Page 4 of Sex, Lies, and Margarita Mixes

Then, she lifts it, turns toward my voice, and grins as she cheekily says, “Is this like the one I licked chocolate off of before I ruined your chances at a hand job?”

Everyone laughs. I forgot we weren’t alone in here.

Later, Sasha says Roxy and I “passed with extraordinary synergy.”

Roxy proudly says, “It’s called sexual chemistry and interconnected minds. Not everyone has it.”

I stare at her. She feigns ignoring me.

Trent mutters, “Must be nice.”

Whitney chokes on her lemon water and glares at him

In the kitchen, I corner her while the others talk about moon signs and gluten, oblivious to, or ignoring, the sexual tension between my wife and I.

“You still remember every single spoon I use?” I growl.

“Of course. We’ve been together for over three and a half years.” She flippantly replies.

I lean in. “Exactly, baby. Together .” My voice lowers, “Do you remember what I do with it?”

She steps closer, not backing away. “Do you remember how fast I can make you drop it?”

My pulse spikes but I do remember. Vividly.

Her lip lifts. She smiles sexily, and then, she walks away. Leaving me with a screaming libido and a raging hard-on.

Again.

ROXY

The no sex with my husband rule was a good idea.

In theory. Like Chick-fil-A closing on Sundays. Or gluten-free croissants.

But the moment I walk into the kitchen and see Chase shirtless—again—standing behind the island with a bowl of fresh whipped cream and his hair pushed back from his face like a Greek god who fucks like the Devil—that theory fails.

He doesn’t even look up when I enter. He just keeps whipping the cream while his arms bulge and the need to trace every single tattoo adorning them with my fingers and my lips consumes me. He says, “Morning, babe.”

Sexually frustrated and pissed off about it, even though I made him sleep on the floor again, I snap, “I hope your whisk breaks.”

“Your mouth says mean things, but your eyes say ‘make me scream with my face pressed into this cutting board, husband of mine.’” I smirk even though I really don’t want to— damnit, Chase! I’m so turned on and irate about being that way.

Grabbing a spoon from the counter, I point it at him. “Back up or I’ll launch this into your abs.”

He steps forward, dips his finger into the bowl of whipped cream, and smears it down his chiseled stomach, growling, “Which one?”

I drop the spoon. It clatters to the floor, and I physically force myself not to crouch down in front of him and lick every drop off.

He’s going to kill me. Or turn me on so much that I die from need before he fucks me until I forget my name.

Damnit to hell.

Turning, I race from the room with soaked panties while Chase laughs behind me, fully aware of my predicament.

Today’s activity is “Couples Cook-Off: Communication Edition.”

It’s supposed to promote unity, timing, and trust.

Instead, it promotes me watching Chase drizzle honey onto fruit like its foreplay while Whitney mutters “Jesus, someone get me a fan” and I restrain myself from jumping clean across the island to claw her eyes out.

Miguel narrates while we cook. “Look at the way Chase supports Roxy’s independence by letting her take the lead.”

I retort, “I’m literally slicing a pepper while he stares at my ass.”

Miguel says, “Intentional grounding technique.”

Trent mutters, “I’m gonna need one of those cold towels.”

Chase flatly says, “Stop looking at my wife’s ass, Trent.”

Our dish is simple, balsamic-glazed peach toast with whipped feta and honey drizzle.

It’s also sexy as hell which is completely his fault.

He hands me a piece of toast and says, “Taste it. Take a bite that gets a little of all of the flavors. It should be an explosion in your mouth.”

Bitch what?

I want you exploding in my mouth after I douse your cock in honey and suck, lick, and nibble every bit of it off until you coat the back of my throat with your salty seed.

What? No, stop it, Roxy.

Narrowing my eyes, I breathlessly say, “I freaking know how to eat.”

“Do you though?” His voice is gritty.

Then, he takes a finger, dips it in the whipped feta, and smears it against my lips.

I immediately freeze. He waits. Everyone else is focused on Sasha’s passionfruit salad demonstration, so no one sees us about to strip naked and fuck like rabbits in the middle of the kitchen.

No one but us. We cannot look away from each other.

I part my lips and take his finger into my mouth, slowly sucking the creamy cheese off of it.

His breath catches and his nostrils flare. “Roxy…” his voice is a warning.

Blinking innocently, I slide the back of my hand over his straining crotch. He jumps and a low moan escapes. “You started it,” I whisper.

He presses into my hand and drags his fingers over my peaked nipples. I gasp and my panties soak clean through. He smiles that smile that melts me. “I’ll finish it,” he promises.

