He wanted to hate the man.
Stephen would savor a dance with her. He'd hold her tightly, swaying gently, as he planted kisses in her hair, against her ear, and took little nibbles of those luscious lips. Just holding her. He closed his eyes and knew he wanted to do far more than dance. He wanted to love her, show her with his body how beautiful she was. He'd give her the get-togethers with friends, the parties, the family dinners. Everything she missed out on, he would make sure she had.
How the hell had he managed to fall so hard for her with nothing more than emails between them? It wasn't logical to feel he knew her so well. People pretended; people lied. He wasn't usually so trusting nor did he take everything at face value. Except with her. He couldn't say why. He only knew that he did.
He dropped his head in his hands and groaned. Jesus, he was in over his head, and he couldn't even say exactly when or how it had happened. All he did know was that he for damn sure shouldn't have gone to that goddamn club. He sure as hell shouldn't have touched her. Wanting a married woman this badly could only end in Shitsville. The most sensible thing he could do was cut the relationship off now.
He knew he wouldn't.
* * * *
Debbie had the worst memory possible for numbers. So why on earth hadn't she forgotten the number for the club? Her subconscious was definitely at working overtime. Deep inside, she wanted to go back. Badly. The only thing that saved her from calling was her excessive frugality. She couldn't even venture to think how much the club cost. She'd most likely have to use her credit card, since she hadn't seen any cash exchanging hands, and then there'd be a paper trail. She'd probably end up on some pervert listing the government kept.
The invitation came on Tuesday, waiting for her on the kitchen table. She didn't open her husband's mail, and he didn't open hers. They respected each other's privacy.
"What'd ya get?" he asked, standing by the sink.
No return address, a simple computer-generated mailing label. She could feel another envelope on the inside. Her fingers trembled as she slit the top, revealing her made-up name in beautiful gold script on the second envelope.
"Oh, it's nothing. One of those stockbroker invitations."
"You wanna go?" He didn't ask why the note had been addressed to her when the accounts were in both their names.
"No, they're boring." Her mind whirled. She put a hand on the table to steady herself.
In her office, she shut the door and dialed the phone.
Stacy picked up as if she'd been sitting right beside it. "Hello?"
"Did you send me something?"
"Like what?"
Debbie stared at the thing in her hand as if it were a spider crawling across her palm. "An invitation."
Stacy needed no further explanation. "No, I didn't send it. Are you going?"
"How did they get my address? You didn't give it to them, did you?" They knew where she lived, the nebulous "they." Spies who knew everything about you.
"Of course not. Did you give it to someone?"
"Get real." She paced as far as the phone cord would allow.
"How about your phone number? They might have done that reverse directory thing."
"I didn't give anyone anything." Except that she'd given her mystery man a touch of her crotch. Oh my God. Could he have followed her home? "This is scary."
"Only if you let it be."
"Stacy. This was supposed to be a secret. No one was supposed to know." Her voice and her pulse rose with every word.
"Calm down."
"I can't."
"It's just an invitation. Don't start worrying unless something happens."
"I could get attacked." Her husband could find out.
Stacy snorted. "Maybe someone wants you to come back."
"Well, I'm not going." Friday night had been the biggest mistake of her life. In so many ways. She'd had a feeling something momentous was going to happen. It had. Her life was about to turn upside down and inside out.
"Then throw the invitation away. Pretend you never got it. Ignore it." Stacy's sigh sounded over the phone line. "If you really want to."
"I'm ripping it into a million little pieces." She heard something outside the door. A soft footfall receding down the hall? Suddenly she realized she was standing in front of the window, her lights on. Anyone could be watching. She wouldn't even be able to tell they were there. She snapped off the desk lamp. "I gotta go. I'll bring your stuff by this week. I took them all to the dry cleaner."
"You should keep the outfit," Stacy said softly. "Maybe you'll need it."
No. Not ever again.
Instead of ripping the invitation into a million tiny pieces and shoving it down the garbage disposal, she tucked it into the back of her desk drawer, buried beneath some old stationery.
* * * *
"Got the carousel horse. You're fantastic." Gorgeous. Talented. Desirable. I want you. I need you. I'm going crazy waiting for you.
Stephen hit send, wondering if she'd gotten the invitation, and if so, what she'd done with it. One thing for sure, she hadn't used it. He'd gone to the club every night this week. Without her, the rampant sexual activity didn't do a thing for him. Maybe she'd use it on Friday night. The twenty-four hours would kill him.
Though more than likely, she wouldn't show at all. Stacy had called, saying Debbie was freaked about the invitation. He'd admitted nothing. Stacy was no idiot, though. She'd known he'd sent it. His strategy had been simple. Let Debbie know she was wanted, that someone was willing to pay for her to come again. God yes, he craved her touch, her soft scent, and warm pussy. He'd make her fly apart in his arms, make her beg for more, for his cock, his tongue. Every inch of him.
Instead, he'd frightened the hell out of her. Her emails had been short, sentences clipped, no pronouns, too many acronyms. She usually spelled everything out. She couldn't know he'd sent the invitation, but somehow, his rash act had made her turn in on herself.
