Page 41

TEN YEARS LATER

I’m sitting in the private room at the Broadway Steak House with a bottle of my wife’s favorite Cabernet sitting on the table next to two crystal glasses.

Tonight was my idea. It’s been several weeks since Lana and I enjoyed a night out that wasn’t tied to a school fundraiser or a bland Chamber of Commerce event.

Our daughters—one in her freshman year and the other a sophomore—have inherited their mother's fierce determination and my unyielding sarcasm. They're self-reliant and don’t want to spend any more time than necessary with their parents, though they sometimes come out of their rooms when they’re hungry. Tristan, at eight, remains in that eager Golden Retriever phase, constantly wanting to spend time with his older sisters who try to avoid him like the plague.

I check my phone, noticing my wife is five minutes late, which isn’t like her at all.

The door opens. I put my phone away and stand as she enters.

There’s a moment, every time I see her, where the world hitches on its axis. She’s wearing a black sheath dress with a slit that suggests criminal intent, and the heels that give me all kinds of dirty thoughts. Her eyes go right to mine, and something in my chest shifts. I forget about the girls, about Tristan, about the overpriced bottle of wine waiting for us to open it.

She grins. “I can’t believe you beat me.”

I cross the room to her and pull her curvy body into my arms. “I couldn’t wait to see you.”

She rolls her eyes. “Charmer. You’re just trying to get into my pants.”

“Not trying, succeeding.” I cup her face, because I can’t help it, and lean in to kiss her sweet lips. It’s meant to be a quick thing, but as soon as our lips meet, something primal in me wakes up and takes over. She tastes like cinnamon gum combined with her own unique flavor. My cock fucking turns to stone as I forget everything except my wife.

My tongue dives into her mouth on a mission to claim every inch while I tangle my hand in her silky hair.

She digs her nails into my back, holding on while I devour her sweet mouth. I nip at her bottom lip and her body arches closer while her breath hitches.

I deepen the kiss, my tongue exploring her mouth while my hands explore her luscious curves, her thighs squeezing together as if already imagining me between them. I dig my fingers into the curve of her ass, pulling her closer until there isn't a sliver of space between us. I feel the heat of her through her dress, the way her hips rock against mine, and it drives me insane. My cock strains against my pants, begging for release, but I ignore the fucker and concentrate on my wife.

She melts into me, her body going limp in my arms, and I love it. I love the way she surrenders to me, the way her breath comes in short, desperate gasps when I finally pull back just enough to let her breathe. Her lips are swollen, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes are dark with need. She looks like a goddess. My fucking goddess.

“Jensen,” she whispers, her voice trembling, and that makes me even harder. I want to hear her say my name like that again, but louder, screaming it as I bury myself inside her.

But before I can dive back in and fuck her gorgeous ass on this table, the nervous waiter clears his throat. The sound is like a bucket of ice water, and I growl, low and dangerous, as I turn to glare at the poor bastard.

“Fucking hell,” I growl against her soft lips, my voice rough with lust as we move apart. After holding out the seat for Lana, I sit across from her and turn to the waiter.

He’s young, terrified, and trying to disappear. “Sir, madam, may I take your order?”

Lana doesn’t look at the menu. “Bone-in ribeye, rare. Side of creamed spinach. No potato.”

I order the same, except with a loaded baked potato, because I believe in carbs. The waiter scuttles off, and I pour us both a glass of wine.

“You look amazing,” I say, because she does. She’s always fucking perfect.

She gives me a look. “Thank you. You don’t look so bad yourself.”

“I’m glad you think so.” I lift her soft hand against my lips and place a soft kiss across her knuckles.

She glances around the private room, takes another sip, and stands up. “I need to powder my nose. Don’t finish the bottle before I get back.”

She disappears out the door, and I find myself staring at the spot she just vacated, already counting the seconds until she returns.

It takes a full thirty seconds of me playing with the edge of my wineglass before I break. In my mind, I picture Lana in the restroom, head cocked in concentration as she reapplies bright red lipstick for me to kiss off. It’s enough to drive a man insane, and in my case, it does.

I stand, smooth my tie, and follow her out of the private room. I cut through the crowd, head up, acting like I’m not stalking my wife into the ladies’ room.

I spot Lana ahead, just as the corridor splits between “Gentlemen” and “Ladies.” She glances over her shoulder, not expecting to see me, and I read the flicker in her eyes as equal parts thrill and warning.

