BARE HANDS - A Bad Boy Romance Novel

by Gabi Moore

  That evening, I learned something new about my wife, my beautiful, wonderful, gorgeous slut of a wife. I found myself irresistibly turned on by her; there was something so desperate, so urgent in this new side of her.

  Animalistic.

  She turned her back to me again, and my cock easily found the same passage I had opened earlier that day, and fucked her there again, hard.

  She came easily, and I fancied I saw the slow roll of a tiny car over a horizon reflected in her eyes again. I could tell the memory of that day was fresh and aching in her memory still, still filled with juice, still an itch that she was nowhere done scratching. I clutched her beautiful hips in my hands and unleashed all my energy into her, driving everything I had into her flaming hot, tender core. She screamed, body bucking and throbbing, then, tossing the hair out of her eyes, she pulled her legs open even wider and begged for more.

  I lost count of how many times she came that evening. After a while, the orgasms blurred into one, she stopped being coherent, her exhausted body eventually conceding defeat as she flopped down on the bed, one sweaty leg dangling off the edge. That morning, we both overslept by 30 minutes.

  “Love! You’ll be late for work, come on now, get up,” I said in the rude morning light.

  She nuzzled a dozy face into the pillows.

  “Nah …I’ll call in sick. I’m staying home today. You know what, love? I think I do want to go on a holiday with you.” She smiled.

  I smiled back at this lovable sleepy lump, wrapped in our duvet. I was pleased. There’s something primal and highly satisfying about fucking your wife so thoroughly that she has to call in sick from work the next day. Better still, she was finally coming round to the idea of a bloody holiday already.

  Chapter Eight

  “Toothbrush and toothpaste and things?”

  “Check.”

  “Camera?”

  “Check.”

  “Booking reference for that place?”

  “Check.”

  “Viable egg, ready to be fertilized?”

  “Don’t even joke!”

  She was looking as though she had already been on a luxurious Netherlands holiday. Her long hair was done up in some fancy braids she had been trying to replicate from Pinterest for years, it seemed, and a flowy embroidered shirt, little Denim shorts and a face that looked very much younger than its years.

  We packed ourselves up, drew the blinds and locked up, temporarily leaving behind our little home and everything in there. It was fabulous, and both of us were light hearted, chattering all the way in the taxi to the airport. In the week it had taken us to organize this little trip, she had evolved fully into a proper little deviant, and I had already admitted to myself that the seeds of this particular fetish had always been there, right under the surface.

  Almost overnight, she had become looser somehow, more expansive. In the evenings, we spoke dirty to each other – our new hobby – about what a little slut she was, and I fucked her raw, her new appetite for rough sex seeming never to be satisfied. In the day time, she seemed free and happy, wearing more revealing clothing than she used to, flitting around with just a little more fluidity than before, a little more sparkle to her voice somehow. I loved it, and was proud of her.

  We had a full trip planned – walking tours, a special old church, a trip to the red light district (naughty!) and a restaurant she had been going on and on about. It was going to be perfect. Did I have The Baby in the back of my mind the whole time? Sure, I guess I did. But in a way, we were taking a holiday from that, too. Mercifully, she hadn’t mentioned it in ages. I could write novels about that woman’s pussy, but dear god was I sick of hearing about its multitude of discharges.

  The first night we were too tired to do anything but fall asleep in each other’s arms, in the hotel room. We had ordered room service after a long day of walking and seeing the sights. We were in a beautiful part of the country, in the best season, it seemed, and for once we were both, well, relaxing. I knew a holiday would be just the right thing.

  The next morning, we woke, and I lazily imagined how sweet it would be for her to suck me as I woke up, then we could have breakfast, and go and see that church or whatever. She had other ideas. She was already up and dressed, looking a little stressed, but fine, we had an itinerary to follow. Day two turned out to have a few more challenges to it than our first. We got lost, twice (I told you she had terrible visuo-spatial skills) and were late to our restaurant reservation, so they gave our table away. We ate some overpriced pancake things that weren’t very good, no matter how hard we both tried to pretend they were, and we were pooped by the time 4 o’clock rolled by and we landed in our hotel room again.

  She laughed a little at some Dutch game show and then we settled on the bed for a moment. Now was the time, obviously. I rolled over to her side of the bed and started to kiss her knee, moving just a little further up.

  “Well, this is a very flimsy little thing you’re wearing right here, isn’t it…?” I said, starting off again, trying out this new sex vocabulary that seemed to centre around how utterly inappropriate all her clothing was.

  “Why, what’s wrong with it?” she said.

  I sat back again. Women, right?

  I watched the show with her and then after a while extended a hand over to her again, stroking her forearm a little without making any eye contact. It was as though I could feel the atoms in her arm recoiling from me.

  There it was, all at once, back on us again: the heavy expectation. We were a pair of pandas in captivity, and we were back on a schedule, having to do it, and do it now, right now, or else. I felt the weight of this crushing in all around us; I felt it pulling her away from me. Nothing changed really, in the moments that followed, but everything was different somehow. We were rushing back, at a hundred miles an hour, to our same old lives again, our same old stale house and the same old stale life had followed us after all.

