The Secret Lives of Housewives (18 page)

Still imbedded within her, he dropped beside her and they dozed. They made love twice more before morning.

 

Late on a Wednesday morning toward the end of September, Eve was sitting at her desk when a small woman in a tailored suit approached her cubicle and smiled warmly. “Hello. You must be Eve.”

Puzzled, Eve nodded, and the woman continued. “It's so nice to finally meet you. I'm Diana Kreuger, Mike's wife.”

For a moment Eve was paralyzed. Mike's wife. Her Mike's wife.
Oh, God. She knows about us and she's come here to confront us. Oh, God.
She swallowed hard and having only paused a split second, said, “It's nice to meet you, too.” They'd spoken on the phone from time to time when Diana was trying to locate her husband but here she was in the flesh. She was probably in her mid-thirties, maybe five feet two with a head full of short blond curls, hazel eyes, and a slightly sallow complexion. She wore a gray fall suit with a gold and gray print blouse and had put on only a little lipstick. She extended her hand and Eve shook it reflexively. It felt very strange to actually touch Mike's wife.

“Is he around? We're going to lunch and then a matinee. My folks are in town and looking after the kids so I'm actually a lady of leisure today. It feels really strange but wonderful.”

Mike's wife. They were spending the afternoon together. The day before, she and Mike had been at their usual hotel. “He's in his office,” Eve said, and pointed toward the side of the room. “You know where it is?”

“I hate to admit this but I've never been here before. Mike's worked here for four years and I've never gotten into the city to see this place.” She looked around. “It's nice here.”

Eve's brain was so frozen that she could barely put together a coherent sentence. “It's very comfortable.”
For everyone right now but me.
She rose to show Mrs. Krueger to Mike's office but the woman waved Eve back. “That's okay. Don't get up. I'll find it.”

As Eve watched Diana's back as she walked away, her eyes filled. Diana seemed like a nice enough woman, and from the glow on her face as she looked around, she wasn't someone who was staying with her husband merely for the sake of the kids. Had Mike been handing her that clichéd line all this time? Weeks ago when she told the girls about Mike, Monica had hit on it right away. No. Mike was wonderful and wouldn't lie to her. Diana must be a good actress, or a woman deluding herself.

Who exactly, Eve wondered, staring at her computer with her head down so she didn't have to look at Mike's wife, was deluding whom?

The following Tuesday, she lay beside Mike in their hotel room, both of them satiated. “I met your wife last week when she came to pick you up,” Eve said.

“Yeah, she told me.” Mike quickly propped himself on his elbow and stared down at her. “You didn't say anything, did you?”

Eve sat up. “Of course not. Did she say that I did?”

“No,” he said, visibly relaxing. “I just wondered.”

“I wouldn't do something like that. She seemed nice.” Eve pulled the sheet up so it covered her naked breasts.

“Yeah,” Mike said, reaching over and downing several swallows of soda. “She's okay.”

“How old are your kids again?”

“Nine, six, and four.”

“So you won't be able to think about a separation for several years.”

Mike coughed, saying that he'd swallowed down the wrong pipe. When he caught his breath, he said, “Not for quite a while.”

He was lying. How she knew she wasn't sure, but she knew, and it came as a revelation to her.

“Listen,” Mike said, climbing out of bed, “I've got to run.” He quickly dressed, and with a quick peck on her cheek, left.

What am I doing?
And what about this new phone sex thing they were doing together? They were having erotic conversations every weekend, and although it helped to bridge the gap between their Tuesdays, she wondered how he'd come up with the idea out of the blue as he had. The tiny thought that had been nagging at her brain surfaced in a rush. Had he gotten the idea from another woman? Was he doing it with someone else, also not his wife? He'd been on a few out-of-town trips recently and hadn't taken her. Had he taken someone else?

Eve thought about a little snippet of the conversation she'd had with Monica over margaritas that wonderful evening two weeks before.

“If he were free, would you marry him?”

“In a minute.”

“And have him cheat on you, too? He would, you know. Once a cheater…”

Monica's words had been echoing in her head ever since. Was she an idiot? Her eyes filled. He was her life. He was her love. They would be together eventually. Was that all a fantasy? Her eyes overflowed and tears trickled down her cheeks.
I'm some kind of idiot.

Poor Diana. She's just like me, with no clue, just illusions.
Or maybe she did know what he did in his spare time. No one could be as ignorant as she'd appeared. Maybe she knew there were others, but she was willing to accept it to keep her marriage together. Would Eve be willing to settle for weekly funches and not think about Mike's wife and the possibility of still another woman?

