Текст книги "Tryst"

Автор книги: S. L. Jennings

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Chapter Twenty-two

My husband holds my hand, our fingers coupled together, and brings my knuckles to brush over his lips. We walk down a long hallway housing a half dozen different rooms that service different purposes. I knew Justice’s place was big; I just didn’t realize how big it was. This much real estate in New York would literally cost an arm and a leg. And probably a kidney too.

“Here we have the studio where we instruct couples yoga every morning, as well as a course on tantric sex three times a week,” Justice states very matter-of-factly, waving toward the space that looks like . . . well . . . a fitness studio, with its hardwood floors and 360 mirrored walls. A class is in session right now, and both men and women are propped into a bridge pose, their pelvises jutting toward the ceiling.

We follow him down the hall for a few yards until we come across another door. “Here’s the theater room. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what’s projected on the screen. The seats are cleaned and sanitized after every viewing.”

Tucker and I take in the plush, oversize loungers that are made for two. The room is draped in darkness, setting the tone for naughty fun in a forbidden place. Makes sense. How many people have messed around in a movie theater with a boyfriend or girlfriend? How many guys have let their hands snake up a girl’s skirt to stroke her clit while she held a giant popcorn bucket in her lap as cover?

When we come to stop at another room, boasting twin, raised platforms, each skewered with stripper poles, Tucker lets out a low whistle. “Strippers, eh?”

“My friends Candi and Jewel host two interactive shows every week,” Justice explains. “How many couples have fantasies that revolve around a strip club? It’s a multibillion dollar a year industry, so obviously, the demand is there. The problem is that too many spouses reject them, seeing it as something vile and degrading to their marriage. But, in reality, they are just as intrigued by what goes on behind those doors, and their hatred comes from a place of fear. So not only are we bringing it to them, we’re teaching them how to re-create this experience in their own bedrooms. And we encourage them to enjoy it for what it is—entertainment.”

I watch Tucker’s expression as he nods in appreciation. Of course, this is no shock to me. I already knew the two strippers were on the payroll. I’m just pleasantly surprised by all that Justice has accomplished with his new training program within a few months. I try not to get into the details with him, considering that I can’t spin what I don’t know. So information is usually offered on a need to know basis. And before now, I didn’t think I needed to know any of this stuff.

Justice waves in the direction of a pair of doors as couples pass us wearing nothing more than navy blue bathrobes etched with the Oasis logo on the breast pocket. “Through there you’ll find the spa area, both male/female, and coed. Indoor pool, hot tubs, steam rooms, tables for intimate massage, plus a separate entrance to the outdoor pool. And down through here is the . . . communal play area, if you will. We call it the playground. Either you play fair and safely, or you don’t play at all.”

“Play area?” I frown. This is news to me. “What do you mean by that?”

“Let me show you.”

Justice leads us to the door in question and pulls out a key, also tied with a satin ribbon. This one is black, alluding to the dark desires that harbor just on the other side. He unlocks the door and steps aside to let us in first. While the lighting is dim, I can clearly make out a descending staircase.

“Go down. You’ll come to another door. Also locked,” he instructs from behind us, his tone all business.

We do as he says, maneuvering our way down the cramped staircase. It’s narrow so Tucker and I must part grasps, him taking the lead as my husband and protector. When we reach the end of the staircase, Justice comes to stand before us, his back to the door protectively.

“Now before I open this door, I want you to understand something: No marriage is created equal. There’s no handbook, no set of rules and regulations. And in this day and age, people are just trying to hold on to the love that initially sent them down the aisle. They’ve learned to improvise . . . explore. Experiment. And I allow them to do so in a safe, non-judgmental environment where discretion is the golden rule. Any and everything you see behind this door will probably shock you. It may even scare you. But you will refrain from condemning the people that choose to be proactive in their marriages versus succumbing to society’s opinion of what their relationships should be. You won’t find routine within those walls. You won’t see rigidness or censure. What you’ll find is freedom and happiness and, yes, love. Because it takes an immense amount of love to selflessly give your partner what he or she needs sexually. That is one of the greatest sacrifices one can give to another.”

