In the mirror, Drew’s eyebrows knit in something that looks like worry.
CHAPTER 11
Nathan is in the best mood I have seen him in. And unlike the forced happy that we adopt in front of the cameras, his exuberance seems genuine, his kind looks and loving smile painless in their delivery. We sit outside; he orders margaritas and beams at me across the table, his smile infectious, my own mouth curving in a bewildered response.
“Jennifer Dumont,” he says the name in wonder, leaning forward and gripping my hand, staring at the stone there. “We should go somewhere and celebrate. Take the honeymoon we never took.”
The honeymoon we never took? Similar to the wedding we never had? I had assumed the limo ride from the courtroom marriage ceremony was all the honeymoon we would ever have. I take a sip of water, hoping that the alcohol is on its way, wondering who this man is and what he has done with my serious, all-business husband. “A honeymoon?” I can’t think of a more creative response.
His grin weakens a little, and he shrugs. “The press would enjoy a honeymoon. Plus, I have business in the Caribbean. You’re coming.”
I am able to mask my irritation with the arrival of our drinks. I sip the margarita, and glance around the restaurant. I shouldn’t be irritated. I should be grateful for the trip, for an opportunity to go somewhere with this beautiful man. The mention of press means photos. Photos mean charismatic Nathan, loving smiles, and soft caresses. Photos mean a weekend like Napa — a weekend that will break my heart in its perfection. “When will we go?”
“Next month. I have a land deal that I need to close first. Once that’s taken care of, I will be able to take a couple of days off. Plus, it will take some time to get you a passport.” He picks up the menu. “I’ll have Drew make the flight arrangements. I don’t like to take the plane out of the country.”
I want to ask if Drew will be joining us, but worry the question will seem odd. Instead, I settle into silence, placing my order, and saying little else.
It is the first meal we have shared without others present. We’ve had a couple of double dates — arranged for business purposes — dates on which Nathan was on his best behavior. More common has been group outings — a party, a dinner, a tour of a new development, charity events. Group outings are easy for us, the crowds allowing us to mask our limited knowledge of each other, our lack of inside jokes, pet names, and shared history. For some couples, silence is comfortable, everything already discussed, shared, communication possible without speaking. For us, silence is all we have ever known. I do not speak because I do not know what to say. He does not speak because he has no interest in talking.
“Does Nathan talk to you?” I am tucked into the backseat of the Maybach, staring into eyes in the rearview mirror. It’s the first question I’ve asked him since the kiss. It’s funny how I now consider questions dangerous behavior.
His brow furrows. “Talk?”
This is new — an opening to discussion, something out of the ordinary for Drew. I lean forward. “You guys spend a lot of time together. With me, he is always quiet. Does he talk to you?”
“Yes. We’ve known each other a long time.” His eyes are now straight ahead.
A long time. That prompts a stack of new questions in my mind. I mull over them, trying to decide which is most important, which he is most likely to answer. Then he speaks, the question surprising me.
“What did he say to you? At lunch?”
I blink, the question so foreign and strange. I feel a childish urge to refuse to answer, to withhold the information until he gives me some. I look out the window. “Very little. We’re going to go on a trip to the Caribbean.” My mouth curves without prompting — a quiver of excitement lighting up my body. I had the entire meal to think about it: a trip, the island sun, cold frozen drinks, nights spent in Nathan’s bed, his hands on my body, mouth on my skin. I have never been out of the country, have only seen ads on television showing peaceful sunsets, steel drum music, and couples who are head over heels in love.
I snap out of my daydream, realizing that Drew has not spoken. I look up, my angle allowing me to see his profile, the tightness in his jaw alerting me that he is annoyed. The emotion baffles me. He keeps his face forward, then his jaw moves and I hear, “When does he want to go?”
This is the first conversation that Drew has ever instigated. My mind races. I’m searching for a question to ask him, wanting to grasp this opportunity before talkative Drew slips away. As the months have passed, the questions have stacked up, a teetering mountain of them in my mind. Some large, some small, they have grown atop one another, the ones on the top useless unless buried ones are also answered. “Would you go?” The words jut out of my mouth, the question that I was too scared to ask Nathan, the question I need the answer to.
