Chapter Twenty
CHAPTER TWENTY
I can’t believe he convinced me to do this. I cross and uncross my legs for what must be the tenth time since we sat down, glancing nervously around the restaurant, but it doesn’t help. The couple across from us seems to look at me and laugh, a man near the door leers in my direction, and then there’s our waiter, whose every question or comment seems somehow suggestive. Oh yes, that dish is served with a delicate cream sauce.
I am ninety-nine percent sure they all know I’m not wearing panties.
But the worst is my husband, who definitely does. He’s seated himself next to me, where he can watch me writhe every time his hand manages to somehow brush my thigh. His eyes have been down the front of my dress since we left the house, and I’m more than a little concerned he’s going to do something indecent. I almost want him to.
God, what is wrong with me?
I glance down, tugging at my neckline again. It plunges so low, it feels like my nipples will slip out if I breathe too deeply. I’d been planning to return the dress since I ordered it in the way wrong size, but I was feeling bold and excited as I got ready for our date. Only wearing the dress in public doesn’t feel quite the same as it did in my bedroom.
And then Anton took my panties .
I clench my thighs.
“So, um—” I cross one arm in front of me in a futile attempt at modesty. “You never really said what the dinner with Carl was about?”
My husband’s gaze rests unabashedly on my cleavage, but almost immediately, his posture changes. He looks away, taking a sip from his water glass. “Ah, he wants to open a branch office in Colorado Springs.”
“Oh.” I blink. That’s not what I expected, but it makes sense when I churn it over in my business brain. “You guys have a lot of clients down there. That’s probably smart.”
His voice is flat. “It’ll involve some extra travel.”
“Well,” I say brightly. “The experience will look good on your resumé.”
He grunts, and then I register the tension in his shoulders. How he’s straightened and folded his hands on the table. I could kick myself. I was hoping to distract with conversation, not kill the mood.
“Sorry. Maybe we shouldn’t talk about work.”
He softens, turning to look at me again. “Just don’t really want to think about work when I’m dying to put my hand up that dress.”
My cheeks flood with heat and I open my mouth to chastise him, but before I get the chance, our waiter appears.
“Here we are—the spaghetti and meatballs.” He places a dish in front of Anton. “And oysters over angel hair.” He puts a second plate in front of me.
I raise my brows at my husband. “This looks delicious. Glad I took your suggestion.”
He returns my gaze with a gleam in his eye, and my heart skips.
Somehow, I manage not to spill oysters into my abundant cleavage as we dig in. A song that played at our wedding comes on over the speaker above us. Anton’s hand rests on my knee in a casual, affectionate way, and I can’t help smiling over at him.
“This is really nice,” I say, admiring how the light over our table accentuates the squareness of his jaw. “I um... it felt like we didn’t get much time together last week.”
He squeezes my knee, looking a little shamefaced. “I was trying to give you space. Maybe I gave you too much. ”
“You mean you weren’t avoiding me?” I laugh when I say it, though it comes out a little sharp.
Our eyes meet, and his fingers stroke my knee. “Or maybe I was trying to make you miss me.”
I sip my water, and it’s barely noticeable, but his hand slides fractionally higher on my leg. My heart begins to pound. “Maybe it worked.”
His eyes flash.
I look away, but I can’t hide the blush blooming over my skin. “It’s funny,” I say, twirling angel hair on my fork. “Maybe it’s the therapy, or I don’t know, something. But things feel... different.”
“Different how?” he asks, sounding genuinely curious.
I turn to face him, not sure how to put it into words. “Little things. Like... sometimes I find myself thinking about you when you’re not around?”
His brows draw together. “Thinking about me?”
No, that’s not right. I run my hands over my face.
“Uh, thinking about us ...” I whisper, eyes glued to my plate. “Doing things.”
I let my hair fall between us, watching his expression through the strands. He covers his mouth, and I can’t tell if he’s hiding a smile or a frown.
“Because normally you don’t?” he asks, amusement clear in his voice.
“It’s not that I never have,” I say, sounding defensive. And for a second I panic, wondering if I shouldn’t have shared this at all. “It’s just... more on my mind now.”
“That’s interesting,” he says, and now I’m sure I’ve offended him. But when I drag my gaze back up, the look in his eyes sends a jolt of heat straight to my core. “I’ve heard the body’s most powerful sex organ is the brain.”
“You’re always so informed,” I whisper.
His hand on my leg slides another fraction higher, dipping beneath the hem of my skirt. Vaguely, I’m aware of our dinners not being eaten, but my dress is suddenly so tight I can’t imagine taking another bite .
“So, you didn’t like the space I gave you last week,” he says in a quiet tone.