Her answer to his email, when it came half an hour later, was once again short. "Glad you liked the horse."
Jesus, she made him tongue-tied. Or finger-tied, as the case happened to be. Come and see your beautiful work when it's installed. His fingertips itched to type the words. Instead, he picked the most innocuous of his descriptions. "You're very talented."
"Thank you."
Goddamn it, talk to me. "Have a good night."
"Thanks. You, too."
He wanted to slam his fist through the monitor. He'd fucked up royally. The invitation. All that shit he'd whispered in her ear. Touching her, for Christ's sake. The combination, sensory overload, had sent her running to her foxhole to hide.
Still, he headed out to the club. He'd go until he had no hope left.
CHAPTER SIX
The TV volume was up so high she couldn't sleep. Explosions pounded against the bedroom wall. Car chases sounded like they'd end up running right over the mattress. Who on earth would build a house with the family room right next to the master bedroom? Then again, she'd been the one to suggest putting the big screen TV with surround sound on the wall that joined it.
Her eyes were dry. Her pussy was dry. She hadn't touched herself since Friday night. She hadn't allowed herself one single erotic thought. Well, at least not while she was lying alone in bed where temptation could get the better of her.
She wasn't so good at work, where out of the blue, she'd hear her lover's voice.
Do you know how beautiful it is watching a woman touch herself? I want to see your fingers dipping in all that hot cream.
A particularly spectacular television explosion shook the windows. Moisture creamed her thighs. God, she'd let a thought slip in.
Think about how scary it is that he knows your address. And if not him, some world-wide slut-hunter organization out to vilify immoral persons.
The frightening thoughts didn't drive out the passionate ones. Her nipples tightened, ached, and begged for physical touch. Eyes closed, she imagined first his fingers
rubbing the tender peaks; then his mouth sucking them. She licked her finger and circled the tip as he would. She shifted her hips beneath the covers as a wave of heat rolled over her body. A light moan slipped from her lips. She stretched, ran her hands through her hair; then fisted the sheets in her palms.
Would you like to be there, on that bed, knowing everyone was watching you get yourself off?
Yes, she wanted him to watch her. Sliding her hand over her abdomen, her skin jumped at the touch. She parted her folds and found her clitoris. Wet and hot, the way he'd loved it. She arched off the bed, her hips riding her hand. Her own cream coated her fingers. So wet, so slippery.
I'd go mad watching you.
She imagined that he'd actually pulled her panties aside and buried his fingers inside her. She fit two in the tight channel and pumped them, almost believing he filled her, blunt, rough fingers fucking her. Then she needed the sweet touch on her clit.
I'd have to stroke my cock. I wouldn't be able to hold back. Oh Jesus.
Heat and tension built. A pulse point at her hip beat frantically against her wrist. She gripped the side of the bed with one hand and circled her clit, hard and fast, her hips bucking. She tossed her head, panting.
"Oh my God, oh my God, fuck me, please fuck me." A whisper into the dark night, a plea.
Fire swept through her body, her womb; then imploded in her clitoris. She wailed. Rubbing almost frantically, she kept the high for another few seconds. Aftershocks made her jerk against the bed as she ended with slow, sweet strokes. Men didn't know how badly a woman needed those last few caresses.
The TV was still on, though the chase scene had ended and the explosive experts seemed to have moved on to another mission. If her husband had heard her cry out, he certainly hadn't jumped up from the couch to find out what was going on.
He didn't want her. He hadn't for such a long, long time. Would he really care if another man took care of her needs? Wouldn't that ease the pressure between them?
Going to the club to meet a man was a bad thing. It was wrong. It was adultery. It was betrayal. It might be the only thing that kept her sane; the only thing that kept her from walking out the door and never coming back. She couldn't think about leaving her husband; throwing away all her security, all her plans, her goals, his friendship. The way he knew her inside and out, and she him. The way it used to be between them. She didn't want an affair. She wanted fantasy. Like she'd had at the club. In a way, that was like closing the bedroom door and bringing herself to orgasm, but with a little help from someone else's hand.
A tiny voice sneaked through her mind. You're rationalizing.
She didn't care. Her marriage couldn't continue the way it was. She couldn't continue. With a few secret outings, she could get what she needed. With another's touch, she could feel wanted, needed, and desired again.
The club could give her that. The slut-Nazis weren't after her. He'd sent the invitation. He wanted her to come back. To finish what they'd started. To watch her touch herself, to fuck her, to taste her, to make her come again and again.
God help her, she'd let him have everything he asked for, everything he could take.
* * * *
His cell phone chirped. Stephen punched the button.
"She's going tonight," Stacy said.
He should have told her it didn't matter to him or that he didn't want to talk about it. He was past the point of caring what Stacy was up to. "How do you know?"
"She broke a nail. She stopped by after work to have me fix it."
"That means she's going back to the club? Maybe she just wanted her nail fixed."
"Not Debbie. She's frugal. She waits until her scheduled appointment. But tonight, she wanted it fixed. And I know that husband of hers sure as hell doesn't have anything big planned."