He doesn’t respond, and the silence is uncomfortable, long, and thick. “Nathan mentioned it was a business trip, and that you’d handle the arrangements. I just thought that maybe …” I desert the useless sentence. I shouldn’t have to explain my questions; he never bothers to explain anything. He is still mad, his jaw continuing to do that clenching thing, the tension stifling in the car.
“I don’t know if I am attending, but I typically don’t.” He flexes his hands and tightens them on the steering wheel. “When does he want to go?”
I don’t know how I should feel at his words. Elated that Nathan and I will have the time alone? That is the proper response. Certainly the response that a committed, doesn’t-look-at-other-men wife should have. I glance out the window, the city turning into suburbia, our Maybach catching the eye of ordinary life. I almost forget to respond, Drew’s expectant silence reminding me. “Uh … in a month or so. I need to get a passport.”
Darkening. His reflection almost hides it, the darkening of his eyes, the scowl across that face, the temperature in the car cooling slightly. Anger. I have no idea where it is coming from, and no idea at whom it is directed; I didn’t even ask a lot of questions. I look out the window, pressing my body against the curve of the seat, wanting to put distance between me and the black cloud who is driving. Inside my mind, the questions scream for attention, their shrill shrieks causing my head to ache, building a pain in my temple that urges me to shut my eyes.
Blackness.
Road noise.
The soft sounds of music.
Sleep.
I awaken in Drew’s arms, his face close to mine, his arms gently lowering me into my bed. I don’t think. I don’t speak. I reach up, and before my mind can say a word, pull his mouth to mine.
CHAPTER 12
There is not a moment of hesitation in his kiss, his hands releasing me, his mouth following mine as I fall the final inches onto the bed. He moves above me, our lips moving, tongues intertwining, mouths crushing, tasting each other fully.
My sleep-drugged mind is slowly waking up as I move, the implications of what we are doing ringing alarm bells in my mind. But the forbiddance, the risk of being caught, only makes it hotter. My hands scramble over his chest, fumbling down to tug at his belt, my fingers frantic in their quest to have him unzipped and exposed. I can feel him pushing out, his pants tenting, his readiness impressive.
His mouth won’t release mine, the scruff of his stubble burning the skin around my lips as he takes what he wants, pinning me down to the bed with his kisses. And then, finally, I have him in my hand, my palm closing around a stiff shaft, and he closes his eyes and pulls away from my body.
“Wait. Take off your skirt.”
I do, shimmying the fabric down and off, watching as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a condom, ripping it open with his teeth, the intensity of his stare causing my breath to hitch and my mouth to water. I spread my legs before him, opening myself fully up, his eyes feasting on the sight, and he kneels on the bed before me, stroking the latex of the condom down his cock.
“I know what you like,” he grounds out, pressing on my opening with his stiffness. The smooth head of his latex-covered c**k pushes slightly in, his face tightening when my body accepts him, my velvet lips sliding around his cock, already wet, already ready. “I’ve watched you f**k so many times that I feel like I’ve had you. Do you like when he f**ks you?” He thrusts fully inside, my eyes closing at the sensation, a moan spilling out of my mouth. His hands flip my legs over, turning me to my side, his torso coming down, his mouth taking a greedy tour of my breast while he pumps his hips, his c**k dragging slowly in and out, stretching me, the angle perfect in its sensation.
“Do you, Candy? Do you like his cock?” His words are a demand, gasping out of him, his breath haggard as he moves.
I don’t answer, pulling his head down on my breasts, gasping when his mouth takes my nipple in, sucking it, his green eyes on me, his teeth gently scraping my sensitive skin. I roll to avoid his eyes, facing the mattress, bringing my knees beneath me and arching my back, his body moving with me, his c**k beginning a faster movement, pumping in and out as his hands roam over my ass and along the line of my back.
“I’ve thought about this for so long,” he groans. “Being inside of you. I jack off to you at night, Candy. I picture your perfect mouth sucking my cock. I think about you, just like this, bent over before me, waiting for me.”