  I pulled back my hand.

  We didn’t have sex that day, or the day after it for that matter. With each day that went by, the mood grew more sour, although we both ostensibly acted very interested in all the touristy things happening all around us. The truth was, we had come there to fuck, but we were doing everything but.

  She closed up again, and I was just about ready to admit that we had only discovered a small pocket, a little anomalous bubble of fun in the long expanse of boring, married life. And now that it was over, there was nothing to do but spend more money in this dump and then go home and catch up on the washing before work started again on Monday. It was hard, and she was miserable about it, too.

  And even when we did manage to get it on, whatever magic needed to happen just wasn’t happening for us. My little swimmers were wiggling up to her egg and saying how do you do and she wasn’t having any of it. My sperm were dying, bored with life, wondering what the point of any of it was, especially something as outrageous as a baby. Or, her egg was too old, too tired, too rushed at work to bother with little swimmers anyway. I don’t know.

  Everything was wrong. The planets never quite aligned. We never found that sweet spot. Our holiday was more depressing than we had anticipated, but I tell you, nothing makes you quite so depressed as knowing that you and your chosen mate are failing hard at your single biological imperative. On our last day, she wore some ratty jeans and told me we might as well cancel all our plans that day and just chill at the hotel pool. I couldn’t be arsed to argue with her, so we did.

  We sat in the room, the Dutch game shows not seeming quite so hilarious anymore, and waited for the last bits of the holiday to get finished already. As a last ditch attempt, I sidled up to her as she was making tea and tried to rub her bum, hoping the suggestion would be enough, but she shrugged me off and pretended it hadn’t happened. Ouch. I gave up. I suppose I was doomed to get to work on buying a Chinese baby for her on the black market when we got home.

  I mumbled something to her and declared I would have a nap.

 
Chapter Nine

  “It’s gross to eat in the room all the time,” she said, “let’s just go downstairs to the restaurant at least.”

  “Fine.”

  We freshened up and headed downstairs for dinner, the heavy red carpets of the lobby seeming at that moment to be everything wrong with the world. We ate in silence, and I tried to convert the Euros in my head as she picked at a dessert, eventually complaining how she hoped it wouldn’t make her fat.

  Then, god bless him, someone stepped in and ended our misery.

  He was a good-looking guy, around our age, sitting alone at a table at the far end of the restaurant. He was seated facing our table, and it became clear to us quite quickly that he was staring at Tanya. A lot. Her eyes flickered to meet his and he smiled.

  Interesting.

  We sat there a little longer, being fabulously obvious. He wouldn’t look away, and every time Tanya noticed this she blushed and looked elsewhere …before looking back at him again.

  I was a little miffed. At first.

  “Having a nice time flirting, I see?” I hadn’t actually decided if I was insulted or not. Tanya was a beautiful woman, anyone could see that. She had always turned heads. Ordinarily, we skirted around that fact with all the tact married couples are supposed to have, but this time, something in me was …curious.

  She looked at me, trying to decode my expression. Surprisingly, I felt a faint flicker of pleasure at the idea. I had called her a slut so often these last few weeks. Well, here she was, opening up again. To someone else. Like a slut. What I did next …well, let’s just say it took me by surprise as much as it did her.

  I turned to look at the guy again, and then gestured for him to come over to our table. A quick flash of panic appeared on his face but he stood up and walked over. I swear I could feel the heat of my wife’s body increasing as he approached the table.

  “Hey man. Want to join us?” I said, indicating the empty seat next to her. God, I was such an alpha male in that moment, I was turning myself on. It was more like an order, more like a challenge than a friendly invitation.

  I had no idea what I was doing.

  Instantly, Tanya extended her hand and burst off into prattle about this and that, her small talk covering up the awkwardness of the moment. Once or twice, she shot a glance in my direction, as if to ask me …something. Permission? For what?

  The guy seemed cool enough, and was answering her questions, smiling and asking his own.

  I sat quietly.

  He had two tanned arms resting on the table, and to my surprise, Tanya lightly brushed her fingers against them, just once, just for a split second. He noticed this. I noticed this. We all noticed each other noticing. For the first time, he looked at me, with a questioning look echoing the one she had shown me moments before.

  I smiled and said nothing.

  We ordered a round of drinks together and chatted some more, but with each little touch of Tanya’s fingertips, here, there, she was slowly ramping up some strange new tension at the table. I noticed, very faintly, that her fingers were shaking, but then I remembered her devilish face that day on the side of the road, her hungry insistence, her utter disregard for whoever drove by that day… no, she knew exactly what she was doing here, I was sure of it.

  The guy, seemingly content that I had given some sort of go-ahead, was focusing his attention more and more on her, his eyes flickering lower down over her body every time she turned away or looked at me.

  Then, she did something: when a plastic coaster fell noiselessly to the floor, she instantly bent down to pick it up, lingering at the bottom so the billowy top of her blouse gaped open and flashed him an ample glance of the tops of her breasts.

  She came up again, to a mood that had changed even more. She cleared her throat.

