by K. A. Berg
Chapter Seven
Natalie
We parked in the school parking lot and made our way over to the stands to grab a spot to watch the game. I watched Matteo’s back as we walked—his step was a bit more upbeat than usual—and attempted to wrap my head around all that’d transpired since last night.
Matteo acted as though he hadn’t dropped a huge bomb on me this morning. He explained some new assessment software the company rolled out at work yesterday as we pulled through the drive thru of my favorite coffee place. He ordered me another coffee and a chocolate croissant, passing it over with a smile. His thumbs tapped the steering wheel as he sang along with Cold Play as if he didn’t just tell me that we had all the time in the world to figure out if I wanted to bring in another man for a threesome.
Did I wake up in the Twilight Zone?
Truthfully, I couldn’t make heads or tails of anything. My brain was muddled with thoughts of my being with Matteo and another man at the same time. He didn’t sound the slightest bit jealous when he threw the suggestion into the hat as if it were a restaurant we were considering eating at.
The cool late-March breeze blew as Matteo turned back, looking over his shoulder for me. I had fallen a bit behind, unable to get any part of my body to work properly since we left the bedroom.
“Come on, slow poke.”
I picked up the pace, and he grabbed my hand and pulled me into him. He kissed my temple. “Did I fuck you silly? You really seem out of it.”
I gasped with mock indignation. Matteo was a well-spoken man who, even in his worst of moods, rarely swore. For him to say the mother of all bad words at the entrance of a crowded field where anyone could hear him was unthinkable.
Appearances mattered here, and Matteo asking if he fucked me silly was scandalous material.
A laugh bubbled from my lips. Apparently, I found this alternate universe amusing and continued rolling with Matteo’s free spirit, listening ears be damned. “And you don’t seem at all like a man who just offered his wife another man in the bedroom.”
Matteo saw my laugh and upped the ante to a deep chuckle. “Of course, that’s the part you choose to focus on, huh? One-track mind over here.” He waggled his eyebrows, and I swatted his chest. “Seriously, though, I hope that isn’t all you took away from that conversation.” He bent and pressed his lips to mine in a quick kiss. “I just want to see you happy, love. If that’s something you want to explore, I want to explore it with you. But, right now, I just want to cheer on our son and spend my Saturday with my family.” A conspiratorial grin tipped his lips. “And maybe watch you squirm a little when you sit. I know you have to be a bit sore. We haven’t gone at it like that since college.”
I raised a brow. “Maybe not even then.”
His laugh had me smiling as I walked away toward the blenchers.
“I’m not against spanking your ass for real,” he cautioned with a bit of promise as he caught up to me. “We could find out just how much you like having my handprint on your behind. Last night was just a prelude to the main show, baby.”
My eyes widened, stretching with my shock.
My mother-in-law’s voice broke through my sexual haze like Miley on her wrecking ball. “Yoo hoo, Matteo. Natalie. Over here,” Michelle called as she waved her hand to make sure we saw her.
Get your shit together, Nat. You’re acting like a teenager who just got the attention of the most popular boy at school. This is your son’s lacrosse game.
Matteo and I had a quick, silent conversation with our eyes.
His narrowed. This isn’t over.
My brows rose. I hope not.
His head tilted. You’re going to get it.
And then we were off to join his parents and Emma in the stands.
“Hello, darlings.” Michelle kissed our cheeks as we sat. “Did you guys have a good night?”
I snickered as I bent to kiss the top of Emma’s head. Matteo tossed me a wink before replying, “The best.”
I swear my ovaries just fluttered with that wink. A freaking wink. And since when did Matteo wink at me?
This whole bizarre universe had me on edge. A very fine edge that resulted in my fawning over my husband, who had suddenly slipped into the shoes of a man I didn’t know. I looked forward to finding out who this new man was. My whole being felt off kilter as if I had just gotten off one of those crazy spinning rides at the carnival where the floor drops out and you’re suctioned to the wall.
I was in a daze when I sat on the cold, hard bleachers. So, it was more of a plop than a sit, which resulted in a jolt of tenderness whizzing through me. I sucked in a quick breath, and Emma turned her head. “You okay, Mom?”
Matteo cast me a knowing look over our daughter’s head and smirked. “Yeah, you okay, Nat?”
I donned the biggest grin I could. “Peachy. I tried a new exercise routine yesterday. I’m a bit sore after using muscles I never have before.”
Matt’s eyes darkened and smoldered, and we picked up our silent conversation from before.
I shrugged. What can I say?
He sunk his teeth into his bottom lip. You aren’t going to be saying anything when I make you pay for that.
I shrugged again. I guess we’ll see.
Emma’s eyes volleyed between the two of us, and she huffed in the way only an irritated teenager-in-the-making could. “What’s going on with you guys? You’re acting weird, and I have friends here. Please stop.”
Matteo and I laughed at the same time. I was fairly certain it was in that moment that the stress of trying to figure out this new dynamic in our relationship lifted. Matteo smiled more vibrantly than he had in years, and I felt lighter than I had in months. It seemed that having this huge, weighted secret off my chest made me see my life and my husband in a new way. A new way I was content to enjoy.
