Hotwife Island Complete Collection

by Jewel Geffen

  “Here's to you, darling. The most beautiful wife a man could ask for,” Jason says, lifting his glass.

  I roll my eyes, but I can feel a swell of happiness inside. We've decided to finish the evening with a nice dinner out in town. The restaurant is way more upscale than anything I'd expected to find out here in the wilds. We're sitting across from one another at a lovely little outdoor table, drinking red wine by candlelight. It's almost too fantastic to be real. “Only beautiful?” I ask, gently teasing as I run my finger around the rim of own glass.

  “Beautiful... intelligent... kind... passionate... shall I go on?”

  “Oh, if you must.”

  He grins, then looks down at the menu. He scans the items, eyes getting a little wider the further down he goes. “Jesus... maybe I'll just have an appetizer...”

  I laugh. “Oh, come on. We're on vacation, just splurge.”

  He shakes his head ruefully. “Yeah, maybe. We're not all as rich as your new boyfriend, though...”

  I can feel my lips tightening into a frown. Something about that tone... “He's not my boyfriend, Jason.”

  “Hm,” he says, still not meeting my eyes. “Well, seems like maybe he wants to be.”

  I'd been lifting my glass to my lips but, at that, I set it back down and narrow my eyes. “What's that supposed to mean?”

  He shrugs.

  I reach across the table and pull the menu slowly away. “Jason,” I say, “look at me?”

  He glances up, clearly trying his hardest to keep a neutral expression on his face and not entirely succeeding at it. There's a sort of twitching in the corner of his mouth.

  “Tell me what's on your mind. I thought you were okay with this?”

  “It's just, well... it was one thing when it was just... a fling, but I keep thinking about what he said last night. About things with you and him not being his... usual. I just keep thinking about...”

  “What? You can talk to me, Jason.”

  My husband takes a long deep breath, and seems to be trying to keep himself steady. “I just don't know how I would ever hold onto you if he decided that he wanted... more.”

  “What are you afraid of? That'll I'll just be swept off my feet by him?”

  Jason shrugged miserably. “I mean... how can I compete? He's a goddamn billionaire... speaks French, he knows all about that art and culture stuff that you like so much... obviously he's... well...”

  “Better at fucking me?” I snap, and a couple people seating near us turn and glance our way.

  Jason shrinks in his seat a little, cheeks turning red, but I'm too angry to care. “Honey...” he murmurs.

  “No, really,” I say, struggling to keep my temper under control. “After what you said this afternoon I thought we were good, but... you have that little faith in me? You think my head's going to get turned so easily? It's just sex, Jason, none of the rest means anything to me. If you tell me not to go, I won't go, it's that simple. Forget him, forget the portrait. I married you, Jason,” I say, and shove out my hand with the wedding band glistening on my finger, “and this doesn't change that. I thought we both decided that we wanted this. I thought we needed it. That's what you said. Now you're getting cold feet?”

  His head dropped into his hands, fingers pushing miserably into his thinning hair. “No...” he said, moaning a little, “I'm just... you're going to be there without me, and...”

  “And you want to keep an eye on me, is that it? You want to control me.”

  “No, it's not like that...”

  “Than what's it like, Jason? Huh? Come on, tell me what it's like. You don't trust me. You think he's going to...” I make a noise of wordless disgust and turn aside, clutching my wine glass so tight I half expect the glass to shatter in my hand.

  “Well... he is very... seductive, is all...” Jason mumbles.

  I just shake my head.

  “Excuse me, are you ready to order?” asks the smartly dressed waiter, a young man with a thin mustache and neatly parted hair.

  I set my glass back down on the table. “Actually,” I say, fuming with anger, “I don't think we'll be able to stay for dinner. Change of plans. Bring us the bill, please.”

  The waiter opens his mouth as if to protest, then catches sight of my expression and changes his mind. “Of course, ma'am,” he said quietly, and steps away.

  “You don't have to do this,” Jason murmurs.

  “Know what honey? You can stay and eat if you want,” I say, my voice rather sharper than I'd intended, “I just don't think I'm hungry anymore.”