With those words, Tucker and I lock eyes and lock hands, just as we were before. However, I hold on to him a little tighter, hoping he can still my trepidation, and I feel just how incredibly grateful I am that he is my husband. It’s no secret that this may be uncomfortable for him, yet he’s here anyway. He’s always here, always patient. He’s the perfect husband, yet I have been a less-than-perfect wife.

We both look back at Justice and nod our agreement. He turns around and places the onyx-laced key in the lock.

The first thing that hits us is the noise. The bass is so heavy that I can feel the vibrations through my chest and the tempo is sinuously provocative. It’s like the quintessential sex mix tape, and not just any sex either. Nasty, messy, kinky sex. And that’s exactly what surrounds us at this very moment.

Large beds are scattered around the room, some canopy (to hold up a variety of chains and cuffs), some round (because apparently, they fit more people), and others rotating (providing a 360 view for . . . everyone). Aside from the three of us, everyone is naked, or wearing the same blue terry cloth robes I saw earlier. The same ones hanging in our en suite bathroom. Come to think of it, I recognize a few of the participants from just minutes before when they disappeared into the spa.

I try to withhold my gasp, or what Justice would call it—pearl clutching, but there’s just so much . . . sex. Like on every surface, every platform. Even against walls and from ceilings.

There are men and women on huge wooden crosses, naked and shackled, some with gags in their mouths. They moan and writhe as their lovers perform humiliating acts on them—whipping them, caning them, even pouring hot wax on them. And while many of them cry out, I find that they are not cries of distress, but cries of pleasure. They love it. Some even beg for more.

I spy at least three sex swings suspended from the ceiling as well as a half dozen oddly shaped lounge chairs that are being used for anything but lounging. There’s a scene merely feet away from where we stand, where a woman is being impaled from behind, her upper torso draped over the chair in a way that gives her lover maximum depth. I hate to admit it, but it looks incredibly hot. So hot that I’m mentally strategizing all the positions that chair would allow.

There’s not just hetero sex going on in here either, even with people I am positive lead hetero lifestyles. On one of the round beds, there seems to be some kind of conga line of sorts. A man is fucking a woman from behind while her face is pressed between a woman’s thighs. Another man fucks her mouth while he eats a man’s ass. And that guy is balls-deep in a young man who looks no older than eighteen. And that’s really not the most shocking scene around the room.

Reluctantly, I look over at Tucker and find his eyes fixated on the group sex scene. I can’t read his expression, and I so desperately need to know what he’s thinking. He’s never had an aversion to homosexuality—hello, we live in NYC—but he also has never made me think that he could be into other guys. That night with Ransom, as he watched with his dick in his hands, was as close to kink as he’s ever gotten. And maybe that’s what did it for him . . . not watching me get fucked, but watching another man. Maybe that’s why he came harder than I’ve ever seen him come. Maybe that’s why he seemed so buoyant and sexy. Justice said that one of the greatest sacrifices one can give their spouse is giving their partner what they need sexually. What if Tucker doesn’t need me? Maybe I can’t physically satisfy him? Would I be willing to let him experiment with another man?

Tucker must feel my hand tense as that realization gnaws at me, and looks down, a mixture of haughty desire and fear on his face. “What’s wrong?”

I shake my head and return my gaze to the crowd. Now I realize why the music seemed so ridiculously sexual. It’s being remixed by real life moans and mewls.

“Any questions for me?” Justice asks. “And before you say No, I’m not buying it. Everyone should have questions. And I’m glad to answer them.”

I look up at the gorgeous man to see that he appears nonplussed. All this must not even phase him. I guess being around it day in and day out makes you pretty immune.

“These people are all married. So are these couples sleeping with other couples? Seems like it could get kinda messy.”

Justice nods and glances out into the crowd. “We bring in people who are willing to participate, people that are well versed with this lifestyle. Some are professionals. Some just want to guest star for fun. However, this is not sex for hire. All of my employees choose who they play with. Just because they are here, that doesn’t mean they are obligated to fuck you. We hold weekly mixers so the couples can get acquainted with our featured players. Sometimes they connect with someone and decide to take it further. Other times, they just like to come here to have sex with each other.”

