Twisted Marriage: Filthy Vows Sequel Read online

  “She has really shitty friends,” he agreed. “Especially the rich blonde with the nice ass.”

  Chelsea spread her arms. “Hey, I’ll take a compliment any way I can get it. Double H, you got your stuff packed? I emptied out my trunk if you need me to take a load.”

  “Double H?” Easton raised a brow.

  “Heartbroken Handyman?” I guessed.

  “Seriously, no one picked up on my take a load comment?” Chelsea glared at us.

  “Yeah, I’m not down with Double H,” Aaron remarked.

  “It could be Handsome Handyman,” Chelsea amended.

  Or Hung Handyman. My mind seemed to be the only one that dipped into that gutter. I swallowed the suggestion, along with the visual image of his cock, jutting out from my hand, side by side with Easton’s. Horny Handyman. Another moniker I should probably keep to myself.

  “I’ve got to run,” I said quickly, wanting to change the subject before Chelsea’s mind followed the same path. “Aaron, will you lock up Wayland when you leave?”

  He nodded, and our eyes met for one brief unfiltered moment. He smiled, and some of my nerves calmed. “No problem.”

  I gave Chelsea a hug and grabbed my purse and cell. “See ya guys later.”

  A chorus of goodbyes sounded, and I escaped through the formal living room and to the front door. Opening the heavy oak number, I let out a breath of tension.

  The morning after and walk of shame had gone, all in all, surprisingly well.

  2

  My open house was at an ugly home built in the seventies, back when flat roofs, low ceilings, and wallpaper were all the rage. I stood in a cramped kitchen that still had the original stove and hunched over my planner, making a list in the neat penmanship that consistently earned me the boring job of addressing wedding invitations.

  I had decided, mid-Miami traffic, to organize the post-threesome jumble of emotions in my mind into a list. I stared down at the page and added a decorative flourish to the top Pros and Cons header.

  I considered adding “of a threesome” to the heading, but wasn’t confident in my ability not to misplace my planner at some point in time. The bulky organizer had been a gift from my mother, and included a section for article clippings (didn’t Pinterest replace those?), my calendar (pathetically empty), contacts (mildly full), inspirational quotes (still blank), and photo sleeves. She’d pre-filled the photo sleeves with pictures from family gatherings, my sister’s new baby, and a wedding photo of Easton and me. The spiral-bound book weighed three pounds, which didn’t sound like a lot, but was the probable cause of a pinched nerve in my right shoulder.

  I glanced around the quiet house, the lights already turned on in every room, the air conditioner set to a crisp 71 degrees, discreet air fresheners plugged in every room. I sniffed. They weren’t quite doing their job. I could smell the cigarette smoke hanging in the air, despite my seller’s reassurances that they had “never, honestly Elle, NEVER” smoked in the house.

  I returned to my list. In the PROS column, I had three items listed.

  It was hot

  Made me feel sexy

  Grew closer to E

  I added “fantasy and role-play fodder” to the list, thinking of the nights before the threesome, where Easton had whispered the filthiest things in my ear, egging on my orgasms as he’d grown harder.

  Now that it was over, I was curious how much it would be discussed. Would he bring it up during sex? Whisper things in my ear during parties? I straightened a stack of folded red dishtowels and reconsidered the list, adding very before the word hot.

  It had been very hot. The hottest experience of my life, and I’d been a very satisfied wife already.

  The front door creaked open and I stuck my pen in the planner and shut it. Leaving the bulky binder on the counter, I strode around a yellow four-top dining table and moved into the living room.

  “Good morning,” I said brightly, smiling at the woman who moved cautiously into the home, her purse clutched in front of her stomach with both hands.

  I immediately pegged her as a one-time looker. She probably lived on the street and was curious about the inside of her neighbor’s home. I couldn’t blame her. Easton and I had practically sprinted over to the broker’s open for the Maxwell mansion at the end of our street. I’d been burning with curiosity over the elusive couple who had a Rolls tucked in their garage and two security guards stationed at their gate.