Chapter Eight
Natalie
My nails bit into the flesh of my palm as I tried to keep my cool. I had this conversation with artists before, but it never got any less stressful or any less insulting. I was tired and cranky. It had been a long day, and I still had dinner to cook and laundry to wash.
Bastien was a madman at work. He was an artistic pain in the ass. The first whine of “Natalie!” came at ten o’clock this morning. His red wasn’t the right shade. We needed to find a new supplier immediately because our current one couldn’t tell the difference between wine and burgundy. Spoiler alert—he got the color he wanted. I checked the order form. Then he called me because his brushes weren’t clean enough. Considering he was the only one who used them, cleaned them, or generally touched them, it was his fault they weren’t to his satisfaction. Then his easel was wobbling. It was complaint after complaint. When Annetta arrived, it was more screaming—only in French.
That was what Bastien needed to spark his creativity. He needed to throw a fit and act like a spoiled child. He needed to yell at people to get his blood pumping and claimed it was how the magic happened. The man may have been an artistic genius, but he was hard to tolerate when he was in these moods. A cloud of tension filled the air like humidity—hot and sticky. We had the new gallery opening in Portland in four months and Bastien was behind schedule. Annetta kept on his ass all day about focusing on painting and not being a diva.
All afternoon, my shoulders were tense, bunched up around my ears as I tried to get through my day unscathed.
The last thing I wanted to do was argue with a client who wanted to complain about commission rates when the only thing I wanted to do was go inside, put my sweats on, and get started on dinner before the kids got home. Was it too much to ask to leave the stress of work at work?
So much factored into how successful a gallery was in attracting top-quality art and potential buyers. We maintained a website, created post cards publicity announcements, and bought advertising. We had employees and maintained the physical gallery. Any gallery worth a damn was doing all those things. Metro was worth a damn. I loved my job, and I cared about
art. For artists not to want to pay for all my work to help their careers was a major hot button for me.
My button was already pushed before this call. The tension I thought I left at the gallery crept back into my shoulders as I resisted the urge to smack my head off the front door as I entered the house.
Nigel Beckman was a sculptor who made brilliant assembly sculptures. We had several of his bronze works on display—a pair of which sold just this morning—but he wanted to get mad about fees. “Nigel, whenever an artist complains about paying gallery commissions, I tell them the same thing: you’re viewing the commissions as money we’re taking out of your pockets. But that isn’t how this is. You’re paying Metro to market your art. You know to expect the fees when you agree to work with us.”
He huffed and interrupted my speech. "Fifty percent is too high, and you know it. What are you doing besides allowing my sculpture to sit on a column in your building? Thirty is sufficient for that kind of service. It isn’t like you held an event in my honor.”
“We help your work stand out in a sea of beautiful art all over the world,” I remind him as I hung my coat and bag in the hall closet and resisted the urge to slam it shut. I maintained my cool when what I really wanted to do was scream at the top of my lungs and punch Nigel Beckman in the throat. “If the gallery is selling your work for you, we earn our commission and you know it.”
It costs money to market work, hold events, and get people in to buy pieces.
Every time I had this conversation with an artist, which was at least five to six times a year, my blood boiled. I respected and appreciated their work, but they didn’t respect mine.
“I didn’t say you didn’t deserve to be paid.” He scoffed indignantly. “I said fifty is robbery. You gave me the bare minimum of work so thirty is more than enough.”
I yanked my scarf off and tossed it on my bed. Thirty percent to a gallery was the equivalent of leaving a server ten dollars on a hundred-dollar check. He was also forgetting that for every piece that didn’t sell, we didn’t profit either.
Do not snap at a client. Do not snap at a client. No matter how ignorant they are acting.
The front door closed, alerting me that someone was home. It was quiet, though.
He signed a contract with us to show his pieces. He could go elsewhere if he was no longer happy. I was done with this conversation “You are more than welcome to try a consignment gallery if you are unhappy with our agreement. Just keep in mind, sales are never easy and the tighter the economy gets, the more difficult it becomes. Let me know what you decide, Nigel. Have a good night.”
I disconnect the call and grabbed a pillow from the head of the bed. Smothering my face in it, I screamed in attempt to release some of the tension overtaking my body. I flopped down on the bed and screamed again.
A body brushed up against my bent-over ass, and his fingers gripped my hips. “What’s wrong, love?” Matteo asked as his hands quickly abandoned their spot on my hips and drifted down to the apex of my thighs. “You seem stressed.”
His voice was full of sarcastic mirth.
“You think?” I guffawed into the pillow. His finger stroked down and rubbed over my clit. I turned my head back to look at him.
God, he looked amazing.
His tie was loosened, hanging down. The top two buttons of his dress shirt were undone. The arms of his jacket seemed a bit snug, but it looked good on him. His eyes were mischievous and empathetic. He was sorry I was having a bad day, but he also wanted to play.
“Where are the kids?”
He massaged my mound with the pads of his fingers.
