Guilty Pleasures (5 page)

Hadn’t she felt the same way when Michael had let that thread of menace seep out with her?

“What’s wrong with me?” Fresh tears ran down her cheeks, dripping onto her dress.

“Nothing. You’re perfect. Just let yourself feel.”

“What you’re doing is wrong. What I’m feeling is wrong. It’s just . . . it’s so fucked up.”

“Shhhh” His fingers had found the opening of her pussy and started to pump in and out of her in a rhythm far too pleasurable for the situation.

“Michael will come looking for me. He’ll think I’m cheating.”

“And aren’t you?”

“No, of course not! I didn’t ask for this. You won’t let me go.”

He took her to the edge of her orgasm, then withdrew his fingers and stepped back. There was enough space for her to maneuver past him, if he didn’t step forward again to block her path.

“Do you want to go or do you want me to make you come, Vivian?”

Her voice was thready, barely above a whisper. “I want to go.”

“You’re such a little liar.” He sucked her juices off his fingers, then turned and walked out of the coat room, leaving her shaking and unsatisfied against the wall.

FOUR

Vivian sat silent in the car, not wanting to stir Michael up again. He’d noted how pale she was on her return from the bathroom and rushed them through dinner. He glanced over as he drove, a look of concern on his face.

She sighed. “Michael, I told you, I’m fine.”

Uncertainty shone out from his eyes, but he turned his attention back to the road. “If you felt ill, you could have told me. I wouldn’t have made you go out.”

“You didn’t make me go out. I wanted to go out. I’m fine.”

Shame swamped her as she thought about the coat room and the doctor. Maybe he wasn’t even a doctor. He hadn’t answered her question in the affirmative.

Maybe Dr. Lindsay Smith was a woman, and that man had merely taken over her office. Maybe she only kept office hours Monday through Thursday. The lavender cards and walls, the orchids, the name. Didn’t that all scream female?

The feeling between her legs intensified. All she wanted right now was an orgasm. Her eyes shifted to her husband.

On top of violating her, the doctor had gotten her revved up without satisfaction. She should have been

more upset that he’d touched her but found she was upset he’d stopped.
What the fuck is wrong with me?

Michael was right. She needed a therapist. She needed to be doped up on something that would bring her back around to something resembling sane. She couldn’t enjoy sex with her own husband. Yet two handsome strangers had their hands on her in the space of a day, and like some writhing whore, she wanted to come.

She stared out the window as the lights of the city flitted past, thankful her husband had gone silent so she could think. Michael had been her first. Her only.

Did she resent him for that? Was she upset she hadn’t had more experience, more lovers? Was she punishing him?

She began setting up columns in her brain. One column was labeled:
violated
, the other:
willing participant
. Under the violated column she considered Anton had intended to touch her with or without her capitulation. And he’d locked her in with him. He’d blackmailed her. There was nothing about the exchange that said consent.

And yet, hadn’t he freed her to do something she might have done otherwise? In another set of circumstances? If she’d had another life? The thought made bile rise in her throat. Why was she reframing this? Was it self-preservation? What he’d done was wrong. Pure, and simple. There was no gray about it.

Anton and the doctor, or whoever the male posing as Dr. Lindsay Smith was, what they’d done was a crime. She should report them. Fuck the video.

The willing participant column stayed blank. Except for the pulsing between her legs.

When they arrived home, Michael settled her in bed and brought her a cup of hot tea with ginger. “It’ll calm your stomach,” he said.

She accepted the brew with a weak smile.

“I’m going to sleep in the guest bedroom, so you can get better rest.”

She nodded, still feeling guilty for what had happened earlier that day. All the rationalizing in the world couldn’t make her feel like she wasn’t somehow cheating. After all, wasn’t she going back to see Anton on Tuesday?

Her body hummed with both fear and anticipation over what might happen in that room with him. Would it be the same as today? Would it scare her more or less? Would she come just as hard anyway?

“Do you need anything else?”

She looked up to find Michael still hovering. “No. I’m fine.”