I shake my head, distracted by the progression of his fingers.
“I have a proposal, then.” This gets my attention. I stare up into his face, and he looks back at me, eyes hooded. “What if we try the opposite?”
I open my mouth, attempting to keep myself from panting, but one of his long, assertive fingers has parted my thighs and my heart is losing it. “Like—how?”
He leans close, nuzzling my hair. “Well, since we’re supposed to be having fun, and you apparently can’t stop thinking about me...” He smirks. “Why don’t we see what happens if we fool around every day—or at least every other.”
His hand goes still beneath my skirt. I glance nervously around, but the restaurant is crowded and loud, and no one’s paying us any attention. He’s just waiting for me, letting his hand sit there between my legs while I die a little.
“ Sure . Let’s try it.”
I can’t really think past what’s happening beneath the table. What’s going on inside me. But while this feels two hundred percent better than the distance we kept last week, we’re also teetering on the edge of my comfort zone. And I’m pretty sure he knows it.
“Mr. Richie, my most powerful sex organ is going into overload,” I warn.
To my relief, Anton chuckles and withdraws his hand. He reaches into his pocket and lays a generous amount of cash on the table. I stand immediately, ignoring the bare, wet feeling between my legs as he follows me out the door. “Guess we better get your brain into bed.”
We don’t quite make it there.
Anton parks in our tiny, detached garage, and we make out like a couple of teenagers in his car before stumbling through the backyard, groping each other much the way we did earlier today. The sun is almost fully set, but the two of us are illuminated in fading pinks and reds. An orchestra of crickets has already started up their evening song, but not so loud I don’t hear Anton’s sharp intake of breath as we lose our footing and tumble to the grass.
“Whoops,” I giggle, landing on top of him, smothering his face under my chest.
He burrows his stubbly chin into my cleavage, igniting my skin, then reaches under my dress and grabs my ass, ready to hoist me back to my feet. But then he pauses.
“Actually . . . wait here.”
He slides gently out from under me, ducks quickly into the garage, and emerges a moment later with the picnic blanket from the backseat of his truck.
“The stars are beautiful tonight,” he says, looking at me and not the sky.
I shift out of the way, biting my lip as he spreads the blanket. Our backyard is tiny, with just enough room for a square of grass, some flowers, and a small patio crammed between our house and garage. But it’s surrounded by a tall privacy fence, several bushy trees, and none of the surrounding bungalows has a window with a direct view in. Plus it is almost dark.
Still, my heart pounds as he stands in the middle of the blanket, inviting me to join him. “Is this another one of your focus exercises?” I ask.
The light and shadows in the yard make his expression intense. “Is it working?”
I approach slowly, reaching for him in the fading light. Running my hands over the rifts and valleys of his torso through his button-down shirt. Down his strong, muscular arms until, tentatively, they rise up and circle my waist. His breath releases, long and slow, as his hands explore up my back, to the zipper of my dress. He begins fiddling with it, then pulls away to look at my face, asking for permission. I glance around the yard again. It’s darker now, only illuminated by the moon and a dim solar light on our garage. If anyone’s going to see me, they’d have to peer over the top of our fence.
I turn back to Anton. The obvious desire in his eyes held back only by his need for me to process and decide. If I said I wanted to stop, go in, he wouldn’t argue. We’d continue this in the privacy of our bedroom. I could get out the things I bought at Playful Pleasures, and I’m sure we’d have fun.
But something about staying, taking his lead, sends a flutter through my stomach. I’m uncomfortable, but I trust him. So, with some hesitance, I nod.
He draws the zipper down slowly, my core tightening with every inch. When the fabric hangs loose on my shoulders, I take in a deep breath for what feels like the first time in hours.
“Been dying to do this all evening,” he says, reaching for the hem. And before I can overthink, he pulls the dress over my head, leaving me in just my blue satin bra.
His face is reverent as he leans in, trailing his lips over the remaining fabric, and I shiver as he slides each strap off my shoulders. Slowly, his fingers drift behind me once more, but he straightens before tugging on the hooks, always checking in.
God. Here goes everything.
I close my eyes and nod again, standing there astounded with myself as he releases the clasp, letting my breasts spring free in the warm evening air. And then I’m standing, heart pounding, completely nude in our backyard, in the middle of the city. He tosses the bra into the grass with my dress, then steps back, and it’s the strangest sensation. I feel simultaneously exposed and... surprisingly exhilarated. I want to grab my clothes and run inside, but I don’t. Because of the hungry look in Anton’s eyes.