“Wait. So there are singles here too? Staying here on the compound?” I try and fail to keep the alarm out of my voice. That was my only saving grace—knowing that Ransom was surrounded by married couples. It would be much less likely for him to sleep with anyone while we’re here. And yeah, while I know he fucks other women and it is none of my business, I definitely don’t want to be sleeping a few doors down from it.

“They all go through a strict screening process,” Justice explains. “All STD free and bound under airtight contracts. If they even whisper about this place in their sleep, they forfeit every dime they’ve ever made and will ever make for life.”

I nod like he’s eased my reservations, though I feel even less confident. Ransom could fuck whomever he wanted, and there’d be no risk of it ending up in the tabloids. This would be like an all-you-can-eat buffet for him. And, of course, the women that I suspect are “guest stars” are all insanely gorgeous and youthful with their round, full breasts and high, perky asses. Perfect.

“Let’s take a look around. If we stumble upon something that intrigues you or confuses you, we can stop to dig deeper, no pun intended. Shall we?”

I look at Justice’s expectant guise and offered hand, then turn to my husband. Oddly enough, he looks as if he’s waiting for me to decide too. As if he’s already made up his mind.

I give each man a shaky palm and stiffen my spine, steeling every nerve within me. “Ok. Let’s do this.”

Chapter Twenty-three

I haven’t been able to sleep for two nights since the day we got a glimpse of Justice’s playground. I thought I was ready for it. Thought that it was just what we needed to open up the conversation for our marriage and our sex life. But all it’s done is leave me even more confused and obsessive about our issues.

I can’t get the look on Tucker’s face out of my mind. He looked so fascinated, so engrossed in every single devious act. Several times he would just stop and watch, chewing that full bottom lip with wolfish delight. It didn’t matter who was involved—men, women—it seemed oddly interesting to him.

We stopped to witness a couple masturbating on the bed. Their eyes stayed locked on each other as they pleasured themselves, and when they came, they did it together. It was as if they didn’t even notice us standing there watching. Like they didn’t give a damn. They were the only two people that existed in their world. Tucker gave them each his attention equally. I assumed most straight men would keep their eyes pinned on the woman and the way her fingers slipped through her slick, pink folds, but he was just as enthralled in the way the man pumped his thick cock and massaged his balls simultaneously. It was . . . unnerving. And I found myself watching my husband, instead of watching the couple’s intimate show.

There were several group sex scenes—threesomes, foursomes, and all-out orgies. Those seemed to be his favorite. And while I found them so hot that it left a wet spot in my panties, I couldn’t stop speculating why he seemed to find them so enticing.

After our tour of Oasis’s underground bedlam, Justice gave us homework—a series of questionnaires that would keep us busy for hours, which I was grateful for, considering I was trying to avoid Ransom at all costs. The motive was to have us be honest about our wants and fantasies, and even discuss them candidly. I shouldn’t have been surprised when Tucker checked Yes for sex involving others, but I was. Which was so fucking hypocritical of me considering that we’d already come to that bridge, crossed it, and were considering just burning the fucker down altogether.

As awkward as it was, we did speak about our expectations . . . sorta. He talked, I listened. He asked questions, and I deflected. The process—which should have been informative and fun, even—was frustrating, and none of it was his fault. I brought him here. I asked him to have an open mind. Now I was being stubborn that he’s willing to try things my way. Be careful what you wish for, and all that jazz.

Still, I would have rather been caught up with my feelings about me and my husband’s potential alternative lifestyle rather than what was really eating me up inside. I didn’t want to see Ransom, which was pretty easy to achieve considering the size of the compound, yet I missed him. I missed him like he was a million miles away rather than mere yards down the hall. I missed him like he had been my best friend for years and we talked every day. I missed him like he was mine. And none of those reasons made a lick of sense, but that didn’t keep me from wanting them to be true.

I can’t deny that I’m worried for him. Well, worried for me. Ever since Justice revealed that there were singles here that were down for pretty much anything, I’ve been a nervous wreck about what he could be getting into—quite literally—now that I’m not in the picture. I mean, let’s be honest, I was never in the picture. He was still sleeping with women before and after me, and rightfully so. But I don’t need to know about it. I don’t need it flaunted in my face, wearing a goofy, satisfied grin and messy, just-fucked hair.

