Tryst

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 that 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.