Alone in the center of this big bed, I'm watching the clock on the dresser. It's late now, so late that it isn't even really Friday night any more. My husband, Matthew, knows I'm waiting for him up here. He's been downstairs for nearly an hour with something he had said he needed to take care of.
I didn't want to wait for him. We had gone out to dinner with his bosses to celebrate the end of the lawsuit that had dominated so much of his life. Now that he had won, he was on the short list for partner for certain. There, at the very posh restaurant, he had slipped his hand beneath the crisp, white tablecloth, and swept his broad palm over my thigh. He had plucked at my garters, playfully at first, before moving his hand up higher, over my mound. His fingertips curled under my smallest, sexiest silk panties, dipping into my wet heat. All the while, he had kept up a conversation with the stodgy partners as his hand made an intimate promise with me.
Once we arrived at home, he kissed me long and deep, his hands cradling my face. I leaned into him, sliding my hands over his shoulders, but he pulled away, breaking contact.
"I have to handle something down here first," he said. "I'm right behind you."
I bit back my protest and resolved to use the time to my advantage. Upstairs, I was able to shower and slowly spread a luxuriant lotion over my skin. I took my time to choose my favorite nightgown, the long one in black silk. I slid the strap on over my shoulder, thinking of how he would slide it back off in a few minutes. I walked my fingers down into the gown's V-neck and remembered that he said he was right behind me.
I slipped between the sheets then, already wet. It would have been easy to give myself a quick orgasm right then, but that would have been cheating, I thought. Now, still waiting, I have begun to reconsider my decision. Slowly, honor is losing its battle with hunger. I squint at the clock; it's two in the morning now. I sweep back the sheets and the duvet and swing my legs out of bed.
My bare feet don't make a sound in the thick carpet of the hallway and the stairs. He's done well, my husband. It's a big, lavishly decorated house. It says old money. It's all dark paneling and heavy furniture. I have never been crazy about the rather gothic decorating scheme, but after I married Matthew, I slowly warmed up to it. During our first week in this house as man and wife, we christened every room. He bent me over the settee his parents favor when they visit for tea. He pinned me to the thick carpet in the library. I rode him on the formal dining table. The many pleasant memories make it difficult to dislike the furniture.
I find him at his desk in the study; he is surrounded by piles of paper, legal pads and books. The lamp in the corner makes a circle of light on the center of the desk. The fire in the fireplace belies his intention to come upstairs to bed anytime soon. I march right up to the desk and plant my hands on the thick layer of papers. I lean over, offering him the view deep into the neck of the nightgown.
"You said you would be right up," I say.
"I'm sorry," he says. "I did say that. I just started to pack this up, and --"
I reach across his desk and put my fingertips on his mouth. "No more excuses. Now."
I plant my knee on the desk and hoist myself experimentally onto it. I have driven cars smaller than this desk, but I've never tried to support my weight on it before. He rises from the chair, very slowly and deliberately. When his mouth covers mine, I can taste old, old scotch on him. His tongue claims my mouth, and far away, I can hear an avalanche of books and paper as he sweeps the desk clean for me. No more excuses. Now.
His hands have never been hard, but I can feel their strength as they close on my arms. He lifts me squarely onto the now bare desk, and I can hear him breathing hard against my neck. His mouth is hot against my skin as he lowers me onto the desk. As my eyes drift closed, I am arching into him, turning my face into his thick, dark hair, as he leans over me and slides that strap off my shoulder. I start to reach for the lamp, but another hand closes over mine.
It's different. The palm is rough on my skin. I gasp, snapping my head around.
My brother-in-law is here. The subject of a dozen forbidden fantasies is here, standing over us. David has been here all along, sharing a drink with my husband, helping him celebrate. He's been watching us, too. The lamplight throws the hard planes of his face into sharp relief, even as the light from the fire heightens the golden glow of his blond hair. I have to touch him. I want to feel the sun-rough stubble on his face. I want his mouth to close over my fingertips, sucking them, drawing them in with his tongue. I want to spread my hands over the broad plain of his chest, warm beneath that shirt, then over his flat stomach, then to the worn jeans, where I can see his cock swelling, making an enticing bulge, ready for the cup of my hand.
My mouth is watering, but my hand is steady, and still trapped in his hand. Matthew slides a smooth, warm palm up my leg, eagerly hiking my gown up. The strong fingers find their way under the G-string, slick with my juices. His fingers nimbly brush my clit. A shaft of pleasure electrifies me.
His whisper in my ear is hot. "Touch him. It's all right. It's all right."
David releases my hand but guides it up to his face. My thumb passes over his lips, and he takes it into his mouth. The wet heat of it makes me melt around my husband's hand. The silk of the gown slides down to expose first the upper curve of my breast, then my hard nipple. Matthew's mouth descends onto it hungrily, sucking greedily at it as his hand works at my cunt. When my head drops back, David cradles it in one hand, holding me steady for his eager kiss. His tongue strokes steadily over mine, the pressure of his mouth firm. He breaks away from my mouth, catching my swollen lower lip in his teeth before smoothing it over with his tongue.
Matthew releases my breast, brushing the nipple once, twice more with his tongue before he lifts me off the desk. He carries me to the deep rug in front of the fireplace. As I prop myself up on my elbows, the two of them undress, one of them on each side of me. I can feel their eyes on me. Matthew's long fingers make short work of the buttons on that expensive shirt. He deftly removes the cufflinks I gave him two years ago. He backs toward the desk to put the cufflinks there, and then he slides the shirt from his shoulders and pulls off his undershirt to show me that smooth chest. He starts to unfasten his belt, but then he stops. In my anticipation, I sit up on the rug, gathering the gown up so that I can take it off.
"Not yet," he says. "Soon enough."
David undoes the first couple of buttons of his own shirt before pulling it over his head. His bronzed chest is covered with golden hair. He casually casts the cotton shirt aside into the shadows. The two of them stare down at me, smiling lazy, hungry smiles.
David sits next to me, claiming my mouth in another long, searing kiss. His hands gather up my hair, holding me still. This is no settled family man's kiss. There is real hunger here, an immense, bottomless appetite. My hands find his chest, at last, savoring the heat, the hard expanse of him.
