enough to glance at his watch.
“Ten minutes,” Adam coaxed, continuing to palm the bulge in Elliot’s trousers. “And I swear I’ll make every second count.”
Becca saw it in her husband’s eyes, the moment when temptation became capitulation. His mouth came crashing down upon Adam’s lips. He held him tight, groping his arse—desperate. Hungry, as if he was starved of affection.
Damn, that hurt.
They still had regular sex, even if it had become a little routine and a little dull.
This couldn’t be happening. She’d just drunk too much, was having double vision. Except this was her Elliot, in his crisp white shirt, drinking down kisses from another man.
What had happened? They’d shared passion like that not so long ago, when a shadowy alcove or a moonlit veranda had been the only excuse needed for a tryst. Even broad daylight hadn’t stopped them from sating their appetites for each other. She’d slip off her panties and straddle him while they were both otherwise fully clothed, the only skin to skin contact where it mattered most. But as each anniversary passed, the spark had faded a little. Somehow they’d become out of sync, never available or desirous of the same things at the same time. The raw, sexual excess that had dominated their early days together was now just an abrasive memory.
They ought to have worked harder at maintaining that bond. Now he was slipping away.
She didn’t want to yell and cause a scene and risk pushing him away any further. She’d said ‘I do’ and meant him, for keeps. But that wasn’t the only reason she’d remained rooted to the spot. Despite her grumbling feelings of outrage, Becca’s nipples had tightened to points. Seeing her husband being groped by another man was turning her on.
Really, that shouldn’t have been a surprise. She had a secret desire or two of her own. She hadn’t acted upon them—reading material and the odd glimpse of something naughty online didn’t count. Besides, spying was wrong. There were words for women who liked watching gay men—none of them kind. Not that they applied in this instance. Her husband wasn’t gay.
Yet, as Becca shifted her stance, awareness of her own arousal spread. She desired more, even as she smarted from the pain of Elliot’s infidelity. What manner of fool was she? Here was her husband, doing a tongue tango with another man, his hands clasped tight upon the guy’s arse, and the predominant thought running through her head was how good they would look together naked with all that smooth, sleek muscle rubbing together. And how Adam’s long, black hair would appear fanned out over Elliot’s chest or his hips as he sucked on Elliot’s cock.
Did Elliot like to be fucked? How did Adam know?
She knew he sometimes liked to be held down. How much more would he enjoy it, if it were a strong man doing the holding? She hadn’t the physical strength to do more than pretend to pin him down. Actual scarves and ropes, and—God forbid—handcuffs, made her uncomfortable.
The thought alone made her squirm, but heat, not a horrified shiver, tingled in her innards. She could see it all so clearly. The delightful Adam wouldn’t have any such qualms about restraints. He’d bind Elliot with steel and silk and fuck him until he begged for mercy.
The heat reached her cheeks, making them burn, and no doubt making a mockery of her carefully applied foundation.
The most horrific part wasn’t that Elliot would consider doing that, but that she wanted to watch it. She wanted to see him stretched and bound, with a trickle of sweat running across his brow, and to know whether all that straining made his final release that bit sweeter.
She wanted to see Adam fuck him, riding him from behind, with one hand clamped around his hair and another holding tight upon his shoulders. Their lovemaking would be harsh and brutal, and swift, slick and raw.
Shocked at herself, Becca covered her face with her hands, but even that
“Ten minutes,” Adam coaxed, continuing to palm the bulge in Elliot’s trousers. “And I swear I’ll make every second count.”
Becca saw it in her husband’s eyes, the moment when temptation became capitulation. His mouth came crashing down upon Adam’s lips. He held him tight, groping his arse—desperate. Hungry, as if he was starved of affection.
Damn, that hurt.
They still had regular sex, even if it had become a little routine and a little dull.
This couldn’t be happening. She’d just drunk too much, was having double vision. Except this was her Elliot, in his crisp white shirt, drinking down kisses from another man.
What had happened? They’d shared passion like that not so long ago, when a shadowy alcove or a moonlit veranda had been the only excuse needed for a tryst. Even broad daylight hadn’t stopped them from sating their appetites for each other. She’d slip off her panties and straddle him while they were both otherwise fully clothed, the only skin to skin contact where it mattered most. But as each anniversary passed, the spark had faded a little. Somehow they’d become out of sync, never available or desirous of the same things at the same time. The raw, sexual excess that had dominated their early days together was now just an abrasive memory.
They ought to have worked harder at maintaining that bond. Now he was slipping away.
She didn’t want to yell and cause a scene and risk pushing him away any further. She’d said ‘I do’ and meant him, for keeps. But that wasn’t the only reason she’d remained rooted to the spot. Despite her grumbling feelings of outrage, Becca’s nipples had tightened to points. Seeing her husband being groped by another man was turning her on.
Really, that shouldn’t have been a surprise. She had a secret desire or two of her own. She hadn’t acted upon them—reading material and the odd glimpse of something naughty online didn’t count. Besides, spying was wrong. There were words for women who liked watching gay men—none of them kind. Not that they applied in this instance. Her husband wasn’t gay.
Yet, as Becca shifted her stance, awareness of her own arousal spread. She desired more, even as she smarted from the pain of Elliot’s infidelity. What manner of fool was she? Here was her husband, doing a tongue tango with another man, his hands clasped tight upon the guy’s arse, and the predominant thought running through her head was how good they would look together naked with all that smooth, sleek muscle rubbing together. And how Adam’s long, black hair would appear fanned out over Elliot’s chest or his hips as he sucked on Elliot’s cock.
Did Elliot like to be fucked? How did Adam know?
She knew he sometimes liked to be held down. How much more would he enjoy it, if it were a strong man doing the holding? She hadn’t the physical strength to do more than pretend to pin him down. Actual scarves and ropes, and—God forbid—handcuffs, made her uncomfortable.
The thought alone made her squirm, but heat, not a horrified shiver, tingled in her innards. She could see it all so clearly. The delightful Adam wouldn’t have any such qualms about restraints. He’d bind Elliot with steel and silk and fuck him until he begged for mercy.
The heat reached her cheeks, making them burn, and no doubt making a mockery of her carefully applied foundation.
The most horrific part wasn’t that Elliot would consider doing that, but that she wanted to watch it. She wanted to see him stretched and bound, with a trickle of sweat running across his brow, and to know whether all that straining made his final release that bit sweeter.
She wanted to see Adam fuck him, riding him from behind, with one hand clamped around his hair and another holding tight upon his shoulders. Their lovemaking would be harsh and brutal, and swift, slick and raw.
Shocked at herself, Becca covered her face with her hands, but even that
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