He stalks around me like a fox, gaze dark and heated. “You are so fucking beautiful,” he mutters, circling behind me, setting my skin on fire as one hand cups and caresses my ass. I stand stiff and still, like a hunted animal. And the way my husband looks at me is not unlike a predator. But I swallow hard, because this is exactly what I longed for last week.
He leans in, his lips brushing mine, drifting down my jaw, neck, and collarbone, and over my heated chest. He gets to my left nipple and blows cool air across it, as if to draw more attention to the fact that it’s out here for the world to see. And it responds dutifully, hardening and standing out under his attentions. He moves to the right, and manages to make that one tighten up too .
Anton looks up into my face, pinches one nipple in each hand, and gives them a firm tug. Something between a gasp and a moan escapes my mouth, and I clench my thighs as the sensation travels through me, settling in my core. His eyes light up like Christmas at my reaction.
I sink to the blanket, as primly as I can completely naked, and suddenly I’m reminded of a painting I studied in college depicting two Victorian couples having a picnic. The men were fully clothed, but the women were mostly nude. I knew it was a bold piece of art for its time, but it never really struck me as erotic until now. Because I feel like one of those women.
Like the painting, Anton keeps on his pants and shirt, but guides me to lie back, on full display for owls, and helicopters—but mostly for him. My limbs are stiff as he positions himself between my legs, my skin glowing in the moonlight. It’s still early enough I hear people laughing and talking a few doors down, a neighborhood dog barking, and the sound of someone washing dishes through a nearby window. Close enough I’m afraid to make any sound of my own. But then Anton leans down, tracing his lips and tongue up the insides of my thighs, until the universe seems to shrink to just our yard, this blanket—his tongue and my flesh. My entire body warms before he even reaches my center. And when he does, I gasp.
I’m not sure how every time his lips touch down on my clit can feel like the first time, but this is surely the first time it’s been done under the stars. And despite staying perfectly silent, muscles tight with the threat of being discovered, my hips buck and rock against his face and he moves easily in time. Reaching up with one hand to tweak my nipples until the want builds so much that my body seems to vibrate.
When I am near delirious with arousal, he pulls back, and my entire vulva throbs for his return. But the next thing I know, he’s back between my legs, as nude as I am. All heated skin and muscle illuminated under the moon.
He hoists my legs into his lap, positioning his thick head against my entrance, and just the pressure is so delicious. I push forward, trying to get him to sink into me. But at that moment, a car drives slowly up the alley behind us and I tense. It comes to a stop nearby, and we hear people get out, talking to each other. I recognize our next-door neighbors’ voices and try to scramble up, but Anton holds my legs in place, bringing a finger to his lips. His eyes ask me to trust him.
Doors slam, followed by more voices, and the entire time, Anton stares down at me, rubbing himself silently in my juices, maintaining friction against my clit while I listen, waiting for our neighbors, and apparently another couple, to move into their house.
And just when I hear them laughing and chatting about some restaurant, gathered literally on the other side of a few fence pickets from where I am laid out completely nude, Anton pushes his considerable length inside me and I respond with an audible gasp.
There’s a hush in the night. My husband looks down at me with this expression like, that’s right, you just took me all in one go, just as someone says, “Did you hear something?” And I lie there in torment, both because they might investigate, discover us, and I will never be able to show my face on our street again. But also because I’m full of my husband’s throbbing cock, and so aroused I need him to start moving.
Behind the fence, someone mutters about raccoons, and then the whole group laughs and continues toward the house. Anton takes this as his cue and begins pumping slowly, and I seriously might die if I can’t make a sound.
He smirks down at me and whispers, “Should I ask if they had a nice dinner?”
I lock my legs around his waist and arch my back, squeezing until he clenches his jaw, suppressing a groan, until finally the neighbors’ door slams.
“God, you’re so fucking wet,” he grunts, picking up his pace immediately. “If I didn’t know better, Lydia... I’d say this turns you on.”
I claw at the blanket beneath my hips, scandalized that he suggested it; mortified he might be right.
But then I stop being able to think at all because his thumb has touched down on my soaking wet clit, and he drives into me until his intensity peaks with a whispered, “ Fuck, ” followed by several deep, hard thrusts. His thumb remains in place on my clit, and for the first time ever, I’m so tuned in, I actually feel him empty into me. He grinds just the right spot with one hand and clamps my nipple between his fingers with the other, and in a hot rush of oh my God, I lose control. I buck against his fingers, my walls clamping around him still inside me, and it is all I can do not to shriek so it echoes through the entire neighborhood.
Anton waits until the waves of heat subside, then gently pulls out, wrapping me in his arms and nuzzling my hair.
“Not a raccoon,” he says. “Just a couple of fucking bunnies.”