Because of all the random ridiculousness swirling in my head, I’ve been bitchier than usual. Tucker’s been trying everything—suggesting yoga, classes, movies, even a playful couple’s game night—but I’ve shot him down at every turn, feigning work situations that needed my immediate attention, or—you guessed it—cramps. And every time, he’s shrugged his shoulders and taken it like the gentleman that he is, even bringing me pain meds on occasion.

I stand out on our balcony, overlooking the pool area where nearly a dozen couples splash around and mingle jovially. They all look so normal, so happy. You’d never guess that one is a state senator who likes to get fucked in the ass while eating his wife’s pussy. Or one is a Food Network TV personality who likes to be shackled and blindfolded while her husband whips her until her skin is raw then force-feeds her decadent cakes.

I watch these people and I both envy and loathe them for being able to accept who and what they are, and have the strength to act on it. I thought sleeping with Ransom was my way of owning my sexuality. A way for me to feel empowered by letting another man screw me into the mattress in a haze of violent passion. It was my way of taking back control—giving the finger to the sick fuck who stole from me. Yet, here we are, more than a decade later, and he’s still taking from me. And I’m letting him.

I decide that I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep letting my bullshit hang-ups affect my marriage. It isn’t Tucker’s baggage to carry, yet I keep placing it on his shoulders. And being the man that he is, he takes it without complaint.

I love him. God, I love him. And there will never be another man better than him. There will never be another man who will put up with my mood swings and my bickering and my sexual complications. There will never be a man who was born to be a father, yet has sacrificed that need within him for the woman he loves. I’ll never find a man who loves me harder and fiercer than he does. And if there is something that I can do to show him just an inkling of the gratitude I feel for him, then it’s my duty as a wife to do it.

I go back inside my room and gather the folder containing the questionnaires and contracts, looking over the details one last time. Then I slip on my sandals and make my way to the room that Justice uses as his office. It used to house the files of his many clients and gave his concierge a place to work, but now he actually uses the thing. Something about separating his work life from his home life, aka life with Ally.

I find that he isn’t in when I pop my head in so I place the documents inside a sealed envelope and leave it on his desk with his name on it. I’m not worried about anyone nabbing the file. After what I saw in that dark den of sin, I have enough dirt to start a dust storm on Mars. We’re all in the same boat here, and I feel oddly confident that these walls are pretty silent after last year’s debacle.

I’m turning back to my room, deep in thought about the decision I’ve just made, and contemplating where we go from here, when I nearly take someone out while rounding the corner.

“Oh! Excuse me,” I stammer, but I’m only met with a deep, throaty chuckle.

Of course. Of course, this would happen now.

“Heidi,” Ransom smiles, one corner of his mouth reaching higher than the other.

“Ransom. Hi.” I clear my throat and touch my hair nervously. “I hope all is well. Enjoying your stay here?”

He nods. “I am. Thank you.”

I take in what he’s wearing right now—board shorts, flip-flops, and a sleeveless tank. There’s a towel draped over one arm, and a very familiar navy blue robe on the other.

“Going for a swim?” I ask, trying to school my voice into something that resembles nonchalance.

“That’s the plan. I heard there was a spa around here with an indoor pool and a couple different specialty rooms. Thought I’d check them out. Should be fun.”

My mouth drops and my eyes grow in size. I mean to respond but no sound comes out. Not even a peep.

Ransom is going to the spa. And he’s got that terry cloth robe with the Oasis insignia on it. It could be innocent fun or it could be something else. And if it is—if he is going back there for more than just a massage and a mud mask—it won’t be just to watch. Ransom is going to play. And I can only imagine that he’d be the shiniest, most enticing new toy on the playground.

Chapter Twenty-four

Things are in motion.

The contracts have been approved. The questionnaires have been evaluated. And Tucker seems to grow more and more excited by the prospect of going through with this. The mixer is tomorrow night and that’s where we will meet other couples and singles that are like us. So I’m not surprised when I receive a text from Justice, asking me to meet him in his office. Maybe he’s had a change of heart. Or maybe he can see through my bullshit, and is ready to call me out on it. Part of me hopes for the former, but is more confident in the latter.

When I arrive, he doesn’t look angry or annoyed, which totally puts me on guard. Justice Drake without a sneer screwed onto his face? This must be serious.