“Scotty’s mom is dropping them off.” He pulled his tie from his neck with his free hand. “She asked to switch days with me earlier. Tomorrow, she has an appointment. Emma is catching a ride from student council with them.”
His ministrations were starting to draw all the stiff tension in my body toward my core. He dropped the tie on my back and grabbed one of my wrists. His fingers left my clit, and he grabbed the other arm. With scary quickness, Matt had my hands bound behind my back.
From what I could tell from over my shoulder, Matteo was just staring down at me. Probably enjoying the view of his handy work. Stepping back, he unbuttoned my slacks and yanked them down before his finger played between my lips, toying with me. “I can probably relieve some of this stress for you. At least twice if we hurry.”
It was too hard to stay still. I squirmed, trying to get more from him. Excitement moved through me, and no matter how much I tried to temper the anticipation, it was as though my subconscious was bypassing my conscious. It wanted a break and Matteo was offering it.
“Please,” I whimpered as he skirted around my entrance, rubbing up and down but never slipping a finger inside.
“Please what?”
“Please put your fingers inside me.”
His pinky was resting on my nub, barely moving as his two fingers dipped into me. “Like this?”
My moan echoed off the walls in response.
“Have you been a good girl?” he asked, rubbing along my front wall. He yanked on the tie around my wrists as if he knew I would try to move them.
His thumb circled my back entrance at the same time as he squeezed in a third finger. My body stiffened as if a whole other part of it was activated for feeling. My pussy burned, and I tingled under his thumb. I hissed, but it was a sound dripping with approval. “Yes.”
“You good?” he asked, curling his fingers inside me. My eyes rolled back as undiluted pleasure coursed through every single atom of my being at once as if someone just plugged me in.
“God, Matteo.” The “o” in that word may have been a bit over enunciated as I came. Hard. And wet. I heard the squelching and felt something sliding down the inside of my thighs. Matteo dropped to his knees and licked up my leg to my slit as if I were a line of salt for a tequila shot. My body still shook with pleasure as Matteo grumbled something into my core about ‘fucking beautiful.’ After shocks kept buzzing through me as Matteo freed himself from his pants. His cock slid in like he owned my pussy, which I had no objection to. He thrust a few times and then used the leverage of my tied hands to pull me back into him.
“That was incredible, love,” he murmured from behind me. “I didn’t know if I could make that happen. I should’ve known that you are perfect in every way. Next time, I want you to squirt on my face.”
If it meant coming that hard again, sign me the hell up.
“God damn.” His fingers dug into my waist as he tried to hold on. “You’re gripping me like a vise.”
I wasn’t actually doing anything but laying there and absorbing everything Matteo was giving me.
All those sensations melded into one another, coming together for one big performance. And it was going to bring down the house.
Car doors shut in the driveway.
“You have about three seconds to come before the kids come barreling in here,” he informed me as if I didn’t understand that. “I’m not stopping until you do. So, I suggest you act fast.”
I heard the kids thanking Scotty’s mom in the driveway.
Slap.
“Focus, love,” Matteo demanded.
The tip of his finger prodded my back hole. Matteo spit and as soon as it landed where his finger was, he used the added moisture to help him push inside.
It was too much but just enough.
The pillow and the sound the front door made as it slammed open muffled my scream. The kids’ racket of coming in and dropping their shit hid my orgasm from their ears. It was intense but quick.
The ringing in my ears ebbed as I heard the kids calling out for us.
“Mom,” Emma yelled.
“We’re home,” Jackson added.
Matteo smacked my butt and whispered, “Go clean up in the bathroom. I’ll stall ’em.” He made quick work of stuffing himself back into his pants.
I scurried across the room into the bathroom. I even giggled a bit. My
bad day had practically been erased by a quickie with my husband.
On the other side of the door, I heard Matteo chatting with the kids. I used the bathroom and fixed my hair.
“Mom will be right out,” he said. “But clean up for dinner because it should be here soon.”
The kids were gone by the time I opened the door, quirking a questioning brow at their father. “Dinner will be here soon?”
He smiled and nodded. “Yep. I ordered pizza while you agued with whomever. I heard consignment and figured you were having the talk with an artist. That means lots of wine and an episode or two of Ozark tonight. Maybe a little more dick. No cooking for you. Unwind, love.” He dropped his voice, making it gravelly. “Tell Daddy . . . what happened?”
Saliva spit from my mouth as laughter burst out. “That’s so gross.” I practically gagged. “It’s so creepy. Thank god I already came. I think my vagina ran and hid from ‘Daddy’.”
“Don’t worry,” he continued with the same tone, “after some wine, she’ll be begging for Daddy.”
I shook my head just as the doorbell rang. “So wrong. So wrong.”
Chapter Nine
Natalie
The view of the sunset from Norah’s back deck was stunning. Lately, I’d found more and more about life beautiful. It was amazing what a bit of good dick could do for a woman. I’d heard about those couple’s sex challenges over the years. Claims that spending thirty straight days connecting with your partner through sex would strengthen your relationship.