Some Wives Do...Whatever it Takes

by Remi Wild

  I’m trying to keep it together, to remain upright, but his tongue laps at my clit, and I come undone, screaming as an orgasm of epic destruction rips through my body, frying a few brains cells on the way.

  My fingers weave into his hair, fisting his locks as he suckles and licks. Riding out the wave of mind-numbing awesomeness, my head rolls against the wall, side to side as if it will fall and disconnect from my neck—I’m lost and found all at the same time, floating on an ethereal cloud of desire.

  His effect on me, on my body, on my entire being is astounding, epic. A tear escapes, trickling down my cheek, scorching a path along my flesh, reminding me that this man is it.

  He’s everything.

  He stands, scoops me up while claiming my lips, and carries me to the bed. Somehow my teddy disappears, my stockings are destroyed, and we are naked, laying side-by side, kissing and touching, exploring the curves and fun bits.

  His hands are magic.

  His flesh is hot, burning against mine.

  I’m going to burst if he doesn’t take me.

  Lifting one leg up, I drape it around his waist. He rolls onto his back, taking me with him as he slides into me, and I begin to ride. Moving hard and slow against him, I thrust and tease, thoroughly enjoying each movement, each sensation.

  Reaching up, he cups my neck, pulling my mouth to his—I grind harder as he savages my lips, probing my mouth with his tongue. We’re like two wild animals, fucking against all odds, like it could be the last time, or just like the first.

  At some point, we slow down—mostly because we want to pace ourselves, really enjoy each other. We spend the next several hours tangled in each other’s arms, casually exploring between moments of unconsciousness.

  I wake to darkness, wrapped in his arms, although I don’t remember falling asleep. We must have just passed out, our bodies spent. Everything aches and feels amazing. It’s nights like this that make reality a bitch because there is no way to top it—until next time.

  I’m dreading work, dreading leaving this bed, his arms.

  The flesh that isn’t pressed against his is chilled, so I move to pull up a blanket. He stirs and we flip, placing me nicely in little spoon position. He’s hard again and his breath quickens against the back of my neck, sending tingles to every part of my body.

  Grinding against him, we shift, and he is inside me, slowly moving, taunting me to the brink of insanity. It’s not enough—pulling my knees up, I press into him, demanding a deeper thrust and as he obliges we both release in perfect unison, with me squeezing his pulsating shaft as we soar together.

  He whispers my name with a rush of heat against my neck while still moving within me, holding on to the very last. It’s enough to send another shudder through me, birthing a longer less intense orgasm—it’s more like an extension of the last as everything is tingling, tickling, tantalizing.

  The after bliss of a phenomenal shag leaves me breathless, spent, and floaty. I am blessed. This man can get me off with very little effort...Our bodies were simply meant to connect.

  Will I ever get enough?

  I always need more.

  Always.

  “Let’s stay like this forever.” I say, following it up with a satisfied giggle.

  “Forever, until morning...” His voice is weak, he’s fading.

  “Stupid work. Stupid real world.”

  He nods behind me and then relaxes, passing out while still inside me. I close my eyes, resolving myself to the fact that my body can’t take anymore and welcoming the sweet oblivion of sleep.

  Chapter Eleven

  Tonight’s the night. I’m nervous, flustered, running around my kitchen, trying but failing to maintain some semblance of organization. This dinner party is quickly becoming my worst nightmare.

  Deciding on Italian was a huge mistake, mostly because I am a below-average kitchen witch. My lasagna looks runny, but it smells edible. My French bread is ready to go for garlic toast, and I have prepared several salads and appy platters, overflowing with cheeses, tomatoes, basil, and prosciutto.

  Everything must be perfect.

  Must show solid marriage to Eric.

  Must show Fiona that I am the shit, so she might as well forget it. Hopefully, our show of solidarity coupled with Leo’s delectability is enough to convince her to step off and pursue a different venture.

  It would make my year if she and Leo hooked up.

  A rumbling in my stomach catches my attention—it sounds angry, aggressive. Tilting my head, I wait—it comes back with a vengeance, ripping through my abdomen on a straight course for...no, no, no!