I can’t respond, my mind arguing with my body that this is wrong, that I should pull off his body and walk away. But my body loves his words, loves the depth of the passion, the idea that this man wants me — has thought of me. My body loves the feeling of him inside of me, his hands which are now cupping my breasts, his mouth planting soft kisses along my back as he continues his fuck. A fast, hurried fuck, as if he is worried that I will disappear, and he needs to get his fill of me first.
He is not Nathan. Our bodies do not mold in perfect synchronization, our arches and valleys do not coincide. There are times when he moves left and I move right. But he has fire for me; he cares. He is a living, breathing man who has the capacity to love, who looks at me and sees something more than a contract.
He returns me to my back, his body settling over me, his mouth softer on mine, kissing me slowly and softly as his strokes bring me there, to the point where my mind stops thinking, and I come, my breaths shuddering into his mouth, my body clenching and contracting around him, causing his eyes to shut and, a moment later, his own finish to come.
CHAPTER 13
Word: 9 letters
Clue: what exploration often leads to
Life in wealth is a beautiful thing. Our streets are unclogged, our nights mosquito-free, our comfort managed and attended to twenty-four hours a day. My latest hobby is speeding, pressing the gas pedal hard enough to feel a slight vibration in my legs, my Mercedes jumping to attention, hugging the streets with a purpose. I have been pulled over twice, both times given a warning, despite my generous attempt to accept a ticket. Attempt is putting it lightly. I practically begged the uniformed men to write me a ticket. But apparently in this county, where the streets are lined in gold and the property taxes cover more than ten times the city’s budget, ticket revenue is not needed. Laws can be broken with only a slap on your diamond-studded wrist.
My tires squeal slightly as I make a too-tight, too-fast turn into the bookstore parking lot. Our town refuses something as tacky as a book superstore, chain stores apparently frowned upon by the uber-rich. We have no Applebee’s, no Chico’s, no Walmarts, those storefronts replaced with designer boutiques, wine bars, and Mom and Pop stores owned by millionaire’s bored housewives.
The bookstore is no different, owned by two trophy wives who had a sudden, unplanned thought one day to sell books. It is housed in a three-story plantation home, different rooms dedicated to different genres, antiques and comfy couches stuffed next to towering bookshelves and stacks and piles of books. I love it.
Today I choose to explore the Adventure room, located on the third floor, tall windows on one side, separated by tall bookshelves. The other side is dominated by a large map, framed and stretched from the floor to ceiling, a custom piece that shows a city-planner’s view of our privileged corner of the world and the area that surrounds it.
I look at the map, my fingers trailing over the familiar words: Jefferson Street. The Crystal Palace’s home, a lofty street name that belongs in a downtown area, not a dead-end street twenty minutes from town. My fingers travel over familiar routes, tracing my route home, a route I traveled countless times. Drunk, sober, exhausted, irritated. My finger heads north, down winding highways, through cities and towns until I reach Swankville, my new stomping grounds. Where road names like Hemingway and Baltimore scream upper class, roundabouts instead of intersections, crowded streets giving way to wide roads, golf courses, and parks on every corner. My fingers slow, coming to a stop at my new home, Nathan’s large estate.
I frown, a wisp of something flickering in my brain, like an erratic synapse that is firing out of order, catching my attention all the same. I reach for it, dig for it, but it is like the faded memory of a dream: gone. I move, back to the Crystal Palace, retracing the route, my finger sliding slowly across the glass, my mind open, waiting for that escaped wisp of thought. Street and city names float through my head as my fingers move, until my index finger comes to a slow, shuddering stop on Nathan’s house.
There. I feel it again. That wisp of thought. I still, trying not to pounce too aggressively on it, trying to let it wander into the light unafraid. Unease grows in me, the thought growing legs and arms and starting a hesitant crawl through my mind. I picture Nathan, stepping into the dimly lit dump that is the Palace. Rick’s excited announcement that I was wanted in VIP. Nathan walking into the Palace. My eyes flit from his house, over two healthy cities and one small town, over a hundred and fifty miles, and land on the Crystal Palace. Twenty miles on the other side of the small town. My eyes move in the opposite direction, calculating the cities and towns within that circumference from Nathan’s house. At least six. Containing at least ten strip clubs. Ten strip clubs that were closer than the rundown establishment that he, Drew, and Mark walked into.
