And I did, didn't I?
I should.
I mean, I did.
Just...what the fuck was she doing?
I desperately wanted reassurance that, while this man was a pleasant surprise for her, she was talking to him because it was all part of a plan. Not because he was just so charming, so handsome, so alpha, that she had been swept off her feet. I wanted something to reassure me, and she hadn't given me even so much as a look since she started talking to the guy.
What if she had forgotten not just her mark, but me?
Paddy don't be fucking ridiculous.
Just when I thought I was going to boil over, finally, and call her to ask her what the hell she was doing, the man held up a hand and set his drink down. Pulling something from his pocket, he left the bar.
Jordan watched him go, and my heart sank through my feet and into the floorboards of Little Havana, further and further, deeper and colder, with every second she dd not look over at me.
She looked down at the counter.
Someone stood behind her to order a drink.
My phone buzzed.
A message from Jordan.
I think I lost my guy
Something twisted inside of me. My fingers hovered over the screen. Jordan tipped her head and looked past the man waiting for a drink, at me. She twisted a little in her seat.
It was my turn, she seemed to be saying. The ball was in my court. The guy who had kept her from her mark was a “winner;” we both knew that.
He was more than a winner.
It was now up to me to say what I wanted.
He would be back any minute.
If I wanted out, I needed to say so.
If I wanted in, I needed to say so.
What would she do, if I didn't say anything at all?
My heart felt like someone was wringing it out. Thoughts were going through my head so fast I couldn't get a handle on any one of them. This guy obviously had something. Whatever it took to distract Jordan from her job, which I had never seen before. If he could distract her from her target, what else could he take off her mind? Her marriage? Her promises to me?
As awful as all those ideas were, there was also a certain thrill to them. Just as I had suspected, back when Jordan and I had started down this path: it was like a drug. It had to always be ratcheted up a notch, and then another, in order to give us a thrill.
This guy was charming, this guy had game, this guy was dangerous.
And he was black.
Very, very black.
With all of the sexual stereotypes that came with it. He was radiating an alpha energy; he was moving in on his own target and wasn't going to be put off his goal; and...
(I owned up to my ridiculous preconceptions)
...the man had very, very big hands.
An image of the two of them, ebony and ivory flesh entwined, flashed through my mind, and I felt it reverberate inside of me like an electric shock.
Jordan looked back at me for the second time. She gave me a small shrug.
I saw him, coming like a shadow out of the adjacent hallway. His face was serious, his eyes were on Jordan.
I typed fast.
This guy looks good
I sent the message. A knife of pain went through me. I started to feel cold.
Jordan was already talking to him again. When he sat down she moved her foot close to him.
Had she even gotten the message yet? No.
I could feel my respiration picking up, turning to a rapid panic. My heart was going to need a defibrillator in a minute.
I looked at Jordan's phone. It was on the table, untouched.
She was moving closer to him now.
But something seemed very different than other times. Normally the one casting the spell was Jordan: it was obvious from across the room. Now Jordan was clearly the one being reeled in. He was charming her. And she was blooming like a flower with his every word.
I wiped my eyes. Was that really what was happening, or was that just my mind playing tricks on me like it had a tendency to?
I forced myself to remember all the misunderstandings that had come before Jordan admitted to me that she was honey-trapping. How I had hired a private detective. How I had snuck around in my own house like a burglar and watched her sister fucking a guy for ten minutes believing it was Jordan, just because my mind played such nasty tricks on me and I had wanted to see Jordan with another man.
What was happening here?
God, if you can't fucking trust yourself, who can you trust?
They were leaning very close to each other now. Jordan's eyes were lit up, she was smiling. Her lips were moving. I heard the man laugh. A great, roaring laugh. Low, manly, but genuine. Dear little Jordan was knocking out of the park with whatever she was saying.
Should I take it back? I wondered.
I willed her to look at her phone. If she would just look at it, then I would feel like the event unfolding before my eyes was, in some way, under my control.
Where would it go from here? What would she do next? Because she hadn't looked at my text. She had no idea I was in on it.
Should I call her?
Did I want to break this up?
The man moved his big hand toward Jordan's now. I watched as he picked it up, and she let him move it like it was a limp, unattached part of her body. Her flesh disappeared as he took her hand in both of his, covering it completely. He rubbed his palms together against her hand. For a second I almost felt what Jordan must be feeling: big, strong paw, hot to the touch, enveloping her flesh.
Jordan seemed to swoon with whatever he was saying. Her skin was so fair that the lightest flush was visible from miles away, and I watched as bright pink bled across her cheeks.
He leaned toward her.
I grabbed my phone, and fumbled with the pattern for the lock. “Fuck!” I hissed. I looked back up, swiping uselessly at my screen.
What had I been planning to send to her? Stop? Go? Please hold on while I get my shit together and decide if this huge black man is who I want you to fuck next?
His face was close to hers, and I saw her hair ruffle with the movement of his hand through it, and he held her head in the palm of his hand
-another visual, obviously, crashed through my mind, of his hand on the back of her head and her head between his huge, dark, muscular thighs -
and then:
He stood up. He kissed her on the cheek. She batted her eyes, which had somehow gone sleepy or drunk or gotten stuck together with syrup, and he left.