  Mucous builds in my throat, I swallow hard to defy it, to hold it back, but it keeps building at a dangerous rate.

  This isn’t happening.

  Not tonight.

  I can’t be…sick.

  No.

  Breathe.

  I have to make it through this.

  Arms wrap around me from behind as another spasm rips through me, this time it’s painful. I groan, pull away, and race to the bathroom. I’m a part of the toilet when Eric knocks on the door.

  “You okay, Becky?”

  “I’m fine,” I say, my voice is strained, weak. Painful beads of sweat form on my forehead, burning their way through the pours. Another spasm rips through me, and I gag at the same time. Reaching over, I grab the trash can and vomit, gagging until there isn’t anything left and then heaving some more.

  Eric knocks again. “I’m cancelling...”

  The doorbell rings. Too late.

  I don’t care. I’m dying in here.

  Between shitting and puking, I hear the doorbell ring again and try to listen for voices. It’s Fiona, and I think it might be Leo. It’s hard to tell because my head is pounding; it’s excruciating, I can’t think, let alone hear anything else. Heaving some more helps to clear the headache, but it only lasts for a few minutes.

  Cursing my job and the virus that has clearly latched on to me, I clean up, gargle some mouthwash and sneak out of the bathroom. My plan is to slither upstairs and quietly die in bed, but when I exit the bathroom, Eric, Fiona, Leo, and Melanie are all talking and watching me with concern.

  What the hell is Melanie doing here?

  Did Eric invite her?

  Did I?

  I’m sure I didn’t…I don’t think I did, but my thoughts can’t form any sort of logic.

  Eric makes a move, but I raise my hand in protest, swallowing hard to retain my stomach contents—what’s left, anyway. He freezes, eyeing me.

  “No. Stay back. You don’t want this...believe me. I’m just going to head up to bed now. Please help yourselves to the food and have a good time...I’m sorry...” A spasm rips through me, and I bolt up the stairs to the bathroom in the guest bedroom, slamming the door.

  Eric knows the drill. When I have the flu, he stays away. He’s been lucky to avoid most viruses, so hopefully he can avoid this one, too.

  Time has no meaning when your wrapped around a toilet heaving for hours on end. It feels like days, like I might actually die from this.

  After a while, I start to feel better. The spasms have subsided and the headache is gone, but I’m still weak and light-headed.

  Feeling bad for missing the dinner party, I move through the door and across the guest room to look out the window that faces our deck and back yard. Eric and Fiona are talking by the bar. They’re in swimsuits—well, he is, but she is mostly naked in a black string bikini that covers just enough and not nearly enough at the same time. As usual, she is stunning.

  “Look away, Becky,” I tell myself, nodding my head while trying to accept the current situation. “No big deal…They’re just hanging out.” Eric makes a move, his hand lands on Fiona’s lower back. Fire burns my cheeks!

  His hand is actually on her flesh! That’s his move with me!

  Blinking rapidly, I try to justify this very intimate gesture, but I can’t. He removes his hand as Leo jumps out of the pool, heading their way. I
swear it’s as if he didn’t want Leo to see him touching her.

  My head begins to pound again and the room starts to spin. Leo is now standing between them. Thank you, Leo. Looking at them, it’s easy to see that they are having a casual conversation. There’s no intimacy, just friendly chitchat.

  Did I just imagine it?

  Ugh.

  I’m delusional.

  Nothing is going on.

  Scanning the yard, I look for Melanie. She appears to be in the hot tub across the yard. My head tilts slightly, wondering who invited her. I wanted Leo and Fiona to hook up.

  My plan has become perfect and utter shit. Although I guess with Mel here, it balances the scale.

  Sighing audibly, I swallow hard, willing myself to feel better, but it doesn’t happen. My eyes move back to Leo who says something to Eric and Fiona and then the three of them head towards the hot tub. Everything is playing out as if my presence isn’t even missed, as if I’m not even a part of their world, and then I see it—Eric, with his hand on Fiona’s lower back, again!