“I’ll be down the hall if you need me.” When the door clicked shut, she brought her hand between her legs.

Vivian’s mind flashed to the coat room with the doctor. His hands were so warm and solid. So smooth. And yet the smoothness didn’t detract from his masculinity. Something about the softness of his hand, slippery with her juices, caused a warmth to flare out from her core.

She thought of Anton whispering threats in her ear, telling her she was powerless to resist the pleasure he would deliver. Then suddenly both Anton and the doctor were there, touching, stroking, observing her as she squirmed on the massage table, her legs spread wide for them.

The fantasy heightened when she imagined Michael standing to the side, watching. Not watching in a jealous rage, but with interest, his hand fumbling in his pants for his cock as she was used. The orgasm that followed caused her to shudder and rise off the bed.

She rolled to her side and let out a long breath. What the fuck? It was screwed up enough that she’d masturbated while thinking about Anton and the doctor, but why the hell had she brought her husband into it?

Tuesday came out of nowhere.
After Michael left for work, Vivian took two showers and a bath. She tried on five different outfits, finally shaking herself back into reality.
This isn’t a date. I’m going to this fucker to be abused so he won’t humiliate me by sharing a video with Michael that will have me tossed out on the street without a penny.

Despite the self-talk, she felt the familiar flutter in her stomach as she dressed in something sexier than she usually wore in the afternoon. She’d been bargaining with herself since nine o’clock that morning.

Beyond the morality of the situation, the only choice left was if she would let him break her and make her his victim. She’d decided she wouldn’t. She’d already felt guilt and shame, as if she were both being molested and cheating at the same time.

She had to pick one of those feelings and go with it. So she picked cheating. As she gazed into the mirror, some part of her knowing she’d disconnected from reality to embrace an easier fantasy, she thought of this as dressing for her lover. She pulled her skirt down over her garter belt and stockings and slipped into a pair of fuck-me pumps.

She applied a translucent cherry-colored lip gloss to her lips and mascara to her lashes. Having convinced herself she was having an affair of her own free will, she snapped her purse shut with the lip gloss and her wallet inside, then went to Dome to see Anton.

The spa was crowded when she arrived. A flush crept up her neck at the idea of biting back moans behind one of those doors while women and the occasional man sat in the waiting area flipping through magazines.

Janette was at the front desk with a friendly smile on her face. Could the woman know what went on behind the door in Anton’s little room?
You’re being ridiculous. Of course she doesn’t know.

“Hi, Mrs. Delaney. You’re scheduled with Anton in fifteen minutes. That’ll be two hundred and twenty-five dollars.”

A bit of the color drained back out of her face. She was paying him? To molest her? She covered her surprise with a manufactured coughing fit.

In response, Janette placed a bottle of imported spring water on the counter. It was cold from the mini-fridge under the desk. Vivian forced a smile, twisted off the cap, and drank. When she was finished, she pulled out her checkbook and wrote the check, her signature feeling like a pact with Satan.

A buzzer sounded and Janette picked up the phone, speaking in hushed tones. When she hung up she handed Vivian a receipt.

“That was Anton. He’s running a little late with another client and said you should go to the restaurant and have a complimentary sandwich or soup. Whatever you like.”

Vivian nodded numbly, with the weird, fake smile plastered to her face. She wondered if Anton had someone else in the room like her. Someone he touched against her will. Someone else he had some nasty artificial blackmail on.

It was too late for lunch but too early for dinner, and only a few tables were occupied in the spa restaurant. She wasn’t terribly hungry, but she allowed them to seat her anyway, considering it a better alternative to remaining in the waiting room while her nerves became more frayed.

The restaurant was encased in glass, allowing bright sunlight to filter in from everywhere. Towering palms and ferns lined the walls, giving the sense of being outdoors in a lush jungle. A lush jungle that just happened to have a restaurant sitting in the middle of it.

“Madame, can I interest you in one of our soups? We have a very nice tomato bisque today.”

“That would be fine, thank you.”

The waiter handed her a menu. “It comes with half a sandwich.”