  I push my chair back and start towards the front desk, yanking my pocketbook angrily out of my purse as I go. If he's going to be cheap than I'll just pay for it myself.

  There's a part of me, a tiny voice whispering in the back of my head, that wonders if maybe I'm so upset with him about this because he's giving voice to something I'm also afraid of. What if Antoine really is going to try and seduce me?

  And, more importantly, what if I can't resist him?

  Chapter Four

  I slept poorly that night. Jason and I didn't talk much, but the storm of our argument seemed to have blown over, even if the misgivings and doubts it had uncovered remained present in our minds.

  I dreamed strange and sexual dreams, though when I woke I had little to no memory of them. I made myself a cup of coffee and now I'm sitting on the little porch all by myself watching the scarlet sunrise break through the low gray cloud on the distant horizon. The lake before me seems to gleam and shimmer with a kind of expectation of the day to come.

  And what will this day bring?

  I take another sip of the warm coffee. What kind of person are you, Vicky Dubois? Am I the sort to run off on my husband? It would be stupid, and I know it. Antoine's had a hundred women before me, the idea that I've somehow seduced him so completely as to have him for myself is ludicrous. He wants me because I'm a challenge, maybe, someone who's resisting – if only a little. Once he's broken down that barrier he'd probably just get bored of me.

  It isn't worth losing what I have with Jason for a fling like that, a high-flying jet-set adventure that might last a month or a year, but would burn out fast. No, it's best to take this for what it is at face value: a vacation affair. I'll let him paint my picture, maybe allow him to have sex with me once or twice more, then I'll have my fill and go back to my husband. We'll leave our cabin behind, and bring nothing but memories.

  Things would probably go back to the way they were before, although perhaps I'd take the occasional lover – with my husband's consent, and in that way our lives would unfold. This dalliance with the French billionaire would be like a strange sweet dream, and nothing more than that would come of it.

  A heron flies majestically through the morning mist, its long wings making sweeping gestures as it soars through the air, a being of pure and complete freedom, a master of the natural world, a hunter descending from the world above to prowl the water beneath.

  A heron might take a fish, but that fish would never fly. They would meet for just that one instant, that moment when they were both caught up in the rapturous fear and ecstasy of the hunt, their worlds colliding for just an blink.

  And what happens to the fish after the bird catches it, Vicky? Don't let yourself be swallowed by him.

  I turn at the sound of car wheels crunching on the gravel. There's a stately silver car sliding into the little drive of our cabin, cruising in to park next to our SUV. The door opens and a man in a neatly tailored suit – not Antoine, I can't help but feel a little disappointed – steps out. He bows slightly in my direction. “Mrs. Dubois?” he calls out, his voice low in the morning silence.

  I nod and raise a hand in his direction. One minute. I duck inside for the little bag I'd packed the day before, just a few essentials. Toothbrush and change of clothes and all that.

  “Is that him?”

  I look up. Jason's standing in the doorway, his arms crossed, his hair and clothes rumpled from sleep. I nod
. “A driver.”

  He raises and eyebrow sardonically. “Oh, very fancy.”

  “Jason, it'll be alright, okay? I promise. Just... think of this as a vacation, alright? An experiment, maybe. Nothing's going to happen that we can't come back from.”

  He nods, lips pursed. “I know.”

  I cross the room and loop my arms around his neck. “Relax. Have a good time. Do something fun. Try not to worry. Remember,” I hold my hand up to show off the wedding band, “you're the man I married. I don't regret it, and I wouldn't change it for anything. I'll be back in a few days.”

  We exchange a quick peck on the cheek and a hug, then I'm headed out the door with my bag in hand, walking towards that fancy silver car and the mysterious world beyond. Antoine's world.

  I'm placing myself in his power, I realize, and once I'm there, resisting him isn't going to be easy...

  I look back through the window as the car backed out and see my husband standing in the doorway. I lift my hand in a half-way, and he nods back to me. Then, before we've even pulled away, he disappears back inside the little cabin.