CHAPTER 11
Nathan is in the best mood I have seen him in. And unlike the forced happy that we adopt in front of the cameras, his exuberance seems genuine, his kind looks and loving smile painless in their delivery. We sit outside; he orders margaritas and beams at me across the table, his smile infectious, my own mouth curving in a bewildered response.
“Jennifer Dumont,” he says the name in wonder, leaning forward and gripping my hand, staring at the stone there. “We should go somewhere and celebrate. Take the honeymoon we never took.”
The honeymoon we never took? Similar to the wedding we never had? I had assumed the limo ride from the courtroom marriage ceremony was all the honeymoon we would ever have. I take a sip of water, hoping that the alcohol is on its way, wondering who this man is and what he has done with my serious, all-business husband. “A honeymoon?” I can’t think of a more creative response.
His grin weakens a little, and he shrugs. “The press would enjoy a honeymoon. Plus, I have business in the Caribbean. You’re coming.”
I am able to mask my irritation with the arrival of our drinks. I sip the margarita, and glance around the restaurant. I shouldn’t be irritated. I should be grateful for the trip, for an opportunity to go somewhere with this beautiful man. The mention of press means photos. Photos mean charismatic Nathan, loving smiles, and soft caresses. Photos mean a weekend like Napa — a weekend that will break my heart in its perfection. “When will we go?”
“Next month. I have a land deal that I need to close first. Once that’s taken care of, I will be able to take a couple of days off. Plus, it will take some time to get you a passport.” He picks up the menu. “I’ll have Drew make the flight arrangements. I don’t like to take the plane out of the country.”
I want to ask if Drew will be joining us, but worry the question will seem odd. Instead, I settle into silence, placing my order, and saying little else.
It is the first meal we have shared without others present. We’ve had a couple of double dates — arranged for business purposes — dates on which Nathan was on his best behavior. More common has been group outings — a party, a dinner, a tour of a new development, charity events. Group outings are easy for us, the crowds allowing us to mask our limited knowledge of each other, our lack of inside jokes, pet names, and shared history. For some couples, silence is comfortable, everything already discussed, shared, communication possible without speaking. For us, silence is all we have ever known. I do not speak because I do not know what to say. He does not speak because he has no interest in talking.
“Does Nathan talk to you?” I am tucked into the backseat of the Maybach, staring into eyes in the rearview mirror. It’s the first question I’ve asked him since the kiss. It’s funny how I now consider questions dangerous behavior.
His brow furrows. “Talk?”
This is new — an opening to discussion, something out of the ordinary for Drew. I lean forward. “You guys spend a lot of time together. With me, he is always quiet. Does he talk to you?”
“Yes. We’ve known each other a long time.” His eyes are now straight ahead.
A long time. That prompts a stack of new questions in my mind. I mull over them, trying to decide which is most important, which he is most likely to answer. Then he speaks, the question surprising me.
“What did he say to you? At lunch?”
I blink, the question so foreign and strange. I feel a childish urge to refuse to answer, to withhold the information until he gives me some. I look out the window. “Very little. We’re going to go on a trip to the Caribbean.” My mouth curves without prompting — a quiver of excitement lighting up my body. I had the entire meal to think about it: a trip, the island sun, cold frozen drinks, nights spent in Nathan’s bed, his hands on my body, mouth on my skin. I have never been out of the country, have only seen ads on television showing peaceful sunsets, steel drum music, and couples who are head over heels in love.
I snap out of my daydream, realizing that Drew has not spoken. I look up, my angle allowing me to see his profile, the tightness in his jaw alerting me that he is annoyed. The emotion baffles me. He keeps his face forward, then his jaw moves and I hear, “When does he want to go?”
This is the first conversation that Drew has ever instigated. My mind races. I’m searching for a question to ask him, wanting to grasp this opportunity before talkative Drew slips away. As the months have passed, the questions have stacked up, a teetering mountain of them in my mind. Some large, some small, they have grown atop one another, the ones on the top useless unless buried ones are also answered. “Would you go?” The words jut out of my mouth, the question that I was too scared to ask Nathan, the question I need the answer to.
