Tryst

“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 di

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, Bu

“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.

Di

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.