  I handed her a flyer and let her wander the house, her tentative steps pattering across the carpeted floor toward the first of three small bedrooms. Moving back into the kitchen, I clicked on the touchpad of my laptop, awakening the screen, and watched the live video of her movements.

  On my second ever open house, a glamorous couple in Burberry and Chanel pocketed an iPad and a jeweled figurine. I’d realized the theft early because it was my iPad, left in the master bathroom to charge. They hadn’t filled out the visitor’s form, and I’d had to pay for the figurine myself. The next morning, I purchased the cameras and—of course—hadn’t had another theft since.

  On video, the woman paused before the vanity table and adjusted her braids, then tugged at the front of her shirt, smoothing the material over her generous and potentially pregnant stomach. Lucky bitch. Glancing back down at my planner, I considered resuming my list.

  The cons side felt a lot more daunting, and I could feel my subconscious resisting the task. My mother would instantly peg the action as evasive and say that I didn’t want to face the consequences of my actions. It was true. I didn’t want to write the cons down because they would far, far outweigh the pros.

  Which was probably why I was writing this list now, and not four days ago, when I could have pre-evaluated the action and squashed it. Then again… four days ago I wouldn’t have been able to definitively list the positives. I wouldn’t have expected the act to make me feel closer to E. I would have put a giant question mark next to the word hot. I would have…

  “Excuse me. Do you know the R values of the floors?”

  I closed the laptop before the woman had a chance to see the screen, then turned to face her. I’d been wrong. Curious neighbors didn’t give a damn about insulation values. “Absolutely.” I smiled. “It’s R13. And the air conditioner is brand new. Let me show you the utility room where you can take a look at it.”

  Ushering her toward the back of the house, I left my list behind, that pesky con column still incomplete.

  3

  “Here’s to your offer.” Easton lifted his Corona and I shook my head.

  “First off, it’s bad luck to toast with water and secondly…” I straightened at the glimpse of an approaching waiter with two strawberry margaritas. He veered off to another table, and I slumped back against the sticky booth.

  “Secondly?”

  “Secondly, it’s a low offer with a three-month closing period. My seller probably won’t even respond.”

  “You’ll work it out.” He grinned at me as if it was done, that commission in the bank, and the issue with wholeheartedly believing this visualization crap is that it doesn’t work.

  “Two frozen strawberry margaritas?” A man in a saggy sombrero paused at our table, a platter in hand, and I practically swooped forward.

  “Yes, right here. Both for me.” I cradled the huge glasses close to me, eyeing both before deciding to start with the right one.

  Easton chuckled.

  “Shut up. I’m drowning my stress.” I picked up the right goblet and lifted it toward me. “Plus, I’ve got you here to keep me from hitting on waiters or doing the Macarena butt naked in the middle of this restaurant.”

  He dipped a chip into the cheese. “It’s been a long time since I saw your naked Macarena. Can I let you do it, and just keep anyone from filming it?”

  “Not if you expect to get a sloppy blowjob on the way home.”

  He crunched through the chip quickly and held his hands up in surrender. “Deal. I’ll make sure your clothes stay on, and
keep all your secrets.” He winked at me.

  I set down the giant glass. “If you could just keep our one secret for the rest of your life, I’ll be happy.”

  “Ah, so it was a one-time thing.”

  I very carefully moved my straw around the glass goblet, stirring the contents without spilling them out. “Potentially. I made a pros and cons worksheet during my open house today.”

  “And?”

  “And I didn’t get a chance to finish. Jury’s still out.”

  He pushed his phone toward me, and I watched as the device spun across the surface and ran into the bowl of salsa. “Read the text messages from Aaron today.”

  I picked up the phone quickly, before the offer was gone, and keyed in his passcode. Scrolling down his texts, I found the conversation with Aaron and clicked on it. There were only a few, starting at eleven this morning.

  Last night was insane. She’s so fucking hot.

  You’re officially the luckiest man in the world.