No! Yes! No! I don't know.
She wept, then dried her eyes, washed her face in cold water, dressed, and headed back to the office. She'd think about this, maybe discuss it with her friends the following Saturday. Better still, they were getting together that Sunday night for girls' night out in addition to Saturday lunch. Things were more relaxed then, so that would be better. Saturdays were for small talk, Sunday evenings were for soul-searching.

She thought briefly about the other time she'd been made an idiot because she had such a low opinion of herself, then smothered the memories. That evening she ate an entire box of Godiva chocolates, watched both
Ghost
and
Pretty Woman
, then went to bed fantasizing about Patrick Swayze and Richard Gere fighting over her. As she drifted off, she wondered which one she hoped would win.

 

Thursday morning, after a particularly delightful day with Angie's twins, Cait met Logan over the breakfast table. She told him about the babies and her wonderful afternoon. She'd fed Brandon and actually changed his diaper for the first time, and it was a cinch. “That sounds great,” Logan said, putting down his
New York Times
. “She sounds like a lovely woman.”

“She is, and maybe we can do something about helping her out with a car.”

“Sure,” Logan said, “but if we buy one for her, even a used one, she won't accept it.”

Cait sighed. He was right about that. “Maybe we can think of something.” Before Logan could get back to his paper, she said, “There's something else. Spending time with those wonderful children made me think about us. Maybe we could try again.”

As Cait watched, Logan's face became a mask. “I don't think so.”

“Why not? There might be another doctor with other ideas. Several said that if we just stopped trying, good things might happen.”

“I thought you didn't want to try anymore.”

“I didn't then, but I've been thinking about it more and more lately, and yesterday was the icing on the cake. A baby would complete our family.”

“I don't think so. I've gotten past that.”

“I thought you wanted to give your folks their first grandson.”

He leaned forward in his chair and rested his forearms on the table. There was a belligerence in his posture. “Not anymore.”

“Why not, Logan?” Cait asked, totally shocked by his negative attitude. She'd thought he'd jump at the chance.

“I just don't, and that's that.” He picked up his paper and buried himself in it, closing off the conversation.

Cait could see how adamant Logan was and backed off. Why the complete about-face? she wondered. Stunned, she sat for a few minutes in total dismay. She'd been so wrong about his reaction, thinking that he'd be pleased that she wanted to try again. She could understand it if he'd been taken aback by her change of heart, but there was something more. He'd shut her down completely and that wasn't like him. Well, actually it was like him, but not on the subject of babies. He'd been so insistent until she'd finally ended it months before. What had changed? She knew he wasn't going to discuss it anymore today, so she got up from the table and headed for the shower. She had to give his strange new attitude more thought.

M
onica thought about Dan as she got out of her car in the parking lot of Huckleberry's the following Sunday evening for girls' night out. The fact that Dan's face jumped into her mind didn't surprise her, since he invaded her thoughts frequently, more frequently than she liked. She couldn't seem to keep him in proportion. Their relationship was about as hot as it could get, and despite all her efforts she was nuts about him. They laughed often, sharing what were quickly becoming family jokes. He was considerate and easy to get along with. And of course, the sex was wonderful, varied and intensely erotic. He loved to play, and although he didn't realize it, he was slowly teaching Monica to enjoy sex more and view it less as a means to an end.

She recalled their date the previous evening. He'd prepared dinner, and she found herself looking forward to it, since he was a quite respectable cook. She smiled as she remembered how inappropriate the word “respectable” was where Dan was concerned.

After putting her jacket away, she and Dan settled in the living room of his generously sized apartment. The first time she'd visited there she realized how much the eclectic room suited him and his varied interests. A pale tan, butter-soft leather sofa, a matching lounge chair, large maple coffee table, and a pair of roomy end tables sat on a brightly colored Navaho style carpet that added life to the room. An oversized TV hung on one wall while the others were filled with black and white prints of New York City street scenes. There were several large, brightly colored pots filled with corn plants and ferns to soften the otherwise exceptionally male room.

He put a Miles Davis CD on the player and opened a bottle of very good Merlot. She sipped the fine red wine slowly. “Dinner smells very good,” she said to break the intense sexual tension that always existed when they were alone.

“I think it will be, but tonight's going to be a bit unusual.”

“I'm always up for new things,” she said, then felt heat rise in her face at her double entendre. When they were together everything seemed to have a sexual second meaning.

“I know,” he said, leering at her playfully. “That's one of the things I love about you, and you'll get to prove it before the evening's over.”

“Hmm,” she said, sipping her wine to have something to do with her hands. “That sounds interesting.” She was mildly aroused as she always was with him, but tonight she felt tense as well, holding herself tightly, not letting herself go totally, afraid she'd fall, and just keep falling, unable to save herself. Save herself? From what? From getting too involved with this wonderful man? God, why couldn't she shut off her brain and just let things roll? Why did she have to keep analyzing everything?