Ten minutes later, as we present our dish through sensual haze you could cut with a knife, Sasha says, “The flavors are layered. Complex. Playful. Perfect.”

Chase winks. “Kind of like our marriage. Huh, babe.” His voice is liquid sex, and I unintentionally moan with arousal.

Whitney whispers, “Oh my God, they’re gonna have sex behind the island.”

Trent mutters, “Or on top of it.” He looks intrigued and a little interested.

Dude what? You are not watching Chase and I have sex.

I pretend I’m fine from the past half hour’s events within this kitchen between Chase and me.

I am not fine.

But I am aroused beyond belief and in need of an orgasm. One only Chase can give me.

We win the cook-off by a landslide. Bree—she and Weston showed up this morning—actually weeps a little when she samples our dish. “It’s the honey. It tastes like affection and… arousal.”

What it tastes like is regret. I regret kicking Chase out. Again.

Like lust. I want my husband between my thighs, like right now.

Like every late-night fight we’ve had while making food that led to hot as hell sex on the closest surface.

But instead, I smile and say, “Thanks. We pair well with red wine and bad decisions.”

And Chase is just looking at me.

He knows I’m going to break the rule.

Soon.

CHASE

There’s a moment every night—right around midnight—when the house goes quiet. The string lights dim. The waves are the only sound from the beach outside. And the walls forget what they heard during dinner.

That’s when I hope she’ll roll over and tell me to get my ass in the bed with her.

Every single night.

Tonight, she does, sort of.

I can’t sleep, so I get up, careful not to wake her, though I don’t think she’s asleep. Pulling on shorts, I head to the kitchen for some water.

A few minutes later, she walks into the kitchen barefoot, wearing the robe I gave her two Christmases ago.

It’s short. Black. Dangerous. Very similar to the one I ruined by ripping it off of her the first time she said “I love you”, her mouth full of whipped cream and my hand between her soaked thighs after she came undone on it.

I freeze mid-sip of water. She sees me and stops before rolling her eyes as I drink her in.

She’s so beautiful.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Chase,” she says. “I came for leftover cake, not cocky commentary.” But her voice is giving her away.

Really, Roxy? You didn’t follow me in here?

Okay, we’ll play it your way, baby.

I nod. “What flavor are we talking?”

“Salted caramel ganache with a vanilla bean whipped center.” She says.

I grin. “So... me.”

She opens the fridge like she didn’t hear me.

She so did.

Leaning into the fridge, her robe rides up, showing her ass cheeks from her tiny panties. She mutters, “You labeled the Tupperware.”

My cock responds to the view though I manage to reply. “Didn’t want to trigger your storage trauma.”

She pulls out the cake, grabs a fork, and hops onto the counter, crossing her ankles like she’s still wearing my last name like armor. Her robe is almost around her waist and her legs, and the center of her lace panties are on full display.

“You gonna share?” I ask, stalking towards her.

She takes a bite, moans dramatically, and says, “Earn it.”

Oh, I’ll earn it, baby.

I walk closer. Slow. Easy.

She watches me like a threat.

Dipping my finger into the frosting, I bring it up to her mouth.

She doesn’t hesitate.

Her lips part and her tongue slips out. She licks. Slowly, reverently. My cock jumps.

I slide my finger inside of her mouth. She closes her lips around my digit and sucks. Her tongue circles my finger, and then, she starts to move her head. She sucks. Hard.

My entire body goes tight.

“You’re evil,” I rasp.

“You’re easy,” she echoes.

“You’re mine.” I snarl, gripping her thighs and pulling her hips to the edge of the island. Her ankles uncross and her knees part.

Her breath catches as my hands trace lines from her kneecap to just below her heat. I stop shy of where I want to touch and drag my fingers back down.

Her thighs part further, and I step between them.

I move close to her beckoning heat again, but don’t touch… yet.

“I miss this,” I whisper.

She swallows and I can see her pulse racing at the hollow of her neck. “You miss the sex.”

“No. We had sex four days ago, Roxy.”

Her brows lift but she doesn’t say anything. She can’t.

I lean in, encroaching on her space. “I miss the way you look at me when I make you laugh. I miss your bi-polar playlists. I miss arguing over where the cayenne goes in the fucking cabinet.”

Her voice is soft as she says, “You put it by the oregano.”

“Because it deserves more spice time.”

She laughs, and then, for the first time in four days, her hand touches my chest.

Flat. Warm. A promise. A warning.

Maybe both.

She slides her hands over my shoulders and caresses down my chest. Her fingertips dance over my hard nipples, and then, down my abs. She throatily says, “Well, I miss the sex. In fact…”