when I come? For him?

  I’m hot all over, my core burning up with need. Between the kiss with Tucker and Ransom’s touch, I know I am living dangerously close to the edge. It’s been so long since Tucker and I really made love, and my Battery Operated Boyfriend, aka BOB, has been no real replacement for the real thing. I need a man between my thighs, on top of me. Behind me. Under me. And at this point, with more champagne in my belly than food, I can’t decide which man I want more.

  The room is silent aside from the pounding of three hearts, racing with anticipation. Maybe this was all I needed? To be desired by another man. Maybe this will be enough to get Tucker and me out of the rut of our marriage.

  I tell myself it’s all in fun. That Ransom is just fucking with me and Tucker is somehow in on the big joke, when suddenly the young, hot rocker extends his hand to me. I look at his long fingers, the memory of them ghosting across my cheek still replaying in my mind, and try to determine what this means. I look to Tucker, who gives me just a simple, encouraging nod, and back to Ransom. He still wears that smug smile that he always plasters on, but there’s something else lurking in his impassive guise.

  “Shall we?”

  This is it. This is what I’ve been waiting for. And I can’t think of one good reason why I should deny it anymore.

  I place my hand in Ransom’s, giving over to the current of lust. He wraps his long, agile fingers around my hand and pulls me to my feet. My legs should be shaking, yet oddly, I feel completely calm. I’m filled with nervous energy, but it’s out of elation, not terror. There is no more doubt in my mind.

  I look back at Tucker, who still sits on the couch, watching, waiting. With my other hand, I reach out for him, urging him with steel-colored eyes to take it.

  “I need you with me. I can’t do this without you.”

  Varied shades of shock, surprise, and admiration play on his features as he pauses to digest what I’ve said. He looks . . . touched. But that expression quickly morphs into hunger as he laces his fingers with mine and climbs to his feet.

  I’m not sure what we’re doing, and how this will work, but I’m intrigued enough to find out.

  The three of us make our way to the bedroom just a few yards away, yet every step feels like I’m walking the green mile to a beautiful death. Tonight will be my sexual suicide.

  Ransom leads the way, ushering us into a room that is decked out like much of the hotel—chic, modern, and dark, with just a touch of rich color from jewel-toned tapestries. When we cross the threshold, Ransom goes to a little side table and picks up a tiny remote. With a push of a button, soft, sensual music flows throughout the room. He’s setting the mood. The mood for what? I’m not exactly sure.

  He comes to stand before us, his gaze trained on me then Tucker. Something passes between them, and before I know what’s happening, we’re in motion. Tucker goes to sit in an armchair a few feet away against the wall. Ransom takes both my hands and leads me to the bed. The back of his legs hit the foot of the bed, and he pauses, looking down at me to await my reaction. When I don’t protest, he slowly sits down, aligning his face with my belly. I feel his hands burning through the thin fabric on the backs of my thighs, gently coasting up and then down to my calves. He keeps his eyes on me, his stare so intense that I can barely breathe, let alone blink. I force myself to look away, and seek Tucker’s comforting smile. His hands clutch the arms of the chair, yet he’s not angry. It almost seems like it’s an act of restraint.

  “I want to see you,” Ransom murmurs, bringing my attention back to him. When I frown in confusion, he answers the unspoken question on my lips by letting his hands slide up my back to the clasped zipper. He waits for me to tell him to stop, but I don’t. I don’t even know if it’s possible at this point.

  The soft rustle of fabric,
a gentle pull and my jumpsuit is undone. Oh, the irony. To begin the night in pristine white, only for it to end up pooled at my feet at the hands of another man. My morals aren’t the only thing being tarnished.

  With the straps loosened, the bodice barely contains my breasts. Just a small shrug and I’ll be fully on display. Using the lightest of touches, Ransom grazes the silken skin right above my nipples. Then he’s easing it down, over the swells, down my ribs, my belly, my thighs. When my clothing hits my feet, he takes a moment from undressing me and takes me in, standing only in a nude, lace thong. His intake of breath and smoldering stare give me a little jolt of satisfaction.

  I’ve always been slender and long, which left me a bit deprived in the curves area. My breasts are small handfuls, granting me the ability to go braless when necessary, and my hips are delicately subtle. I’d consider my ass to be the most substantial part of my body. Plus I have legs for days.

  Truth be told, I’ve always been insecure about my slight frame. I never felt womanly enough. The word voluptuous has never been used to describe me. But the way Ransom is looking at me—like I am the juiciest piece of filet he has ever seen, and he is dying to sink his teeth into me—makes me feel utterly sensuous.

  His hands—those magnificently large callused hands—slide from my ankles to my calves to the backs of my knees. His eyes are still trained on me, looking like midnight against the dim lighting. It’s unsettling, almost scary, but I don’t look away. I just keep watching him watch me as his scorching touch languidly dances over my thighs to my hips. When I feel his fingers dig into the softness of my ass, he leans in and presses his lips to my navel. I begin to pant, dizzy with the need for more.