“I wanted to ask you something, and I need you to be totally honest with me,” he says as soon as I sit down, not even bothering with pleasantries. “Do you have feelings for Ransom?”

I almost choke on my own saliva, so completely caught off guard by his candid inquiry. “What? Why do you ask that?”

“Because I need to know before we go any further. I need to know that your heart will be in this one hundred percent.” He leans forward, digging his elbows into the tops of his knees and steeples his fingers in front of a proud, prominent chin smattered with a thin dusting of stubble. “So tell me, Heidi . . . Is there something there with him? Other than physical attraction?”

I think about what he’s asking me, taking a beat to let the question permeate my initial, guarded reaction. Do I care for Ransom? Well, of course I care about him. He’s my client. And I’m not so cold that I can’t feel for someone I’ve shared such intimacy with. But beyond that—if sex were never that magnet between us, drawing us to each other on the most basal physical level—would I want him? Would I feel the same yearning inside me that keeps me up at night, imagining my hands are his hands as I touch myself while lying beside my sleeping husband?

I don’t know.

I don’t know what I’d feel for him.

“No,” I answer, knowing that is as close to the truth as I’m going to get. It’s necessary. It’s a lie, yet a necessary one.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course, I’m sure. It’s not like that between us. Sure, that night we shared was hot, but I love my husband. And I want to make sure this works with him. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

Justice nods and sits upright. “Good. I’m glad to hear that. Because he’s coming to the mixer.”

“What?” This time, my disbelief is much more evident. “Why would he do that?”

“Because he’s a young man with a crazy libido. Because he’s single. Why not? He’ll be here for the next week at least. You think he hasn’t got an itch that needs scratching? Especially when he’s surrounded by sex every damn day? Besides, I’d rather him get his rocks off in a safe, consensual environment than fucking around with one of the wives on the low.” His eyes narrow just a fraction, making those dark aqua eyes look downright villainous.

“But I thought the program was for couples only. How could you possibly allow him to engage in . . . whatever . . . with other married people? He’s not a professional. He’s a musician. Surely, this can’t be healthy.”

Justice shrugs as if my words have just hit an iceberg without so much as a shiver. “My house, my rules. Besides, I think this will be a better solution, considering . . .”

“Considering what?”

I can see him weighing his words in his mind before simply shrugging again. “He’s agreed to it. He’s even looking forward to it.”

I bite down the urge to label him a liar along with some very colorful adjectives, and I shut my trap. Ransom agreed to this? He wants to go to this mixer? To meet other couples to potentially play with?

I feel sick to my stomach. This can’t be right. Ransom wouldn’t do this . . . to me. He knows I’ll be there with Tucker. How does he expect me to just stand there and watch him charm and flirt his way into some other couple’s bed?

I know it’s ridiculous of me to feel any type of possessiveness, but fuck that. He came here with us. He knows us. And if he’s going to screw anyone, it will be us.

Us.

Shit.

Why didn’t I see this coming? If Tucker is interested in exploring his sexuality, and if I’m going to try to support him in that, could I really consider Ransom as a possible candidate? I mean, shit, I don’t even know if he swings that way, but I know plenty of musicians that do. Artistic souls are different. They’re all about feeling with their whole body, without labels or restraints. I could name a dozen rock stars that live totally normal, hetero lives but have swam in the male pond a time or two. It’s no big deal. But when it comes to Ransom and my husband? It totally fucking is.

“Heidi? Hey, you all right?”

I startle at the sound of my name and focus my dazed eyes on Justice’s face. “Huh?”

“I asked if you were okay with that. With Ransom being there, and potentially coming down to the playground.”

What could I say? No? After just telling him that I have no feelings for Ransom? Yeah, I could chalk it up to a conflict of professional interest but he’d know that’s bullshit, considering he’s my client too. And hell, what if Ransom has already been down there? He said he was going to the spa. Was that code for something else entirely?

“Sure. Of course I am.” Liar. I am such a fucking liar. “Whatever he wants to do, it’s none of my business as long as it doesn’t make any waves in the press. Other than that, we’re good.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” Justice nods, and I take that as my cue to get the hell out of his suddenly cramped office. He doesn’t stop me, but I feel that intense blue gaze on me even after I’ve disappeared from view.

