I doubted Brad had been deprived of much of anything his entire life. Love. He hadn’t had enough love; it was something I saw at odd times, times when he cradled my face in his hand, and a flicker of worry went through his eyes. He, at those moments, revealed how terrified he was of losing me. I didn’t know how to package love, how to giftwrap that emotion and hand it to Brad. I told him often, as often as I could. But I knew that the more in love he fell, the more afraid he was that I would leave. That I would turn into his mother and choose another reality over this one. I was marrying him. That should be enough of a reassurance.

Hmm ... So b) something he could never get too much of. Sex. Brad had always been in control of our sexual adventures. It was part of the turn-on for me, the willing handover of my body, unknowing of what he had in store for it. But I wanted something more for his birthday, something other than me, naked and willing, waiting for his command. My mind flickered back to his being deprived. He had been shortchanged of something, for eight months now. Another woman. We had ventured into the water, spending one hot night with a blonde Russian, Brad bringing her multiple orgasms without actually fucking her. He had to miss it, had to miss domination of another woman with his cock, seeing the look in her eyes when he thrust it in, the shock and incredulity as it turned from too much to too perfect.

It was time. Since that night, I had waffled and wish-washed my way back and forth over the line of indecision until my head spun like a drunken coed. But the thought always made me hot, always pushed me over the edge when Brad’s head was between my legs or he was buried deep in me. The pleasure he gave me, the incredible heights and depths he brought me to, were too incredible for me not to share—it seemed unfair for me to keep this wealth of sexual knowledge contained solely for my pleasure. When I was with Brad and the Russian, I had loved every minute of the experience, as limited as it was. But to see him inside a woman, to see his thrusts and her moans, his hands gripping her skin, his mouth on hers—the thought was almost too intense to process. During sex, I would get snapshot images, entering uninvited into my mind, and my back would involuntarily arch, my orgasm no longer containable, and my world would turn black in a moment of exquisite perfection.

How would I react in that actual situation? When he spread her legs, touched her body? When I saw that look on his face, the look of lust and ownership, the same look that sent me over the edge, the look I strove for, fucked for, and did anything and everything to provoke? How would I take it, and what if he needed more of it?

Would I really be giving him a birthday present? Or was this just one, big, sex-filled test of our relationship?

♥♥♥

I didn’t even know how to go about setting up a threesome. It was something I had always had Brad handle, not wanting the awkward chitchat, conversation of limits and desires, the meet and greet. And dealing with a woman seemed even more problematic. If I had to, if every sexual standard Brad and I had in place crashed down, I could walk up to a man and bring up the concept of sex. Men were a given, a single man with a working cock wasn’t likely to turn down an offer of no-strings-attached sex. Women were a whole other ballgame. I was a woman who had already been introduced to threesomes, who was familiar with walking into an unknown situation and having a stranger touch me, yet I would still say ‘fuck you’ if approached by a stranger and propositioned for sex. I couldn’t image any woman, other than a prostitute, who would willingly enter into an unknown situation without someone there they were itrustyouwithmylife comfortable with. And ... if there was a woman out there who was that down-to-fuck ... I wasn’t sure I wanted her anywhere near my man.

I decided to call the only expert I knew, Beverly Franklin, a redheaded bombshell who had popped my sex-party cherry eight months earlier. I locked myself in my office and dialed her number.

When she answered, my opening greeting was awkward, my words tripping out, no good way to introduce myself. There was an initial pause, but then warm sincerity flowed through the phone.

“You’re that gorgeous brunette who came with Brad to Masked Innocence! Of course I remember. I’ve heard you tied that man down with an engagement.” The admiration rang clearly through her voice.

“Well, someone had to do it.”

She laughed coquettishly. “I missed seeing you at the Christmas party; Brad said you guys went up to Aspen. How was the snow?”

Aspen. The day after my parents left, we locked down the house and flew west, locking ourselves into a chalet and fucking for three days straight before coming home. Snow? I hadn’t even noticed. “It was great, though I hated missing the party. But Beverly, the reason I called is that Brad’s birthday is Friday.” I explained my predicament, hoping that she didn’t take the question the wrong way.