  “So, like I was saying, the views are beautiful here, really. We’re very cramped at home so it’s lovely to see so far to the horizon. The view in our room is actually the best I think,” she said.

  “What, better than this view?” he replied, referring to the beautiful sculpted gardens all around us.

  “Oh yes. Much better. You get to see so much more…”

  “Really? Probably not.”

  “No really. Wanna come see?

  And that was that. The form of the rest of our evening was beginning to snap into shape. She had been snaking along, looking for some sort of hook in the chit chat, some gap to wedge in some insinuation, some suggestion. And this was it.

  Now, I’ve told you that I’m not too good with picking up on subtle social cues, but it did strike me that all this hinting and flirting was probably unnecessary, given how quickly and eagerly he responded.

  “Yeah, sure, I’ll come up,” and he flashed another pointed glance at me.

  “Yes, come up, she’s exaggerating the view, I think, but let’s go up. We have whiskey in the mini bar, too, I’ll pour you another.”

  And with this flimsy premise of looking at views and drinking whiskey, we all got up and headed over to our room. Tanya, thank heavens, filled all the intervening moments with more small talk (I am constantly reminded of why I married this gorgeous woman) and we found ourselves in the room, on this last night of our trip, when suddenly something was going to happen and I didn’t quite know what to think about it yet.

  As she flung off her shoes, Tanya threw me an intense, pleading look, one that even I could tell was imbued with a million hidden messages.

  She wanted me to do something.

  I kicked off my shoes and it dawned on me: I would have to be the one to instigate whatever happened here. Were we actually just meeting up for an innocent drink with a stranger in our hotel room? No, of course not, we were already well committed, surely. Right? Nobody could say that any of this was innocent. The guy was handsome, too, and you certainly don’t go around looking that handsome without fully intending to… to what?

  I tried to decode the look she was giving me. She had been so grim about everything almost from the first day of this trip, and here she was, all naughty looks and stolen glances. I had played around with the idea, once or twice, of her with another man, but it never really held my interest. Did she want to fuck him? Was I OK with that? I would have done anything to please her, but something sore and unhappy stirred in me at the thought of sharing her. She was mine, wasn’t she? And I hers?

  She plunked down on the bed and I went to make us a trio of drinks; whiskey in tiny etched hotel glasses, one for each of us. Three. An unstable number, that.

  He had seated himself on the edge of a chair next to the bed, leaving the bed as the only remaining place for me to sit. A few sips of whiskey, and the whole thing seemed fun, amusing even.

  They continued to chat, and I watched by idly, interjecting here and there or nodding.

  She had on one of her usual sundresses, this one a little more chaste than our famous roadside number; it had a few fussy bits around the neckline and a slightly longer hem, a hem I had noticed shifting higher and higher up her thighs.

  My mind was all over the place, and their words kind of washed over me – I was listening to the change in pitch of their voices, to the way they seemed to be moving closer to each other.

  She playfully smacked my knee and then leaned in for a playful snuggle, which unexpectedly turned into a kiss. A lingering kiss. We kissed right up to the point of decency and then went past it. She seemed to wait there, half opened lips touching mine, deciding what she would do. She leaned in further and give me one long, slow, almost obscenely intimate kiss, one that sent her little tongue deep into my mouth, her lips hard against mine. She drew back, playful, a drunk little look in her eyes.

  “I hope you don’t mind a little public affection,” she said to him, never breaking eye contact with me.

  He laughed, taking a swig of his drink. “No problem. We’re not really in public anymore, so…” his voice trailed off, and their eyes met.

  This was kind of hot. She looked beautiful. I loved this,
showing her off like this.

  He put his glass down on the side table and leaned in a little, placing a tender hand on her bare thigh. We all three looked down at this hand. That sore, unhappy place in me twinged a little, and I interrupted, pulling her head towards mine.

  “Kiss me again,” I ordered her, and we were both surprised by how much force was in those few words.

  She obeyed, and, with his hand still on her leg, she leaned in for another deep, slow kiss. This time, I grabbed her firmly, with a grasp that seemed to say not him, me. I angled her head to the side and kissed her roughly; her body went limp in my hands. Out the corner of my eyes I saw his hand, still there, stroking her skin faintly. My cock twitched in my pants. I kissed her harder. She tore her lips away from mine and looked over to him, to see whether he was OK with any of this or, she probably hoped, actually thrilled with it.

  He had the same glassy, drunk look to his eyes as she did, and he only stared straight ahead at us, at her lips, his hand still stroking her thighs. She looked into his eyes, then down at the rest of his body, then back into his eyes.

  Some secret bit of communication happened in a flash between them, something quick and dirty, and all at once she snapped her attention back to me, smiling and parting her lips a little to invite yet another luscious kiss.

  His hand was still glued to her; impatiently, I grabbed her around her waist and threw her more fully on the bed, away from his hand, her hair fanning out all around the pillows. This gesture seemed to shock both of them. He moved back in his seat, and picked up his glass again, somehow sensing that I wasn’t ready to share her. Not yet, anyway.