I watched him go. A huge wall of feelings slammed against me.
I moved my eyes back to Jordan. She was picking up her phone.
She smiled, and dropped it in her purse. She ordered another drink and slammed it.
Then she stood up, gave a final glance at the door, and came walking over to me.
She plopped in the chair across from me. As if I were some kind of girlfriend on a show like Sex and The City (which Jordan, she would only think it fair I point out, detested), she widened her eyes. “Whoa!” she said.
It was in reference, of course, to the magnificent man she had just spent the entire evening flirting with.
The tall, dark – very dark – and handsome man. The man who had distracted her from her original mission. The man who had been so masculine, so suave, so gorgeous, as to derail the incredible Jordan Goodall.
I was conflicted. On the one hand, maybe the more obvious hand, I was feeling anger and jealousy flushing my face, rattling inside of my bones, swelling up inside my blood vessels and threatening to rip me open like an animal trapped inside.
On the other hand, my bad habit was claiming me as intensely. My addiction to seeing my wife flirt with other men, listening to my wife fuck another man, fantasizing about her with other men, other men, other men...Jordan wet and limp after being fucked by other men...Jordan moaning while a huge cock disappeared inside of her...
I scratched my forehead with the e
dge of my thumb and squinted. “That guy really messed you up.”
Jordan held her phone up, displaying my own rash message for me. I stared at the words.
My words.
My go-ahead to my wife that said, essentially: fuck this black stranger.
This guy looks good
The words burned into my eyes.
This was against what I had believed to be our implicit arrangement, but I knew that Jordan would see in my face what I knew to be true in my heart: this was different.
I liked this man.
I liked the idea of Jordan with this man.
Didn't I?
Jordan smiled. “I gave him my number. So...it's not like anything's set in stone.”
I stared at her. My head was filling up quickly with images of her, and him, and they were turning into a caricatures.
“Say something Paddy.”
“It's...good...” I stuttered. It was good. It was a delicious, dark, pulsing, filthy fantasy, and it was all going on in my head as we were speaking and my balls were throbbing and my cock was squeezing out precum. It was good.
“It's just...I guess...”
“Does it bother you that he's not the target?”
She was piercing me with her eyes.
“Uh...well, yeah...and no. No, mostly no.”
This was the truth. Mostly not.
“Does it bother you that he's black?”
Jordan was looking at me, blinking her eyes. Her expression was impossible to read.
Tricky question, this one. One doesn't want to sound like an asshole racist, but on the other hand, one essentially is a bit racist, if the fact that the man is black is fueling more sexual energy than if the man were, say, white.
“I...it's complicated.”
Jordan tipped her head back and let out a whoop. She gave me an icy look when she dropped her head back down, and she held up her finger for the waitress, who was passing by. “Can I get a martini?” she asked. “I just need something to wash all this bullshit down with.”
The waitress, unflappable, looked at me, as if she got drink orders like this all the time.
“I'll take another,” I said. “Okay, okay,” I said to Jordan, seizing on the joking tone in her voice, which was largely at my expense. I leaned forward. “Look, it is...a problem that he's black, but not because it's a problem, as much as it's sort of a problem that it isn't so much a problem...”
Jordan snorted. She leaned closer to me. “You sound like Dr. Suess.” She put her hand on my arm. “Look. Whatever. I just won't answer the phone if it's a problem.”
We sat in loaded silence, and the waitress was back before it seemed possible.
“Just so you know,” Jordan said, swirling an olive around and then biting into it like a small, ravenous animal. “It's sort of a racial thing for him too.”
I cocked my head.
“He's totally into redheads,” she said. She looked up at the ceiling, the small plastic sword in her mouth. “Apparently it's a thing.”
I looked at her.
“Everybody knows that,” I said.
“What?”
“That redheads are a 'thing,'” I said, relieved to have something to be matter-of-fact about. Jordan had somehow rocketed ahead of me in sexual savvy since taking on her new job. “It's really hot if...you know. The carpet -”
“Please do not finish that metaphor!” Jordan snapped, holding her hand up. “God, I hate that. Also,” she dropped her voice conspiratorially, “there's no carpet, remember?”
I laughed.
“Did he tell you he's into redheads?” I said, after a pause.
Jordan smiled at me, the sword between her teeth.
When she dropped her act, whatever act it was she was using for her current target, Jordan reverted to a very intoxicating combination of tomboyishness and elegance. She leaned over the table. “He told me,” she said, lowering her voice to an especially sultry purr, letting the sentence hang in the air with promises of a dirty quote. She leaned closer, and I leaned in, suspecting she was going to make a joke, but hoping for something dirtier. She ran her fingers over the top of my hand. She whispered, dramatically: “That he's into redheads.”
She laughed at herself, and I gave her a smile. Because it was a good joke, and Jordan was funny. But at the moment, I was experiencing a very non-humorous feeling.
Turned on. Jealous. Out-of-control. Aroused. Possessive.
“Come on,” she said. “Let's get out of here.”
She slammed the rest of her martini.
T HAT NIGHT
When we had sex that night, I pounded myself into Jordan.
