Page 86 of Hostile Vows
Letterman winks at the waitress when she returns with two frosty bottles of Beluga and a tray of glasses. Her cheeks blaze, the wanton blush obvious even under the low lighting.
“Back in a second.” He grins at me, pushes to a stand, and follows her to the bar. Left alone, I fish out my phone and type a message.
Husband: Are you behaving?
Wife: Can we clarify the terms of behaving?
Husband: Naked, alone, and waiting for your husband’s dick.
Wife: Really? I thought Daenis was your pet, not me.
Husband: Which out of the three is a problem?
Wife: The first two.
Husband: So, you want my dick?
Wife: I do.
Husband: How much?
Wife: That’s for me to know and you to find out.
Husband: Dirty little teases get their asses fucked for misbehaving.
Wife: You’ll have to catch me first.
Husband: I’ll hunt you. Catch you. And fuck every hole you have, Wifey.
Wife: It’s a date. *wink*
Husband: Be naked when I get home.
Wife: Undress me yourself.
I’m painfully hard. Lust fires up my blood cells and blazes under my skin. I need to fuck away this madness. Instead, I sit on my ass, kick up my boots, and knock back a shot of vodka.
In a loud, music-filled nightclub where shady corners hide horny couples and cokeheads consuming my product, I grow restless. Reno is chatting up a cute girl and Letterman has disappeared with the waitress. Usually, I would have finished the bottle of booze by now and I’d be flirting with a hot blonde. Oddly enough, none of them have impressed me tonight.
I don’t crave the women squeezed into figure-hugging dresses. Nor do I feel the need to hoover up cocaine. Not when thoughts of my wife tempt me to go home, luring me back to the bed we share.
Extinguishing my cigarette in a glass of vodka, I decide to call it quits. I want to go home. But when I stand, every good intention I had dissipates like poisonous vapor.
My heart stutters and my muscles seize from the strain of keeping myself in check when my attention is snagged from outside of our exclusive seating area.
The repetitive melody fades around me like I’ve left this world and moved on to the next. I rake my fingers through my hair to ground me, completely and utterly in reverence of the sun-bleached blonde who dares to stroll toward the guarded VIP entrance and then, without a care for my marital status, pauses to brazenly look right at me.
Why do I feel like I know her––like her DNA is imprinted on my skin?
And why can’t my damn heart function properly?
Our gazes snag, black to ocean blue. My eyes skate over her skintight black jeans, ripped at the knees and the clingy material nestled close to her breasts that stop shy of a tanned, toned belly. She’s fucking gorgeous in a familiar way. A way that speaks to me from my gut and twists every dark edge inside of me so her sharp corners collide with mine.
I unstick my boots and stalk forward, unable to tear my gaze from the striking woman who’s the complete opposite to my equally as stunning wife.
The way she stands there, blatantly staring at me. It’s as if she’s summoning me to her crystal waters where sirens hale, and I’m drunk on her power.
Her slow, secretive smile punches the air from my lungs and turns it to blistering heat. I try to breathe calmly and steadily, all the while studying the blonde, wavy loose hair, oceanic eyes, and pebbled nipples poking out at me from under a simple white top. Except there’s nothing simple about this electricity sparking from her intentions to mine.
