Tryst

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 the 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.