She skimmed the selection and picked the turkey spinach.

He nodded once, took her menu, and departed.

Ten minutes later a plate and bowl were placed in front of her, along with a crystal glass and a chilled bottle of imported spring water. She’d just dipped her spoon in the soup when she felt a presence looming over her. Or perhaps it was the shadow that fell across the white linen tablecloth.

Anton. She put the spoon back in the bowl and stood, her heart going like a jackhammer in her chest.

“Sit,” he said, his accent curling around her like a blanket.

Vivian hesitantly eased back into the chair as he slid into the seat across from her. The waiter returned with soup, sandwich, and tea for him.

After the man retreated to the kitchen, Anton said, “I ordered something for myself after I called Janette.”

“Why?”

“I worked through lunch.”

Vivian looked back at her bowl, unable to meet his gaze, knowing what would happen between them after they ate.

“Have I told you how lovely your hair is? It looks like a light brown until you get into sunlight. Then you’ve got those strands that glitter like gold,” he said, his words turning gentle with the accent.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what? Don’t eat? That’s very rude, Vivian. I’ve worked all day. A man has to eat.”

She made a choking sound. “Work. I’m sure it’s been grueling.”

He smiled pleasantly and bit into his sandwich.

She spoke low between clenched teeth, worried about drawing too much attention. “You know what I mean. You come out here to eat with me and compliment my hair like we’re on some kind of date, when we both know what you’re about.”

“No, Vivian. You have no idea what I’m about.”

A few moments passed in silence when he said, “You’re not eating.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Eat.”

The look he gave her brooked no argument. She cast her eyes down at the bowl and slid the soup spoon between her lips.

“The sandwich, too.”

A tear slipped from the corner of her eye and trailed off her face to land on the napkin in her lap. “Why are you doing this?”

“Feeding you?”

She tossed the napkin on the table and stood, her tolerance for the charade finally reached. “Fuck you. Show my husband the video. I don’t care. He’ll believe me.”

He glanced up mildly at her and took a sip of his tea. “And if he doesn’t?”

“I’ll figure something out.”

“Don’t be foolish. Sit and finish your sandwich.”

She assessed him as he turned his attention to his soup. Was he bluffing?

“Let’s say you show Michael the video,” she said, testing the waters. “What will you get out of it? He’ll probably kill you. You stand to gain nothing.”

He laughed out loud. A couple of elderly women at a table a few feet away turned sharply at the sound, disdain on their faces over the audacity of the
help
dining in the spa restaurant.

“You think I’d just walk up to him?” Anton asked.

“You can’t mail it. I’m home all day.”

“I got his work address from Lindsay.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. Oh. Sit and finish.”

Deflated, she sat back in the chair.

“Speaking of Lindsay, he said he saw you a few nights ago.”

Her face turned so hot she knew it must be a deep crimson.

“He said he couldn’t resist.” Anton’s gaze swept over her body, searing her. “I can understand.” He finished his sandwich and drank the rest of his tea, then stood, extending his hand.

She put her palm in his, and he pulled her to him as if to embrace her. Instead, when she was close enough, he leaned toward her ear. “Do you see the man sitting across the restaurant beside that fern?”

Vivian looked and nodded, not liking the sinking sensation.

“He’s a private investigator. I called him, pretending to be your husband. I said I suspected you were having an affair with a massage therapist here. He just snapped several photographs of us having lunch together. He’ll put them in the mail to me later this afternoon. Your defense is looking weaker and weaker, my flower.”

Vivian pulled away, shaken. She wanted to talk to the P.I., wanted to fight him for the camera. But how exactly would that go? She’d make a scene, and the spa staff would drag her off him and toss her out on her ass.

“You’ve got it all figured out don’t you, Anton?”

“Indeed.”

“How many women have you pulled this shit with?”

He just smiled and led her through the crowded lobby and into the massage room with the eastern music and the table fountain burbling away. Today the spa video was off.

“Undress,” he said, after he’d locked the door.

She moved behind the screen, and he chuckled.