  What.

  The.

  Actual.

  Fuck.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I shake my head, trying to sway myself against what I’m seeing. It’s probably a delusion, dehydration, that is making me see things that aren’t there.

  When I open my eyes, his hand is still there. I can’t possibly justify it. And the possessive way he holds himself to Fiona around Leo? This is new. Not what I ever in a million years expected.

  What do I do?

  What do I do?

  What the hell do I do?

  Anger burns my cheeks and my eyes tingle with the threat of tears. I can’t do this. I feel like death, and my husband is a jackass. How dare she come to my dinner party and stay after I take to bed sick.

  Who does that?

  I thought for sure they would leave.

  Yeah, I told them not too.

  Cramps rip through my abdomen, and for a second I wonder if I will need to return to the bathroom, but it passes. A thought comes to me. An evil one. I have no shame at this particular moment, so whatever.

  Turning back to the window, I see they are all still in the hot tub, so I sneak downstairs and search out Fiona’s handbag. Her phone and purse are on the table in the foyer, so I reach in, grab her phone, and proceed to cough all over it. In about 24 hours, she’ll be toast. I grin, knowing it was truly sadistic, but I don’t actually give a shit.

  This is war.

  I will not be replaced.

  I can’t be without Eric.

  I won’t survive.

  My stomach clenches, and as I lean over clutching it in pain, I realize this is a nasty flu. I shouldn’t have just spread the joy to Fiona.

  Now what?

  Another spasm has me running back up to the bathroom where I spend the rest of the night. I don’t even have the stamina or care to spy on my husband anymore, or to care that Fiona will probably be next.

  That’s Karma.

  Maybe this flu is my Karma.

  Too weak for anything, I make a towel bed and lay my head down. Thoughts of Eric and Fiona cloud my weak mind until I pass out on the bathroom floor, flitting in and out of consciousness.

  Something stirs me. As my eyes flutter open, struggling to focus, I see her—standing in the bathroom doorway, staring at me with a blank expression on her face as if she sees me as nothing more than dirt beneath her feet. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself to stop hallucinating, and when I open my eyes, she is gone.

  I’m not sure I really saw her.

  Can hardly register my surroundings.

  Don’t have the strength or the want to dwell on it.

  Closing my eyes, I succumb.

  Chapter Twelve

  I wake, confused, my achy body cradled in the lush duvet and cozy guest bed. How did I get here? My last memory is of the bathroom floor.

  Gazing around the dark room, I stop and stare at the ceiling, trying to decipher how much time has passed. I prop myself up on my elbows, prepared to get out of bed, but the room starts to spin, so I close my eyes until it passes. Somehow, I sit up and am able to get out of bed, but then stand with my hands propped against the end table as I will away the dizziness.

  A pitcher of water and a glass are sitting on the table, and it occurs to me how I made it to bed. Eric obviously moved me, and he tucked me in. Hard to believe that I didn’t wake when he moved me, but I was so weak and completely done.

  He takes such good care of me. I am the luckiest woman on the planet.

  Walking through the room, I open the door and step out into the hall. The house is mostly dark, quiet. Moving to lean over the railing, I notice the shoes and purses are gone from the table in the foyer. I stare at our bedroom door, longing to snuggle in Eric’s arms, but I know the rules. I made them.

  Sleeping without him sucks.

  He was willing to come in contact to help me to bed, though...

  No. I have to stay away.

  Nothing make me feel shittier than knowing I got him sick.

  My face flushes as a memory blasts to the forefront of my mind. Moaning, I cradle my face in my hands and then peak out through the finger spaces. I can’t believe I germ-bombed Fiona’s purse.

  What have I done?

  How juvenile can I be? Honestly.

  Reasoning that I wasn’t in my right mind at the time, I take in a slow calming breath and hope Fiona’s got stellar immunity, or she’s going to be one sick puppy.

  Ugh.

  What the hell is wrong with me? I can’t believe I did that. Eric was just being a good host, and I shouldn’t have even spied on them. Nothing would have ever happened...