  Also, Becca is a bitch and she’s texting me photos of her with that asshole.

  Chelsea has fucking Playboys in the bathrooms. Send help.

  I bit on the edge of my cheek and set down the phone, nudging it back to his side of the table. “Hmmm.” I glanced at him and found him studying me, an interesting smile playing across his features. “What?”

  “I don’t know.” He tilted his beer to one side. “I’ve been in an odd mood all day over it.”

  I leaned forward. “Like how?”

  “Turned on.” He nodded at the phone. “That turns me on, hearing another man talk about you. But it also worries me.” He lifted his beer and pointed one of the fingers wrapped around it in my direction. “That smile on your face, that scares me a little.” He rushed forward before I could respond. “But I also like it. I like seeing this side of you. So, I’m torn. I’m feeling this collision of emotions and don’t know how to handle them.”

  I wanted to chug the margarita down in one gulp and hug him at the same time. If the booths at El Calisto’s weren’t so tight, I’d squeeze in next to him. What he was describing… I got it. I got it because I felt so much of the same things. An electric thrill of arousal. A gnawing weight of dread. This couldn’t be just fireworks. Somewhere, an ember would land on something important and burn.

  “I get it.” I folded the corner of a paper napkin and creased it with the tip of my nail. “I’m figuring out my own emotions on it.”

  “Do you regret doing it?”

  I took a moment to honestly consider the question. “No. Not yet. But I’m still braced for a fallout. I feel like you and I are good, like this didn’t hurt us in any—”

  “It didn’t.”

  “But”—I glared at him for the interruption—“it might have changed things with us and Aaron. We just have to wait that out and see. I do probably regret that it was with Aaron, versus a random.”

  He settled back against the red cushion of the booth and brought the beer to his lips. “I don’t think you would have ever done it with a random. I think you needed it to be someone you knew, someone you were comfortable with.”

  I broke a chip in half and considered the opinion. “You might be right on that. I mean, I don’t know about ever, but I certainly wouldn’t have jumped into this so quickly. The stars definitely aligned, with my raging libido and his divorce and living with us.”

  The waiter approached and we fell silent as our fajitas were delivered. I waved away the steam and took another sip of my drink. Easton hunched over the table and began to unwrap the tortillas. His hair was getting long and a lock of it fell over his forehead. He pushed it away without thought and I tried to imagine him with gray hair. It wasn’t too far off. Ten years, maybe? Would we have children by then? Would we be right here at this table with a high chair pulled up to the end, a pile of Cheerios scattered across the plate?

  “What are you smiling at?” Easton peered at me and I reached over to dab a smear of queso off his lip.

  “Thinking about you with gray hair.” I smiled. “It’s a good look. Very distinguished.”

  “I have no doubt that you’ll give me lots of them.” He held out a rolled tortilla, stuffed with steak and peppers. “Here. No onions.”

  “Thanks.” I reached over my drink and took it, biting into one end and watching as he assembled his own, heaping on the onions he had sequestered from mine.

  * * *

  I reclined the Range Rover’s seat as far back as it would go and jabbed at the sunroof button, watching as the glass above me gaped open in a smooth and silent motion.

  “Move your arm,” E grunted, struggling with my limbs as he stretched the seatbelt across my chest.

  “No groping,” I warned, and felt him squeeze my right breast in response. “Hey!” I smacked him lightly. “No groping!”

  “You love my groping,” he scoffed.

  “It’s true.” I toed off one heel, and then the other, putting my bare feet up on the dash. “You are an excellent groper. I’m going to put that on your tombstone. Easton North. A cracked skull. Rugged cock. All-star groper.”

  “No.”

  “No?” I closed my eyes. “What do you think your tombstone should say?”

  “I haven’t really thought about my tombstone. And I don’t think they call it a tombstone. It’s a headstone.”

  “Wait.” I held up my hand as it came to me. “Gravestone. It’s gravestone.”

  “Yeah, because they’re graves. Not tombs, not anymore.”