I had felt out of control again, and controlling her in the bedroom made me feel back in control. I had pushed her toward the bedroom and onto the bed. I told her to take off her clothes, and she had: revealing that she had on only the skimpiest of black panties, which I told her to take off as well. I found a scarf in the first drawer I opened, and wound it around her hands. She gave me a sexy smirk and told me she had handcuffs.
I shook my head. I didn't have time for that.
I unbuckled my belt and unzipped my pants while holding her hands behind her. She was on her knees in front of me. I thought better of things and went around to the front of the bed, where I knelt and pushed her down to my cock. When she bent over I grasped her tied hands and held them, twisting the fabric of the scarf tighter and tighter as she bobbed up and down on my cock.
When I was close to coming, I turned her around. The scarf unwound a little, and her white hands went bright pink with the rush of blood. Her hands were still trapped, and I pushed her down to the bed. I didn't wait to survey her pretty ass, pointed up in the air, or the beautiful, sopping red gash between her legs. I just rammed my cock into her, and grasped the scarf again to keep her body from sliding across the bed and into the headboard with the force of my thrusts.
I came with a yell, and kept fucking her until I felt her twist with her own orgasm, seconds later.
Then I unwound her hands, and we collapsed on the bed.
After a bit of silent panting, Jordan walked her fingers up my chest.
“Okay,” she purred. “What's on your mind? Tyrese?”
I knew as soon as the name left her lips who she was talking about, and it cut through me that she was using his name.
“Tyrese?” I said, trying to sound confused. “Who's Tyrese?”
“Please,” she said. She stroked me on my chest with the tips of her fingers. “Look, I only let that go where it went because...well, you know, we had talked about it before.”
It took me second to realize she was referring to the discussion we had had about going outside the pool of men she was being paid to honey-trap.
“Tyrese seemed to fall out of the sky, it just seemed like a good idea. That Brian guy seemed like a bit of a dick, to be honest.”
I was silent. A lot of different feelings were coursing through my veins.
There were, I realized, a lot of things we still needed to talk about.
I sighed.
She raised her head and looked at me. “I don't have to-”
All at once, my mouth was doing a lot of talking for me. Almost like it wasn't part of my body. As I heard myself, though, I realized I had been giving a lot of thought to the things I was saying.
This sort of thing happens to me a lot. I find myself sometimes, sounding really brilliant in court, and almost observing myself as though from outside of my body.
“Jor,” I said. “It's not that I don't like the idea. I do. I asked you to do this and I loved it last time. I loved it when you did it with men you were trying to trap because...well, there was almost a guarantee there, that it was just for the thrill. But something's been bugging me when we talk about other situations...and you know what it is? I don't want there to be any emotional...'thing'...between you and some guy.” I was nodding at myself as I said this.
Right-o, Paddy, you really are smart enough to be a
n attorney.
“I also feel...I don't know...”
Jordan was looking at me. The expression on her face was almost blank. She really had no idea what I was about to say.
I sat up on my elbows. “Look,” I said. “This has been...exhilarating. And I'm not saying I want to to stop. But, we never talked about it really. Not really. And I feel...I feel...”
Just fucking say it, Paddy.
Jordan's face, too, was twisting up in impatience. She detested waiting for me to finish a sentence.
“Out of control,” I spat.
Jordan's eyes narrowed.
“Out of control, how?” she said. She was a little annoyed.
But her face softened, and she let herself fall back on the bed. “Sorry,” she said. “You're right, we haven't really thought this through enough.”
Panic started to rise up inside of me, because she had the tone of voice that indicated she was going to give up on something. I needed to put the brakes on it fast.
“No...the thing is, Jordan, I've thought about it a lot. I feel all these things about it, all day long. It's..the most exciting thing that's happened since...”
Jordan was silent. Then she snorted, having obviously made a joke in her mind.
“What?” I said.
She shook her head. “No, it's stupid.”
“Tell me.”
“Since the washing machine exploded, I was going to say.”
“Funny.”
“I know. I'm sorry.” She pressed her fingers to her nose. “Okay,” she said, serious suddenly. “I'm sorry. I just do that because it's sort of...hard to talk about this stuff.”
I was silent for a moment. Where was I?
Ah, yes. Control, how I wanted to have it. Emotional connection, how I wanted it all to myself. How I think and feel about this, all day long. Ah, yes.
“So that's it – I think about his all the time. We just never talk. We never really...I don't know...set up any rules.”
Jordan was quiet. Then she turned on her opposite side and propped herself up on her elbow to look at me. “Okay,” she said. “Tell me what the rules are.”
I felt that feeling, the one I get sometimes in court, when things have been sliding away from me...bad witness, surprising motion, sympathetic smiles from the jury...and then something, somehow, puts me back in control. It just sort of clicks back in place, and then everything sharpens. I won't lie and say that feeling doesn't have echoes of eroticism to it, that getting back in control. The same way driving does, the same way sports do, the same way, I imagine, digging up a ditch with a huge backhoe does. Control was sexual, and I was getting a big dose of it right now.
A Well-Laid Trap 2: The Story Of A Professional Hotwife Page 6