He doesn’t respond, and the silence is uncomfortable, long, and thick. “Nathan mentioned it was a business trip, and that you’d handle the arrangements. I just thought that maybe …” I desert the useless sentence. I shouldn’t have to explain my questions; he never bothers to explain anything. He is still mad, his jaw continuing to do that clenching thing, the tension stifling in the car.
“I don’t know if I am attending, but I typically don’t.” He flexes his hands and tightens them on the steering wheel. “When does he want to go?”
I don’t know how I should feel at his words. Elated that Nathan and I will have the time alone? That is the proper response. Certainly the response that a committed, doesn’t-look-at-other-men wife should have. I glance out the window, the city turning into suburbia, our Maybach catching the eye of ordinary life. I almost forget to respond, Drew’s expectant silence reminding me. “Uh … in a month or so. I need to get a passport.”
Darkening. His reflection almost hides it, the darkening of his eyes, the scowl across that face, the temperature in the car cooling slightly. Anger. I have no idea where it is coming from, and no idea at whom it is directed; I didn’t even ask a lot of questions. I look out the window, pressing my body against the curve of the seat, wanting to put distance between me and the black cloud who is driving. Inside my mind, the questions scream for attention, their shrill shrieks causing my head to ache, building a pain in my temple that urges me to shut my eyes.
Blackness.
Road noise.
The soft sounds of music.
Sleep.
I awaken in Drew’s arms, his face close to mine, his arms gently lowering me into my bed. I don’t think. I don’t speak. I reach up, and before my mind can say a word, pull his mouth to mine.
CHAPTER 12
There is not a moment of hesitation in his kiss, his hands releasing me, his mouth following mine as I fall the final inches onto the bed. He moves above me, our lips moving, tongues intertwining, mouths crushing, tasting each other fully.
My sleep-drugged mind is slowly waking up as I move, the implications of what we are doing ringing alarm bells in my mind. But the forbiddance, the risk of being caught, only makes it hotter. My hands scramble over his chest, fumbling down to tug at his belt, my fingers frantic in their quest to have him unzipped and exposed. I can feel him pushing out, his pants tenting, his readiness impressive.
His mouth won’t release mine, the scruff of his stubble burning the skin around my lips as he takes what he wants, pinning me down to the bed with his kisses. And then, finally, I have him in my hand, my palm closing around a stiff shaft, and he closes his eyes and pulls away from my body.
“Wait. Take off your skirt.”
I do, shimmying the fabric down and off, watching as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a condom, ripping it open with his teeth, the intensity of his stare causing my breath to hitch and my mouth to water. I spread my legs before him, opening myself fully up, his eyes feasting on the sight, and he kneels on the bed before me, stroking the latex of the condom down his cock.
“I know what you like,” he grounds out, pressing on my opening with his stiffness. The smooth head of his latex-covered c**k pushes slightly in, his face tightening when my body accepts him, my velvet lips sliding around his cock, already wet, already ready. “I’ve watched you f**k so many times that I feel like I’ve had you. Do you like when he f**ks you?” He thrusts fully inside, my eyes closing at the sensation, a moan spilling out of my mouth. His hands flip my legs over, turning me to my side, his torso coming down, his mouth taking a greedy tour of my breast while he pumps his hips, his c**k dragging slowly in and out, stretching me, the angle perfect in its sensation.
“Do you, Candy? Do you like his cock?” His words are a demand, gasping out of him, his breath haggard as he moves.
I don’t answer, pulling his head down on my breasts, gasping when his mouth takes my nipple in, sucking it, his green eyes on me, his teeth gently scraping my sensitive skin. I roll to avoid his eyes, facing the mattress, bringing my knees beneath me and arching my back, his body moving with me, his c**k beginning a faster movement, pumping in and out as his hands roam over my ass and along the line of my back.
“I’ve thought about this for so long,” he groans. “Being inside of you. I jack off to you at night, Candy. I picture your perfect mouth sucking my cock. I think about you, just like this, bent over before me, waiting for me.”