  I started second-guessing gravestone also. I reared up off the seat and groped in the dark floorboard for my purse so I could look it up online.

  “Woah,” Easton brought the Range Rover to a stop and positioned me back into place. “What do you want?”

  “Myyphone.” The words slurred together and I laughed. “Crap. I’m drunk.”

  “Yeah, we knew that was coming when you claimed both margaritas.” He reached into my floorboard and then handed me my phone. I brought it close to my face to unlock the screen, then peered at the blurry glow, attempting to pull up the Internet.

  “E.” I let the phone fall to my lap and curled to face him, too drunk to continue the search. God, he was pretty. Even blurry, he was drop-dead gorgeous. “I love you.”

  “I love you too, Elle.” He reached out and found my hand, linking his fingers through mine.

  “We’re going to be okay,” I instructed him. “Rich and successful and with lots of babies.”

  “I know we are,” he said quietly.

  I closed my eyes and tightened my hand through his. He pulled onto the street and I relaxed against the leather, blocking out the knowledge that the Range Rover’s payment was a week late.

  “Elle?” He nudged me and I drifted back to him.

  “Yeah?”

  “Even if we don’t have any of those things, I’m happy, just like this.”

  “As a groper of drunk wives?”

  He chuckled. “Yeah.”

  “You could be so much more,” I whispered.

  He didn’t say anything and it felt like I’d said the wrong thing. I tightened my hand on his and tried to amend the statement, but fell asleep halfway through the attempt.

  4

  The following Saturday, I perched on the hood of my car, Wayland’s leash looped around my wrist, and watched as Aaron and Easton carried a long toolbox through the front yard and toward Aaron’s truck. “You should have put that in first.”

  Easton shot me a look as Aaron angled his end toward the lowered tailgate. It looked heavy, and I moved to my feet, unsure if I could help. Squatting, Aaron got his shoulder underneath it and then up and high enough to land on the gate. I winced at the bang of impact and Wayland whined, lifting his paw in the air and looking back at me as if trying to offer his own assistance. I sat back down and pulled him closer to me, running my hand over his back and scratching the itchy area right above the base of his tail.

  “Damn, that’s heavy,” Easton grunt
ed as he got his end in.

  I expected the back of the truck to sag from the additional weight, but it didn’t seem to notice. “How much more is inside?”

  Aaron brushed off his palms. “Maybe four more bags of tools. A few boxes of clothes.”

  “I need a second.” Easton hobbled over and stretched his back before sprawling pitifully across my lap. Unlike Aaron’s truck, my car did sag from the additional weight. I choked out a laugh and pushed at his shoulder, trying to get his sweaty form off. Wayland’s huge paws swung forward through the air, mimicking mine, and Easton yelled at him to stop. “My shoulders are killing me,” he groaned, readjusting to sit on the front bumper in front of me. “Rub ’em?”

  I did, finding a bed of knots along his left trapezius, and dug into the tight muscles with easy familiarity. After baseball practice, I used to sit him down in front of the TV for a full hour and given his neck, shoulders, and arms a working over. It was a ritual I missed, and I kissed the top of his head, suddenly nostalgic.

  “Me next.” Aaron rolled his neck and I heard bones crack.

  “Okay, no. I’m not turning the hood of my car into a massage table.” I gave Easton a light smack on the back. “You guys finish loading up the truck. I’m going to walk Wayland and then I’ll give quick neck massages inside, in the air conditioning.”

  Easton rolled to his feet without argument. “Deal. But watch him on the curve by the lake. There were some baby ducks there this morning.”

  “I will.”

  He leaned forward and pressed his lips against mine. I smiled against the kiss, then watched as he returned to Aaron, his sweaty T-shirt clinging to his strong expanse of back muscles.

  I’d wasted a lot of time at Florida State, but the massage techniques class I had taken my junior year had been one elective that had come in handy. I flexed my fingers, then wrapped the leash around my hand, tugging on the heavy rope. “Come on, buddy. Let’s go.”