She slips inside. I hesitate for a split second then follow her in, hoping it isn’t crowded. The door swings shut behind me and muffles the world.

The women’s restroom at the Broadway is nicer than any hotel room I’ve ever stayed in. Marble everywhere, the kind of tile you could perform open-heart surgery on. The light is warm, flattering. There’s a row of stalls, but the main attraction is the counter, all white stone and gold fixtures. Lana stands at the mirror, touching up her lipstick, and when she sees me in the reflection, she freezes.

“You’re in the wrong room.” She glances in the mirror, staring at me with a raised eyebrow.

I click the lock behind me, the sound way too loud in the hush of the bathroom. “No, I’m not.”

She tries to keep her game face on, but I can see her pulse jump in her throat. “What if someone needs the bathroom?”

“Let them wait.”

“Okay,” she says, even as she arches back against the counter, eyes on mine.

I’m already on her, mouth capturing hers before she can finish another protest. Her lips are soft and demanding, and she kisses me back with a force that makes my knees buckle.

I slide her up onto the counter, hands greedy on her silky thighs, and she lets out a strangled laugh that turns into a gasp when I find the hem of her dress and push it up. Her skin is fever-hot under my palms.

“We’re going to get caught,” she says, breathless, as I kiss down her neck.

“Who cares,” I growl and gently bite her soft neck.

She yanks on my tie to pull me closer, her legs wrapping around my waist. Her perfume is all over me, and I swear I could live the rest of my life just breathing her in. My hand slides higher, finding the thin strip of lace covering her sweet pussy.

My fingers trace the edge, then slip inside, finding her already slick and ready. She makes a sound low in her throat that sends the rest of my patience right out the window.

Her hand moves between us, fumbling with my belt, nails scratching just enough to remind me she’s in control even when I’m the one pinning her to the marble. I help her, and the next thirty seconds are a blur of clothing shoved aside, zippers rasping, and mouths everywhere at once.

She kisses me so hard I see stars. “Hurry up.”

“So impatient,” I say, and she laughs against my jaw, her hands urgent and searching.

When I finally push inside her, it’s a miracle my knees don’t give out. She clings to me, nails digging into my shoulder through my shirt.

“Fuck, Jensen,” she gasps, head falling back. Her hair tumbles over the counter, and for a moment I can’t think, can’t breathe. I have to pull out nearly all the way and then push back in slowly, savoring every inch. She’s so tight I have to fight the urge to come.

She bites down on her lip, stifling a moan. “You’re going to get us banned from this place.”

“Worth it,” I say, moving faster, hands spreading her thighs wider.

The wet, frantic, hungry sound of our bodies slapping together fills the fancy ass restroom. I watch her face, the way her eyes go glassy and then sharp again, the way her body trembles when I hit just the right spot. I shift, hiking her ass further onto the counter, and she claws at my back, pulling me in until there’s no room for air, no room for anything but need.

I’m close, so close, but I want her to go first. I know the rhythm that works best to make her lose control. I roll my hips while my thumb flicks over her clit, and she shudders hard, a ragged cry breaking free before she slaps a hand over her own mouth.

Her tight pussy clenches around my cock, tipping me over the edge. I grind in, pulse after pulse, until I’m empty and spent and barely standing.

We pant together, bodies still tangled, her dress hiked up, my shirt untucked and stained with the evidence of us. She looks at me, mascara smudged and cheeks flushed, and it might be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

After a minute, she laughs softly. “This is going to be all over the Silver Spoon Falls grapevine tomorrow morning.”

“And every man in town will be fucking jealous they aren’t me,” I say, kissing her again.

I step back while she hops down, smoothing her dress. “Let’s try to sneak out with a little dignity.”

I nod, zippering up, fixing my tie, and trying to look a little less like a man who just defiled his wife in a steakhouse restroom. Too bad, I fucking fail. Every eye in the restaurant follows me as I walk through the main dining room, already planning to make our date night a weekly thing.

My wife returns to the table and sits across from me. “You know,” she smiles taking a big sip of her wine, “we should do this more often.”

She fucking reads my mind. "It's a date," I reply, lifting her delicate hand to my lips and gently grazing my teeth over her silky skin. The desire in her eyes is palpable, and in that moment, I realize that life couldn't be any more perfect than this.

I’m one lucky motherfucker.