She thought for a moment. “Honestly, Julia, if you’re trying to find a single woman yourself, you’re probably best going to The Montley House.”

I repeated the name, drawing a blank, my naïve mind trying to find something familiar in the words.

She laughed. “Why don’t I take you there tonight? It’s a place easier shown than explained; plus, they won’t accept you without a referral.”

I blushed. “That would be great, if it’s not too much of an inconvenience.”

“It’s no trouble at all. Let’s meet for drinks first. I need to give you the lay of the land before you make your selection.”

We made plans to meet at seven-thirty. I hung up my cell and Googled ‘The Montley House,’ finding zero results. Any place that successfully hid from the internet could only mean trouble. My stomach flip-flopping, I returned to my files and dove back into work.

♥♥♥

I almost forgot about the damn chicken. I was mid-dial into a call to Brad when I remembered the baked chicken breasts. Martha lightly battered them in flour, mixed with some type of crack, before slow-baking them, and they tasted out-of-this-world amazing. There were few things in life better than her chicken, and I wasn’t missing it for anything. I hung up on Brad, his hello cut off by my thumb, and I thought for a moment before dialing him back.

“Yes?”

“Sorry about that, forgot I was getting on the elevator. Martha’s making baked chicken tonight.”

“I know. I’m on my way home now. Are you leaving the office?”

“Yeah, but I can’t stay long. I was just going to grab dinner and then go; I’ve got plans with the girls.”

“Why don’t they come by the house for dinner? You know Martha will have plenty.”

“I think they have other stuff to do, but I’ll ask.”

“All right. See you soon. Love you.”

“I love you, too, babe.” I hung up the phone with a smile, grateful that he hadn’t pushed any more. My lies tended to fall into a million pieces at about question three. Anything before that, I held up pretty well. I let out a breath, walking through the plan in my mind. I would go to Brad’s house, gorge on Martha’s cooking, change into something worthy of a mysterious outing, then go and meet with Beverly. I grinned, embracing the delicious secret. I was, basically, James Bond in stilettos.

Chapter 39

Julia was lying. There was something in their earlier conversation on the phone, something off. And now she was nervous, eating but fidgeting, glancing at the clock too often for practical purposes. Deception was never good, it was an evil snake that planted doubt in the mind of others, and he could feel it stealing over his body. He stood, grabbing his plate and paused on his way to the sink, kissing her neck and flashing her a smile. She flushed, looking down.

He continued to the sink, scraping his plate and glancing at her. “Where are you guys going?”

She hesitated. “Olives. Becca heard it was good.”

Yes, Olives was good, if you didn’t mind paying thirty dollars a drink. A little rich for college student blood. Brad headed to the den, a headache growing.

♥♥♥

I changed, and then changed again, my first outfit looking like a cat burglar’s. Frustrated with my lack of knowledge about Montley’s, I finally decided on a simple black dress, choosing one that was more daring than conservative, hoping it would fit the vibe of whatever mousetrap Beverly was leading me into. I slid on Jimmy Choos and a cropped leather jacket, then headed downstairs, calling for Brad.

He was in the den, a t-shirt and sweatpants on, baseball playing on the television, and he glanced up at my entrance, his eyes taking in my outfit in one, slow scan. He stood, walking over and stopped before me, his hands on his hips. I looked up at him quizzically. “What?”

“No.”

“No? What do you mean no?”

“You look way too good.” He let his eyes drop, and he trailed a finger along and up my side, the contact causing my breath to hitch, his finger crossing over my breasts and down the dip in my neckline.

I reached out and grabbed his finger, wrapping my hand around it. “Stop. Stop that or else I won’t be able to think straight.”

“Go change.”

“What? I’m not changing! Besides, Olives is fancy, so what’s wrong with this?” I looked down at my outfit in dismay, his finger catching my chin and pulling it up until our eyes met. He stared at me for a long moment, his eyes searching mine and I stared back defiantly. He grinned suddenly and pulled me to him, his mouth taking mine, a long kiss that stole my breath. He squeezed my ass as we separated and turned, heading back to the couch and settling in. I stared at him, baffled. “So ... the outfit is okay?”