I head straight to my room and have unscheduled sex with my husband. I even come. I just can’t tell who it was who owned my orgasm.

THE MIXER IS held in the ballroom after dinner. Most of the couples choose to dine together, laughing and bonding over succulent meats, buttery shellfish, and rich wine. We’ve taken our meals in our room since we’ve been here, but Tucker insists we go down and join the group. “How will we connect with these people if we don’t interact with them?” he says. “We don’t want to come across as unapproachable.”

He’s right, of course. He’s always right.

So I slip into a sexy, black Herve Leger number that hugs every inch of my slight curves, slide my pedicured feet into Valentino, and let my fine, white-blonde hair fall down my back in soft waves. When I step from the bathroom, my makeup on and expertly accessorized, Tucker nearly drops the glass of scotch at his lips.

“Wow. Baby, you look . . . wow.”

“Do I seem approachable?” I ask, doing a spin move so he can see the dress’s deep dip in the back. “Does this say, ‘Hi, we’re the DuCanes. And we’d like to get kinky with you’?”

He laughs at my jibe before coming to stand before me, close enough that I can feel him growing in his slacks. “You’re saying that and so much more, Bunny. But, seriously, don’t even think about it like that. We don’t have to invite anyone to jump into bed with us. There’s no rule that you can’t be completely monogamous while on the playground. I saw plenty of couples that only had sex with each other, and that’s completely fine for me.”

“But I thought . . . ?” Wait. So he doesn’t want to experiment? He doesn’t want to have sex with a . . . ?

“Let’s just see where tonight takes us. No rules, no plans. Let’s just see. Hell, we might just call it a night and end up here alone with some more of Riku’s key lime pie.”

I nod in agreement. Maybe that’s for the best. I can’t see myself wanting to explore with some random stranger. And I damn sure don’t want to watch Ransom doing the same. I don’t think I could take it.

Dinner is fabulous, as expected, and we end up sharing a table with a couple from Cleveland. They don’t tell us much about their lives back at home other than being part owners of the Cavaliers, which, of course, steers the conversation to basketball and whether or not LeBron will lead his team to victory. The guys chat stats while the wives chat about new movie releases and handbags. Just easy, casual conversation.

When a bell chimes, signaling that we should all reconvene in the ballroom, the husband, Frank, looks at Tucker and I and asks, “So . . . do you two swing?”

We look at each other. Look at them. Then back to each other.

Do we? Is that something that we’re in to?

I can see Tucker struggling for words—something diplomatic and PC. Me, being the public relations beast that I am, beat him to the punch.

“While that sounds lovely, Frank, I think we had something different in mind tonight. But you two have fun.”

“Well, that’s too bad. We were looking to get a little naughty with you both. See you in there.”

With an accepting nod and a smile, they turn toward the ballroom, leaving me with my still speechless husband.

“Wow.” He blinks out of his trance and reaches for the last of his scotch. “I didn’t . . . I thought they were just nice people. I mean, we were talking sports. Never once did I think he was interested in sleeping with you.”

“Or you.” I smile before leaning over to brush my lips over his jaw. “Come on, you handsome devil. Let’s go play in the lion’s den.”

The space has the feel of country club cocktail party meets underground sex club. The clientele is varied, ranging from their late twenties to their fifties, and now that I see them with their clothes on, they all seem so normal. No different from Tucker and me. No one seems outwardly inappropriate or overly sexual. And if Justice hadn’t entered, with a dozen beautiful, young singles at his flank, I wouldn’t believe that every one of these married couples is battling their own sexual deviances even if you paid me. But then again, within these walls, there is no such thing as a sexual deviance. Only freedom to express and love and feel. Freedom to be who they are, not society’s picture of the perfect pair.

No one here is perfect. And for some reason, that brings me a little comfort.

I notice that Ransom isn’t included in the roundup of guest stars, as Justice called them, and that also reassures me. Maybe Justice had a change of heart? Or maybe Ransom just wasn’t interested in hooking up with someone else? Either way, after a glass of bubbly, I find myself loosening and chatting with the other partygoers.

“Heidi! This must be Tucker,” Ally says as she approaches us, a beaming smile on her face. “About time we meet. I was starting to think our girl made you up.”