Chapter 22
REVENGE S*X WITH ANOTHER WOMAN
Thomas
The bed is a luxurious king size within the hotel suite: linen blindingly white, pillows in a blizzard at the headboard, a velvet runner wasted across the foot like a sash from a forgotten beauty queen.
The woman and I are both naked, our bodies mapped in city light.
Outside, Minneapolis smears itself on the windows, every office tower and condo high-rise throwing up its hands in surrender.
You’d think from the height of the suite—twentieth floor, minimum—that the world would look small and conquerable.
Instead, it feels like the city is pressing its whole cold body against the glass, waiting to be let in.
Elaine is everything a man should want. I know this because I’ve told myself, out loud, as recently as last week: “You should want a woman like her.” Thirty-five, sharp as a razor, an established attorney, the kind of face that wins closing arguments and raises hell at Junior League.
She’s the redhead from the event ages ago, and that copper hair is currently spilling like a red flame across the white sheets.
Her breasts are the kind that men still invent metaphors for: “handfuls,” “pillows,” “miracles of engineering,” and I mean that literally because she obviously has implants.
But still, it’s a good replica of the real thing.
But that’s the problem. Under the dim hotel lamp, the woman is animal and artificial in equal measure.
The skin is flawless, all over. Her nipples are a glossy, clinical pink, capped by areolae that look airbrushed.
When I run my thumb over one, it moves but doesn’t yield.
Not the way Andie’s did. My mind flashes, unwanted, to Andie’s breasts: soft, heavy, utterly real, the kind of flesh that responds to even a sigh, much less a grip.
Andie was always so pink, so alive. Her body was never on autopilot, not even once.
Elaine’s the opposite. She sighs at the right moment, and her mouth falls open in an “oh” that’s so perfectly performed I can see the years of practice.
She grabs my wrist, guides my hand lower, wants me to discover something, maybe a secret compartment of need.
But there’s nothing. My fingers find only skin, the fine grid of laser hair removal, the heat of her blood—but no moisture.
Goddamn, the woman’s pussy is bone dry. It’s like the Sahara here.
Stunned, I go through the motions, two fingers, then three, not because this is what I want, but because this is what’s expected.
Her voice, when it comes, is a bedroom whisper with courtroom diction: “Is something wrong?” She lifts her head, arches an eyebrow, and lets her hair flop into her eyes. There’s a trick to it, like a magician’s reveal.
I don’t answer. I keep my face neutral, the way you do when you’re checking a spreadsheet for errors and just found a missing decimal. I keep working my fingers in slow, lazy circles, but it’s like stirring the bottom of an empty glass—nothing but dryness.
She makes a show of arching her back, presenting herself.
When I don’t move right away, she gets the picture.
The redhead rolls, slow and practiced, onto her stomach, ass high.
Her butt is round and taut and vaguely heroic, the kind you see in compression shorts on elliptical machines at the all-hours gym.
She reaches back, two hands gripping her buttocks and then spreading herself wide so that it’s clear she’s inviting me to touch her asshole. She makes a low, feline sound.
“It’s always a little dry down there these days,” Elaine murmurs, not embarrassed in the least. “But why don’t you try this hole instead? It’s naturally dry here, and I promise, the friction is insane.”
I stare at the ceiling for a long second, counting the brush strokes in the paint.
A chandelier dangles above, chrome and crystals refracting the amber light into tiny sparks on the walls.
If Andie were here, she’d be naked, but in a different way—open, unfinished, more herself than ever, and utterly, totally soaked.
I think about Andie’s mouth, the way it tasted after a long walk, the salt of her skin, the way she’d beg for more even when her body was already trembling. How she’d say “oh god, Thomas, I need it now,” and mean it like she needed oxygen.
I think about Andie’s hands, how small they looked wrapped around my cock, how she’d stare at it hungrily, licking her lips.
I think about the time in my penthouse, her knees on the kitchen counter, wrists bound in my belt, gasping as I fingered her so slow and deep she forgot how to speak. She was wet. Always so fucking wet.
Here, Elaine is all muscle memory and Pilates. She waits, butt in the air, her legs spread in a perfect V. She looks over her shoulder, eyes half-lidded, and says, “We can go slow. Or fast. Whatever you like, big boy.”
It’s generous, but I can’t find the thread of it. I can’t find the hunger, not the response in my body.