Even in yoga class on Saturday mornings she found her eyes straying toward him, and usually found him looking back. When their eyes locked, words became superfluous.

Dan put his wineglass on the table. “Let me set the ground rules for this evening. I've made several dishes, most finger foods—literally—so no utensils of any kind will be allowed. If one of us gets too messy, it's fingers and tongues.”

The way he said “tongues” made her salivate, and she felt her nipples tighten. “Are you serious?”

“I sure am. Game?” he said with a deeply suggestive leer.

“Me?” Always. Why not admit it? “Always.”

“Good,” he said, rising. “Let me get the appetizers.” When she tried to follow, he denied her access to the kitchen. “This is all mine.”

Five minutes later he came into the living room and set the wooden tray he was holding on the coffee table. He'd made tiny hot dogs with a mustard-based dipping sauce and tiny pizzas with extra cheese. He'd also brought little serving bowls filled with olives, tiny pickles, and platter of assorted vegetables with a sour cream dip.

“That's quite a collection of goodies,” Monica said.

“I slaved my fingers to the bone,” he said teasingly. When she raised an eyebrow, he continued, “Okay, I will admit that most of this came out of my freezer and microwave. Remember the rules. No utensils.”

Well,
Monica thought,
this won't be too difficult to eat with my fingers.
For the next half hour they talked about trivialities, sipped wine, and munched appetizers. “Your fingers are a bit messy,” Dan said after she'd eaten a miniature pizza. “Allow me.”

He lifted her hand to his lips and put her index finger into his mouth. Warm and wet, his tongue made love to her hand. When she shivered, he moved on to the next finger. When he'd licked and sucked each one, he tongued her palm, swirling the tip over her skin until she couldn't keep her hips still. Then, with an infectious grin, he stood and went back into the kitchen. When she regained her senses, she called, “What can I do to help?”

“Nothing. Just sit there. We're eating in the living room tonight.”

“There must be something I can do,” she said, hoping he could find something to keep her mind occupied with nonerotic images.

“Put another CD on. I'll just be a minute.”

She washed her hands, messy despite his ministrations, and replaced the Miles Davis CD with an old Nat King Cole recording. As his mellow voice filled the apartment, Dan called, “Good choice. I see I've converted you.”

“You certainly have. This is really good stuff.” She settled back onto the sofa and kicked off her shoes. “I'm really grateful.”

Dan came in from the kitchen with the same large tray, now filled with covered dishes. “I'm grateful to you for a lot of things.” He put a plate in front of her and added one for him. “You were serious about this fingers thing,” Monica said, realizing that there were no napkins or silverware.

“I was.” He set a serving dish on the table and lifted the lid. One compartment of the three-sectioned platter was filled with small, Frenched lamb riblets, lightly breaded with crumbs and smelling of garlic, another with a mound of potatoes au gratin, and the third with tiny baby peas. “I remember that you liked lamb.”

“I do, but how in the world are we going to eat this stuff?”

“We might have to wait until some of this cools, but I purposely kept most everything at a comfortable temperature.” He sat beside her, picked up his plate, and served himself a lamb rib and a handful of peas, then scooped potatoes onto his plate with his fingers. “You'll probably want to serve yourself.”

She'd never done anything like this. Her parents had been quite formal at the dinner table and good manners had been drummed into her from the cradle. Her father had even taught her how to eat chicken wings with a knife and fork before he left them. Her eyes flashed from her plate to the serving dish to Dan's eyes. “You've got to be kidding.”

“You said you were up for new experiences,” he said, his expression challenging, “but I can get forks if you insist.” He licked the cheese and potatoes from his fingers with exaggerated motions of his tongue and almost dared her to join him.

Monica had never imagined that she'd eat gooey cheesy potatoes with her fingers. Her dinner companions usually took her to four-star restaurants where the serving staff stopped just short of chewing your food for you. Fingers? Maybe with sushi, but this? She huffed out a breath, then let her shoulders relax and giggled. Why the hell not? “You asked for it.” She took a lamb chop and some peas, then dug her fingers into the potatoes and plopped a mound onto her plate. There was something sensual about the feel of mashed potatoes on her hand. Or was everything sensual when she was with Dan?

Once she got over her initial reluctance she ate with gusto, slurping cheese and garlic from her fingers and playfully sucking peas from the palm of her hand. It became a game—who would make the lewdest gesture with the food. “Remember the eating scene from
Tom Jones
, or the lobster in
Flashdance
?” she asked.

