It’s my turn to ask a question, and I turn to Ransom, who gazes at me expectantly. “How many women have you slept with?”
He smiles like the cat that ate the canary, as if he knows the answer will shock me. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t. It’s not something I keep up with.”
“I guess when you go around sticking your dick in anything that moves, keeping tally could be troublesome.”
I chuckle sardonically at my tasteless jibe, but stop short when I see a quick wince of pain on Ransom’s face. It only lasts a second before he schools his features back into the cool, impassive guise that I’ve grown used to seeing. I cock my head to one side. Could I have . . . hurt his feelings?
“I didn’t mean it like that,” I try to explain, but he quickly waves it off.
“No. You’re right. I’ll fuck anything that walks and is halfway decent-looking. I am a musician, after all. I usually have to wear a baseball glove on stage to catch all the pussy that’s thrown at me.”
He seems satisfied with himself—proud even—so I let the subject drop. Tucker goes next, asking me to name my naughtiest fantasy. I shrug my shoulders, not willing to divulge my secret. He kisses my shoulder as he begs for the truth, but there’s no way I could tell him what I really want. That’d make me seem dirty and immoral. Not to mention make him feel inadequate.
When Ransom takes control of the game next, I know for sure that whatever he has up his sleeve will leave me humiliated and exposed. I hold my breath and await his retaliation, yet he looks at Tucker instead. Still, he doesn’t hold back on shock factor.
“I dare you . . . to let me touch your wife.”
An audible gasp escapes my kiss-swollen lips and I turn to Tucker, awaiting his wrath. He returns Ransom’s intent stare, his expression unreadable. Yet, the younger man doesn’t back down, cocking a challenging brow at Tuck’s silence. He remains unmovable, a master at the art of restraint from his years as a shrink. No doubt he’s had to answer some odd questions, but never any involving his wife.
“I don’t let Heidi do anything. She has her own mind . . . her own body.”
“So maybe I should be asking her.” A sinister smile on his lips, Ransom angles his focus on me. “Heidi, would you let me touch you?”
My first reaction is to say no—hell no. But Tucker quickly grasps my knee, capturing my attention.
“This is what you want,” he whispers. “He . . . is what you want. And I can accept that. This is your fantasy, baby. Let me help you make it come true.”
I search his face, waiting for him to break into laughter, but he’s completely serious. My husband is telling me to let another man put his hands on me—his wife. This isn’t right. This isn’t what married people are supposed to do. But even as that rational part of my brain lists all the reasons why I shouldn’t allow this to go any further, my body is already tingling with anticipation. My face and chest are flush. My nipples harden in exhilaration. And my mouth waters with the prospect of tasting Ransom’s skin.
Oh, God. I do want this. And now the decision is mine and mine alone.
“So?” Ransom asks, awaiting our fate.
Say no.
Say no.
Grab Tucker’s hand and get the fuck out of here. Go home and make love to him. Let that kind, good, gentle man be enough.
Once again, Ransom Reed steals the truth from my lips, forcing me to abandon all decency and sanity. Making me take the sanctity of my marriage and soil it with my own slick arousal.
In one single breath, I shatter ten years of devotion, trust, and love. And although I know what I’m destroying by lighting this fire, I can’t do much more than stand back and watch it all go up in flames.
“Yes.”
He’s on his feet, stalking toward me before I even get the word out.
Chapter Six
I’m not supposed to like this.
I’m not supposed to feel like I’m dying every second that passes without this stranger’s hands on me. I shouldn’t shiver as he towers over me, dissecting me with the darkest, sultriest eyes I’ve ever seen. And my breath shouldn’t be coming out in short, eager pants.
I’m not supposed to be here. But I am.
I’m not supposed to want this. But I do.
And even knowing my husband is merely a foot away, glaring at us so intensely that I can feel the burn of those bright blue eyes, I can’t force myself to be ashamed enough to stop. If anything, it just makes me want this more.
I gaze up at Ransom and wait, unable to do much else. The first stroke of his hand against my cheek is gentle, tender. His fingers lightly graze a path from the bottom of my jaw up to the shell of my ear. I exhale and let my eyes close, wrapped up in the feel of his skin. His hand is warm, his fingers strong and slightly callused, probably from years and years of playing guitar. They glide down to the nape of my neck before tangling in my hair. I open my eyes and gasp when he gently pulls at the strands at my scalp and I raise my chin in defiance. Or to give him better access.
My nipples strain against silk with every erratic breath. He seems bigger this close to me—taller. His tanned arms are roped with muscle and I can clearly see defined abs through the white cotton of his tee. Oh, how I want to reach out and rake my fingertips over that stomach. Desperate to be closer, I turn my head toward the bare skin of his forearm and inhale his intoxicating scent of spiced smoke and clean sweat with a heady¸ masculine undertone that makes my mouth water.
I’m inhaling once more when Ransom quickly pulls away, taking the haze of passion with him. His demeanor is cool and collected yet the fire in his dark eyes rages with uncontained chaos. I swallow down the disappointment at the loss of contact and try to steady my breathing. Now that I’m not completely wrapped up in his touch, my head swims with a tidal wave of emotions—guilt, excitement, shame, fear. But mostly need. The need to feel those hands on me again. The need to abandon all my inhibitions and be totally unchained in my desires. But I need my husband too. As much as I want to explore this . . . this thing . . . with Ransom, I need Tucker just as badly.
As rejection and confusion set in, I gaze over at Tucker, who continues to watch us with rapt attention. I expect him to be angry at my reaction to Ransom’s touch, but he isn’t. He looks just as aroused as I, and again, I question his motives. But his eyes aren’t on Ransom at all. He’s staring at me, studying the pink flush that contrasts with my pale skin. Watching the way my chest rises and falls rapidly. Yearning to touch my slightly parted lips with his own. Aching to run his tongue over my pebbled nipples that are clearly on display through my flimsy jumpsuit.
Tucker hasn’t looked at me this way since . . . since before I can remember. And it took another man touching me to bring him back to me. It took another man touching me to bring me back to him.
“Tucker,” Ransom rasps, cutting into the tense moment. “Your wife is exquisite.”
“She is, isn’t she,” my husband agrees.
“The things I would do to her . . . the pleasure I could bring her. Oh, how she’d sing.” He turns to me, a dark hunger in his eyes. “Do you sing, Heidi?”
Sing?
I’m not even sure what that means, or if I should want it. Who am I kidding? Of course, I want it. I want whatever he’s willing to give me.
“What?” I breathe, unable to ask him more than that. A sinister smile appears on his lips.