I sit back, stare at her naked body for a long beat, then reach for my shirt on the back of the chair. The move is so abrupt that she blinks, surprised, and then drops her hips to the mattress.
“I have an early meeting in the morning,” I say. My voice is flat. “I should get some sleep.”
This is obviously a lie. Elaine turns, props herself up on her elbows, the sheet sliding down to her waist. There is zero shame in her. She’s seen this before, lived it, probably been the one to call the game herself on a dozen men better than me.
“Is it the caterer?” she asks. The words are so casual I almost miss them. “The one from the fundraiser a while back. The blonde one?”
What the fuck? Elaine noticed? I don’t answer at first, but I know I don’t have a poker face left to hide behind.
“She’s young,” Elaine says, voice softening, a little. “Very beautiful.”
“Too young,” I say, and this time the words scrape my throat. “That’s the problem.”
Elaine shrugs, then smiles, a slow, wicked curve.
“You know, you could just have her. Women your age are always going to want more than you can give.” She stands, naked, and walks to the mini fridge, her ass flexing with each step, and pulls a fresh bottle of water.
She cracks the cap, drinks, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.
The gesture is pure masculinity, and for a second, I almost want to try again.
But not really.
She pads to the window, stares out at the city with the water pressed to her chest. Her reflection is a perfect silhouette against the skyline: red hair, white skin, the arc of her hips a clean line from ribcage to thigh.
She looks over her shoulder, catches me staring, and laughs. Not mean, not cruel—just honest.
“We don’t have to do this,” she says. “We could just fuck and call it a night. But you look like you’re about to bite through your own tongue, you’re so tortured.”
I sit on the edge of the bed, pulling on my pants.
I don’t say anything. My hands move in silence, button, zip, belt, shirt.
The motions are muscle memory. The cuffs are French, the buttons tiny and slick.
I remember the time Andie spent a whole five minutes trying to fasten my cuffs, her tongue sticking out, cheeks flushed, before she just gave up and used her teeth.
I remember the bite, the way her teeth left little crescents on my skin.
I remember the way she laughed, the sound of it, so loud and careless in my penthouse that it shook the glass.
Meanwhile, Elaine stands in the city’s blue glow, one hand on her hip, the other cradling her water. “You’re not the first,” she says, “and you won’t be the last. Don’t feel bad for me.”
I tie my shoes, slow and methodical. “I don’t,” I say in a flat tone.
She laughs again, this time quieter, and walks to the bed. She sits beside me, nude but regal, the kind of poise you only get from winning a hundred arguments in a row. She puts her hand on my thigh, not sexual, but friendly.
“Listen,” she says, “If you ever want to talk, or fuck, or just have a glass of wine—text me. Or don’t. But at least be honest with yourself. We’re too old to care what other people think. What we want is what matters, so don’t let other peoples’ shit stand in your way.”
Where is she even getting this? Why is she acting like an armchair psychiatrist?
But Elaine doesn’t flinch when I stand. She just sits there, half-upright against the headboard, the sheets pulled to her waist like a makeshift toga, watching me button my shirt with the dispassion of a tax lawyer auditing my own return.
The bedside lamp throws a gold halo around her head, but the expression is all shadow: calm, unsentimental, eyes on me the way a vet watches a dog about to bite.
She asks, “So is this about the caterer from the fundraiser?” Goddamn it, she’s back to Andie. But there’s no heat in her question. No sarcasm. Just the neutral tone of someone who’s cross-examined a thousand men and already knows the answer.
My hands stop mid-button, and for a second I just look at her, mouth open, nothing coming out.
She waits. “I mean, it’s obvious,” Elaine says, voice even. “She stared holes through you the whole night. So did you, frankly.”
I blink, caught. My shoulders go rigid. I nod. “It’s her.” The words sound like they’re coming from the other end of a tunnel.
Elaine tilts her head, considering. “She’s young,” she says, then after a beat, “but very beautiful. It makes sense.”
I want to argue. I want to say it doesn’t make sense, that I’m not that guy. But I am. I’m exactly that guy, and Elaine knows it. We both do.
“She’s too young,” I say, voice tight. “Like I said, that’s half the issue.”
Elaine shrugs, not unkind. She grabs her robe off the end of the bed and pulls it on, the silk whispering over her skin, the movement elegant but casual. “Age is nothing but a number,” she says, “unless you’re looking for an excuse.”