  * * *

  It's a long drive along the twisting roads of the countryside, through quiet forests and by the edges of still blue lakes. I try talking to the driver once or twice, but he offers little more than monosyllabic responses.

  We finally pull up to a little dock, at which is anchored a small slender wooden canoe. It's sleek and gorgeous, with a hand-crafted and luxurious quality to it somehow. Antoine is standing on the edge of the dock. He turns and smiles when the car pulls up, and he comes to open the door.

  “Victoria, I'm so pleased you made it,” he says, “the trip was alright?”

  “Yes, lovely,” I say. “Is this...?”

  “My private dock. I've a larger boat for bringing across bigger parties, but it seemed unnecessary for this. I thought something more intimate would be appropriate.” He slides his hand down behind my back, his warm fingers brushing lightly against my skin as he slips his hand easily beneath my first.

  I shudder and tingle with desire at the feeling of his skin on mine, and all at once the image is in my head again of his cock pushing inside of me. Come on, Vicky, don't lose your head already.

  He guides me to the canoe and the two of us cross the lake. I feel again that strange sensation of magic as we cross the water. The mansion seems to come up out of the mist as we approach, a huge and sprawling estate nestled amid the trees and rocks of the island.

  He takes me by the hand and helps out of the boat, leading up the long set of stone stairs that lead up from the beach. I'm unfamiliar with this side of the house – Jason and I came from the other side of the island when we happened upon the place. Can it really be that it was only a few days ago? It seems a lifetime has passed since then.

  Antoine ushers in the huge front doors and into a vast entrance hall. Baroque and Renaissance art of incalculable value decorates the walls around me.

  “Will I be staying in the same room as before?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “I think not. As I said, the house staff will be taking up residence for the season. I think it would be best if you stayed with me in the east wing.”

  “But... aren't those your private rooms?”

  He cocks an eyebrow at me. “Indeed they are. Which is just what we need: a little privacy. Besides, I want to have you close at hand if the urge to paint strikes me.”

  Or the urge for something else.

  “Please, come with me.”

  There are a few people in the mansion, and it strikes me as strange to see them here. Jason and I were only here for a day, but it formed such a strong impression upon me of being a solitary place, Antoine's domain, his personal empire. I remark to him that it's a bit strange seeing people about the place, and he smiles.

  “Oh no, I'm rarely here alone. As a matter of fact, the place is often quite crowded.”

  “Do you have many guests?”

  He shrugs slightly. “There would be little use in a house of this size if I didn't.”

  “And... the women you've painted, they're usually chosen from among those... guests?”

  “Occasionally. In fact, I'm having a sort of party at the end of the week. A ball, actually. I wasn't going to mention it yet, but... since we're on the subject, perhaps I could entice you into joining me as my... special guest?”

  I feel a sort of cold thrill tingling through me. Me? At some high society la-di-da party? It's a thought both terrifying and exciting, like some sort of fairy tale come to life. But I shake my head, “I haven't got anything to wear. I packed for the mountains, not for playing dress up.”

  His little smile flickers across his lips. “It's not the sort of party you dress up for,” he says, “clothing... isn't a requirement.”

  “Oh.” I feel my face flush a little. Wandering around naked in front of all Antoine Moreau's rich friends... now there's a thought. A scary one.

  He stops in front of a plain oak door and reaches into the pocket of his jacket to withdraw a jangling key-chain upon which hangs two slender golden keys. He slips one key off the chain and slides it into the lock. “These are my private rooms,” he says, and seems to hesitate ever so slightly, “I don't generally let anybody in here, not even the house staff... I hope that I can trust to your discretion?”

  What in the world is behind that door? “Of course,” I say, practically quivering with curiosity.

  He hands the key-chain with the remaining key still on it to me, “Keep this, while you're staying here,” he says, and turns the other one with a little click.

  I slip the key into my bag. Is it real gold? It almost feels like it. We step together through the doorway, and I find myself for the first time in the private rooms of Antoine Moreau.