I can’t respond, my mind arguing with my body that this is wrong, that I should pull off his body and walk away. But my body loves his words, loves the depth of the passion, the idea that this man wants me — has thought of me. My body loves the feeling of him inside of me, his hands which are now cupping my breasts, his mouth planting soft kisses along my back as he continues his fuck. A fast, hurried fuck, as if he is worried that I will disappear, and he needs to get his fill of me first.
He is not Nathan. Our bodies do not mold in perfect synchronization, our arches and valleys do not coincide. There are times when he moves left and I move right. But he has fire for me; he cares. He is a living, breathing man who has the capacity to love, who looks at me and sees something more than a contract.
He returns me to my back, his body settling over me, his mouth softer on mine, kissing me slowly and softly as his strokes bring me there, to the point where my mind stops thinking, and I come, my breaths shuddering into his mouth, my body clenching and contracting around him, causing his eyes to shut and, a moment later, his own finish to come.
CHAPTER 13
Word: 9 letters
Clue: what exploration often leads to
Life in wealth is a beautiful thing. Our streets are unclogged, our nights mosquito-free, our comfort managed and attended to twenty-four hours a day. My latest hobby is speeding, pressing the gas pedal hard enough to feel a slight vibration in my legs, my Mercedes jumping to attention, hugging the streets with a purpose. I have been pulled over twice, both times given a warning, despite my generous attempt to accept a ticket. Attempt is putting it lightly. I practically begged the uniformed men to write me a ticket. But apparently in this county, where the streets are lined in gold and the property taxes cover more than ten times the city’s budget, ticket revenue is not needed. Laws can be broken with only a slap on your diamond-studded wrist.
My tires squeal slightly as I make a too-tight, too-fast turn into the bookstore parking lot. Our town refuses something as tacky as a book superstore, chain stores apparently frowned upon by the uber-rich. We have no Applebee’s, no Chico’s, no Walmarts, those storefronts replaced with designer boutiques, wine bars, and Mom and Pop stores owned by millionaire’s bored housewives.
The bookstore is no different, owned by two trophy wives who had a sudden, unplanned thought one day to sell books. It is housed in a three-story plantation home, different rooms dedicated to different genres, antiques and comfy couches stuffed next to towering bookshelves and stacks and piles of books. I love it.
Today I choose to explore the Adventure room, located on the third floor, tall windows on one side, separated by tall bookshelves. The other side is dominated by a large map, framed and stretched from the floor to ceiling, a custom piece that shows a city-planner’s view of our privileged corner of the world and the area that surrounds it.
I look at the map, my fingers trailing over the familiar words: Jefferson Street. The Crystal Palace’s home, a lofty street name that belongs in a downtown area, not a dead-end street twenty minutes from town. My fingers travel over familiar routes, tracing my route home, a route I traveled countless times. Drunk, sober, exhausted, irritated. My finger heads north, down winding highways, through cities and towns until I reach Swankville, my new stomping grounds. Where road names like Hemingway and Baltimore scream upper class, roundabouts instead of intersections, crowded streets giving way to wide roads, golf courses, and parks on every corner. My fingers slow, coming to a stop at my new home, Nathan’s large estate.
I frown, a wisp of something flickering in my brain, like an erratic synapse that is firing out of order, catching my attention all the same. I reach for it, dig for it, but it is like the faded memory of a dream: gone. I move, back to the Crystal Palace, retracing the route, my finger sliding slowly across the glass, my mind open, waiting for that escaped wisp of thought. Street and city names float through my head as my fingers move, until my index finger comes to a slow, shuddering stop on Nathan’s house.
There. I feel it again. That wisp of thought. I still, trying not to pounce too aggressively on it, trying to let it wander into the light unafraid. Unease grows in me, the thought growing legs and arms and starting a hesitant crawl through my mind. I picture Nathan, stepping into the dimly lit dump that is the Palace. Rick’s excited announcement that I was wanted in VIP. Nathan walking into the Palace. My eyes flit from his house, over two healthy cities and one small town, over a hundred and fifty miles, and land on the Crystal Palace. Twenty miles on the other side of the small town. My eyes move in the opposite direction, calculating the cities and towns within that circumference from Nathan’s house. At least six. Containing at least ten strip clubs. Ten strip clubs that were closer than the rundown establishment that he, Drew, and Mark walked into.
