She was angry. Loudly not talking to him in the way women did, slamming doors and stomping her sensible heels on the hardwood floor. So he'd flirted a little, it was what he did. She knew that when she married him ten years ago.
She looked fantastic. Not that he could tell her now—she'd think he was sucking up. Her dress was hooker red, slinky and wrapped around her tighter than anything she usually wore. The edge of anger that accompanied her outfit only made her hotter in his opinion.
"Do you do it deliberately?'
Aaah, she was finally speaking.
"What's that honey?"
"Do you deliberately flirt in front of me?"
"Sweetheart I didn't even talk to her. She talked to me.'
"Right. After you looked at her in that aren't you a gorgeous piece of ass way."
The gas station attendant was a gorgeous piece of ass, but she held nothing to his wife in full fury mode. Her pouty mouth curled in a snarl, eyes flashing, chest heaving. Man, he wanted to fuck her hard. It was their monthly date night, the kids had just been picked up by grandma for a sleepover and their dinner reservations weren't for an hour. So maybe, just maybe...
"You can wipe that look off your face buddy. No way, no how are you getting a piece of this fine ass tonight."
OK, so maybe not.
"Maybe if you were wearing a wedding ring..." The rest of the argument disappeared down the hall with her as she stormed away. Not that he needed to hear it, he could repeat it in his sleep having heard it so many times over the last ten years. It wasn't as if he didn't wear a ring so he could pick up. He might flirt but he never, never cheated. He couldn't wear the ring, not safely, not with the tools he used on a daily basis. Sure, he could probably put it on when not at work but, Jesus; he was a man. He didn't think about frickin' jewelry. Truth be told he wasn't even sure he knew where the ring was, maybe in his toolbox? No way was he telling her that, not if he wanted sex again this decade.
He was wondering whether date night was a complete goner when she finally reappeared from the bedroom. He turned off ESPN and put the remote back on the coffee table. He hadn't really looked at her—too busy finding his keys and getting his jacket—so when he opened the door for her and got a good look he cursed, "Jesus Fucking Christ!"
She was still wearing the red number but it was now open all the way to her waist, a red and black lace up corset underneath. The corset cinched her waist and squeezed her breasts up into luscious mounds. Her hips seemed rounder, ripe and full. The unruly curly hair she normally pinned back into a neat bun was now big and loose and her lips were as shiny hooker red as the dress.
Those red lips pursed in a pout as she looked at him and loudly tapped her foot. He looked down at the tapping, the shoes had been changed too. No nice sensible black pumps, they were come fuck me heels, with black ribbons that laced up her beautiful calves.
She arched a brow and said, "Problem Jack?"
No, no problem at all, other than fact that if he didn't adjust his rapidly stiffening cock right now his balls would be strangled.
He shook his head and watched her ass as she walked through the door. Now was the time to shut his mouth and pray she'd forget she was angry so he could please, please get a piece of that fine ass.
Oddly when he got to the car she was in the drivers seat. He normally drove, but in the spirit of not getting in further trouble he got in the passenger side and said absolutely nothing. When she took the wrong turn to the restaurant he still said nothing, thinking that she'd eventually work it out and maybe he'd score some points for not raggin' on her about it.
She actually spun the tires when she pulled into the lot of The Hardball Bar. One of their old haunts, pre kids, pre marriage.
"Aah Cass, honey. We have reservations."
"Fuck the reservations."
Cassandra didn't normally curse. Didn't dress like that and didn't curse. Something was definitely going on. She didn't give him a chance to ask. She was out of the car and across the parking lot before he had his door closed.
The Hardball hadn't changed much in the decade since they'd been regulars. Dim lit, bare concrete floor, caged stage with a hard rock band playing at ear splitting level. Cass stood out like a rose amongst the thorns in her slinky red dress. Most of the other women were in jeans, barely there skirts and cut off shorts. Cass didn't speak to him, just made her way to the bar and ordered a long neck Mexican beer—nothing for him. Hips swaying she strut over to a table and sat down on a stool propped her leg on the footrest of the table and flashed a gorgeous expanse of leg. She ignored him and drank straight from the bottle. Red lips pursed around the clear frosted glass. His dick jumped as her tongue poked in the end and licked at the wedge of lime stuck in the top. Lost in a fog of lust it wasn't until she stroked a hand down the bottle that he realized.
She wasn't wearing her wedding ring.