  Chapter Five

  I see nothing especially scandalous in my first few hours within Antoine's private sanctum. Quite the contrary, as a matter of fact. The place seems to me to be rather plain and ordinary – if something so unbelievably luxurious and expensive-looking could be considered ordinary. The space is tastefully appointed, but simply. It seems that Antoine reserves his art collection for the more public spaces of the mansion. The walls here are plain and bare.

  There are several doors, but they're all closed and we walk past all of them. He takes me to a bedroom at the end of the hall and switches on the light. “Will this suffice for you?” he asks.

  “It's very nice,” I say, looking curiously around.

  It's a very large and spacious room, with wide windows all along the walls and an exterior balcony which wraps around the house. We're up on the third floor, and I can see the tops of the forest trees wavering in the breeze just outside. There's a private bathroom, a little desk and a small bed.

  “I'm something of a minimalist,” he admits, “the rest of the mansion has always struck me as somewhat... ostentatious.”

  “Oh?” I say, “did you not have it designed the way you wanted it? This is a new house, isn't it? It looks as if it's only been here for a few years at the most. Are you not the original owner?”

  “You're correct,” he says, glancing around as if noticing the house for the first time, “it's only a few years old. Yes, I am the original and no, it wasn't designed exactly as I'd wanted... I had... there were other factors to take into consideration. At the time.”

  “I see,” I say, though I don't, really.

  His face has a strange and almost melancholy look to it for just a moment, though the expression is quickly hidden behind his mask of controlled indifference.

  “Well,” I say, and sit on the edge of the bed, “I'm here... What do we do now?”

  He doesn't say anything. For a long moment, he just stares at me as I sit there. In the depths of his brown eyes I almost think I can see... well, I don't really have a clue what I think I see, but there's something. I can't meet his gaze long, and have to cast my eyes down to the floor.

  I blush at the intensity of his look. “What is
it?” I ask, laughing a little in an attempt to defuse the building tension in the room.

  “I'm sorry,” he says, as if shaking himself out of a daze, “you just... reminded me of someone for a moment. It's nothing.” He clasps his hands behind his back, and I almost think it might be to stop me seeing them trembling – but of course that couldn't be right, a mere fantasy on my part, surely. “I'd like to begin the picture as soon as possible. If you want to freshen up, you can join me in the studio as soon as you're ready, it's the next door on your right, just across the hall. I'll begin preparing my paints at once. And... you needn't wear any clothes. Don't worry, no one will intrude on us here.”

  I swallow hard. “Uh, right.”

  And then he's gone, and I'm all alone in the huge and immaculate bedroom. I take a deep breath and drum my fingers on my knees. The whole thing feels strange now, I'm overcome with a sense of awkwardness that I hadn't expected. I'm almost embarrassed at the idea of him seeing me naked. That seems ridiculous, given the situations he's seen me in. Posing naked for a picture shouldn't be anything after crawling across the floor to suck a man's cock, but at the moment it feels like it is, almost.

  I stand up and slip my top off. There's a mirror across the room. I can see my toned arms and taut belly reflected back at me, a body sculpted by years of yoga and fitness. I try to see myself objectively, as he sees me. Long, slightly curly blonde hair cascading golden over my bare shoulders, down to the tops of my large but still firm breasts. I turn a little and look at my bottom in the mirror, it's pert and round. I'm attractive, I decide, hot, even.

  I know there have been plenty of men in my yoga classes who've thought so. I can always feel their eyes on my when I'm assuming the forms and poses, their gazes following the tight curves of my body in its skintight covering. It annoys me sometimes, I'll admit, but I usually get a charge out of it, especially – and I feel a bit embarrassed admitting something so shallow – if the guy is particularly hot.

  More than once I've indulged myself in a little bit of flirtation with a male client, taking a more hands-on approach than is strictly necessary, our bodies sliding together, my hands running down their powerful flanks as I feel his muscles tense. Thinking back on it now, it's usually black men who get the preferential treatment. I hadn't ever been conscious of it before, never did it intentionally, it just seemed to work out that way.