“That's where I got this idea. It seemed both decadent and erotic.” He paused, then licked his lips. “It is. Both.”

Getting more into the spirit, Monica took a finger full of potatoes and plopped it in his palm. Then she lifted his hand and with only the tip of her tongue, licked up the goo.

Aroused and giggling, they finally finished the main course and Dan quickly put all the plates on the tray and disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Monica to wash her hands, then change the CD again. Grinning widely, she found an old recording of Ella Fitzgerald singing Cole Porter and put it on to play.

Dan returned with dessert. “I should have known,” Monica said, shaking her head. He had an ice cream scoop, a container of Jamoca Almond Fudge, her favorite flavor, a jar of chocolate sauce with a spoon inside, and an aerosol can of whipped cream. “This is so clichéd,” she said, her eyes gleaming. “And so sexy.” Her body was throbbing in expectation.

“Rules are that you serve with the utensils, but then hands—and other body parts—only.”

He handed her the ice cream server and she dropped a scoop of ice cream into a bowl, spooned some fudge over the top, and handed it to him, then duplicated everything for herself. “As for the whipped cream, you're on your own.”

“Yeah, I am.” His expression was warm and tickled her in the pit of her stomach. She was falling in love with this man, she thought, throwing safety to the winds. Realizing how open she was leaving herself, she said a quick prayer.
Don't kick me. Please let this guy be the real thing.

Carefully cleaning his fingers, Dan quickly lifted her sweater over her head, then unclipped her bra. He took a finger full of ice cream and coated one erect nipple, then took several minutes licking it off. The contrast between the cold ice cream and his hot mouth was devastating. She pulled off his shirt and rubbed fudge on his flat male nipples, then licked and sucked until he was moaning.

Over and over they coated each other's naked upper body with sweets, and licked and sucked it off. She wanted him badly, but she was also enjoying the torture. Finally she told him to remove his pants. When he was naked, she scooped fudge onto his hard, full erection, then slowly sucked his cock into her mouth.

“I don't want to make a mess all over your sofa,” she said.

“To hell with mess, woman. You're driving me crazy.”

Using every trick she'd ever learned, she excited him until she knew he was ready to come. Then she removed the rest of her clothes and rested against the arm of the sofa, offering herself to him. He didn't hesitate. Coating her folds with fudge, then spraying whipped cream on her pubic area, he took several long minutes delving and probing with his tongue to find every bit.

Eventually, neither of them could wait any longer. He guided her to the heavy glass coffee table in front of the sofa and when she'd knelt beside it, stretched her across it, face down, so her heated breasts pressed against the cool glass, her rear in the air. She'd indulged in anal sex, and for a moment, while he opened the ever-present foil package, she wondered whether that was what she wanted at that moment. She needn't have thought about it. He quickly slid his condom-covered cock into her waiting pussy, doggie style, holding her hips tightly so her buttocks pressed against him. For several moments, he remained still and she could feel the twitch of his erection, buried within her. Then he slowly withdrew and slid in again.

How did he have the self-control to draw out the pleasure this way? she wondered. God, he was a fabulous lover, and her body responded, heat flowing through her. She clenched her vaginal muscles, rhythmically squeezing his cock. “Shit,” he cried, then came without moving. She continued to milk him until he quieted. Then he reached beneath her and rubbed her clit until she also climaxed, her thighs trembling, her fingers grasping the edge of the table. Panting and throbbing, they slowly returned to earth. Later, they showered together and made love again under the pounding spray.

Monica returned from her erotic memory and watched Cait's Honda pull into the parking space beside her Lexus. The Honda was followed almost immediately by Eve's battle-scarred Toyota. Monica couldn't suppress her grin. These were real heart-to-heart friends and it felt incredibly good to have them. It had only been two months since that first rainy morning but she felt as though she'd known the three of them for years.

Monica had been to her doctor the previous week and he'd commented on her decrease in blood pressure. Dan? Girls' night out? Whatever was responsible, she was glad of it. She waved to the other two, and as they walked toward Huckleberry's door, she turned at the sound of Angie's car entering the lot. They waited in the cooling October breeze until their foursome was complete, then, dressed alike, in jeans and simple shirts, each with a lightweight jacket or sweater for later, they linked arms and walked in.

Huckleberry's was unusually loud, with slightly rowdy Sunday Night Football fans filling the bar area, alternately cheering and moaning. Soon it would be the baseball playoffs that would be occupying the minds of all the local sports fans. Would the Yankees do it or disappoint again?

Ignoring that end of the restaurant, the four women were seated in a booth toward the rear of the other section, peering at the drink menu. “Those margaritas were wonderful last time,” Cait said, closing the plastic-covered pages. “I'm going to do that again.”