Her manicurist would understand the subtle nuances. Friday night. No work tomorrow. Maybe Debbie had been planning this all long. Or maybe simply making the decision had taken this long. She hadn't answered his emails today. Maybe she'd needed time to think about what she was doing. No interruptions, not even her glasswork. Still, he'd lusted after a word from her. Christ, he had it bad.
"Talk to you later," was all he said.
"Treat her right."
He would treat her like the goddess she was.
* * * *
Stacy put the phone down and blew on her nails. Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Mission accomplished. A little nudge here, a little shove there. She was so very good at getting people to do what they really wanted.
* * * *
Debbie stayed in the bathroom for hours. Her hair just would not do what Stacy had done to it last Friday. In frustration, she simply ruffled it up with her fingers. Perfect.
Stephen had emailed her a couple of times, and she still felt guilty that she hadn't replied. But darn it, she'd felt as if something would slip through in her words. Somehow, she'd reveal the things she planned to do tonight, and she didn't want to think about how his opinion of her would change.
Funny, insane even, she was more worried about Stephen's opinion than she was of her husband's. But Stephen didn't know the ache inside that had driven her to this point.
Her mind was made up. Her body had readied itself. She wouldn't turn back now for anything.
She replaced her usual light make-up with darker shades and deeper tones. Lining her lips, she stood back for the effect. Not bad. Pretty damn good, in fact. Her black bra stood out beneath the filmy see-through blouse she wore over it. She wasn't used to letting her underwear show, but they did it on "Sex and the City" all the time. She'd always worn a camisole under the blouse. The short pleated skirt had been part of a Halloween costume a couple of years ago. She'd attended a party as a cheerleader. Tonight, she left the matching panties on the hanger.
The stilettos? Well, every woman had a pair in the back of the closet. Last Friday, she'd borrowed a pair of Stacy's. She hadn't worn hers in ... forever.
Looking in the full-length mirror on the door, she decided she liked her efforts. Slutty and school-girlish all at the same time. Swiveling, she noted that the skirt almost but not quite displayed her butt. Resisting the urge to tug it down, she left the blouse untucked and unbuttoned to the center of her breasts. When she moved, the darkened aureoles of her nipples displayed themselves above the lacy bra.
Already she was warm between the thighs, her thong panties damp.
With one last look, she clicked off the bathroom light and went in search of her husband. She found him in the family room, the remote in one hand as he flicked through the on-screen guide.
"I'm not sure when I'll be home." If at all. "So don't wait up for me, okay?"
"Okay. Have fun." He looked up. "You look nice."
She looked a lot of things. Nice wasn't one of them. "Thanks. I'll see you later then."
The last thing he said as she walked out the door was, "Drive carefully."
She had the invitation. She had her lipstick, her license, and a few dollars. Condoms awaited her at the club, candy jars filled with them. Yes, she would drive her mystery lover very carefully. Drive him insane.
* * * *
Stephen scented her before he saw her. She was hotter than he remembered, than he could have imagined. Her honeyed arousal filled the air like the freshest of flowers. Gone was the hesitancy, the deer-in-the-headlights look. Her fingers didn't tremble as she pulled the invitation from her small purse, nor as she took a champagne glass from an offered tray.
Debbie Carter was at home in her bed. Desiree had come out to play.
She'd arrived later than the group had come last Friday, and he managed to watch her through the throng without revealing himself. Lips the luscious shade of deep red wine, she sipped the sparkling libation, looking over the crowd as if searching. He hovered by a back wall, in shadow. She turned, the light outlining her chest, the gauzy, transparent material of her blouse hiding nothing. Sweet, tight nipples beckoned him. Her pert breasts would be the envy of a t
wenty-year-old.
She was different tonight. The clothing she'd chosen attracted several pairs of eyes, male and female. She was a walking advertisement for fucking. Her gaze flowed right over them. She wasn't here for them. His cock hardened painfully against his zipper. She would look, but she would not touch, not until she found him.
Her backside swayed gently, a hint of creamy flesh showing, as she climbed the stairs to the second floor. An image formed in his mind of his fingers trailing the crease of her buttocks straight to her pussy. He knew he'd find her already wet. The sudden need to stroke his cock had him pulling away from the wall and following her. At the top of the stairs, she disappeared down the right hallway.
He could have tracked her scent, but all he had to do was follow the turn of heads. A man squeezed his partner's breast, his gaze glued to Desiree's bare thighs. The animals were out tonight, and they all recognized a tasty morsel.
She stayed a moment at the edge of a doorway; then moved on until she reached the end of the hall. Starting back along the other side, she stopped, searched, and came closer to him. Gliding in those impossibly high heels, one hand rose to stroke the line of her throat; then the upper swell of breast just inside her blouse.
She was so unconsciously sexy. He was sure she had no idea the effect that slow caress had on him, on the men, on women who weren't averse to same-sex pleasures. He melted into a small alcove as she approached; then passed. Dragging in a breath, the light incense tickling the back of his throat, he leaned his head back against the paneling. He should have pulled her in with him, fucked her brains out, made her scream; then taken her home with him. His body couldn't take much more of her inadvertent teasing.
The Sex Club Page 5