  What a complete and total failure my dinner party turned out to be.

  All I wanted was the opportunity to display my awesomeness like a proud peacock to Fiona—fail. Now, I’ve inadvertently given them more time together. My mind swirls back to the pair walking towards the hot tub. They had time to hang, together.

  Shrugging, I make my way back to the guest room. It’s night and the house is empty. Eric was just being a good host. The party probably wrapped up early, and he went to bed.

  Plopping myself down, I slither under the covers and close my eyes, welcoming the cushiony heaven, willing it to whisk me away to dreamland. It doesn’t happen. I am now haunted, possessed by images of Eric’s hand on the small of her back.

  I’m being stupid.

  I’m not even sure I actually saw it happen. I was so weak, it was probably my overactive imagination, my insecurities.

  No. I know what I saw.

  Honestly, I had this all under control, the jealousy, until I saw that, remembered it. Now, I’m totally rattled—it doesn’t mix well with the nausea and fatigue.

  Taking a long, desperate swig of water, I close my eyes, welcoming the cool liquid into my parched body. I’m no good to anyone in this condition.

  Sleep is inevitable, but all I can think of is Eric, and how much I love him, how kind, generous, funny, and romantic he is, how lucky we both are, I drift...

  Starving, I spring from bed and stretch, satisfied that I’m over worst of this virus. My stomach groans, demanding food. The sun is starting to rise, so I make my way down to the kitchen, leaving Eric behind our closed bedroom door—he needs his sleep, and I need food.

  As I enter the kitchen, I freeze, my eyes fixate on an object sitting on the island: Fiona’s purse. It’s still here! My pulse starts to race as I swing my gaze to the French doors leading to the back yard. The deck is empty, no one.

  My breath stops, and I slap my palm against my chest, reminding my heart to keep beating, my breath to keep moving. Scanning the room, I think, try to come up with a reason as to why her purse is still here, but as I’m thinking, my peripheral catches a glimpse of something else. Swinging my neck, my eyes stop on Fiona’s strappy sandals, sitting on the floor next to a bar stool at the kitchen island.

  Heat rises to my cheeks and the panic is
buried, obliterated by the impending and super-increasing anger. I fly up the stairs, two at a time, pausing for a moment outside our bedroom door, before reaching out to turn the handle. As my hand curls across the cold, brushed brass, I pray, I beg God, I bargain. I’ll do anything if it isn’t true.

  Somehow the door swings open, and I see it. Eric, asleep, face down on his side of the bed, and Fiona curled up next to him, sleeping soundly. The blanket is pulled down slightly, and her perfect naked breast is peeking out over the duvet mound.

  No.

  No. No.

  I’m just delusional from the flu.

  This isn’t happening.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I sway on my feet, close to collapse, but I have to know.

  Is it real?

  I’m dreaming…

  My eyelids flicker open and tears begin to fall as I stand, staring, silent, destroyed. My whole world spins, my stomach groans, and then it happens—something deep inside snaps. Storming over to the bed, I whip the duvet off Fiona with one hand as my other reaches out, fists her hair, and yanks her startled squealing ass from my bed.

  “Get out of my house, now!” I growl.

  She looks at me confused for a second as she is still waking up, but then a slight grin curls her lips, and she stands straight, glaring at me with smug don’t-give-a-fuck, resting bitch face. I swear to God, it’s the same look she gave me last night as she watched me from the doorway.

  It was real—I know this now.

  It was all real, starting with his hand on her back!

  Losing it, I jump up on the bed, standing on the mattress, while I kick my husband in the leg, demanding he wake up. He moans and opens an eyelid, but then flies from the bed as he sees me standing there.

  He stumbles to catch his balance but freezes when he sees Fiona. Shaking his head vehemently, he begs me with his eyes. “I didn’t...”

  A hand goes to hip, and I shoot him the death glare. “Oh really? How the fuck does your coworker end up in bed naked with you, genius?”

  Still shaking his head, he looks around me at Fiona, his face falls as he looks for the memory. Looking off to the side, he shakes his head. “No. I would never...”