Insta: @tijansbooks
Reader group: FB Tijan’s Crew
Paranormal Standalone:
Evil
Micaela’s Big Bad
Paranormal series:
Davy Harwood Series (paranormal)
Mafia Standalones:
Cole
Bennett Mafia
Jonah Bennett
Frisco
Fallen Crest/Roussou Universe
Fallen Crest Series
Crew Series
The Boy I Grew Up With (standalone)
Rich Prick (standalone)
Nate
Other series:
Broken and Screwed Series (YA/NA)
Jaded Series (YA/NA suspense)
Carter Reed Series (mafia)
The Insiders (trilogy)
Sports Romance Standalones:
Enemies
Teardrop Shot
Hate To Love You
The Not-Outcast
Young Adult Standalones:
Ryan’s Bed
A Whole New Crowd
Brady Remington Landed Me in Jail
College Standalones:
Antistepbrother
Kian
Contemporary Romances:
Bad Boy Brody
Home Tears
Fighter
Rockstar Romance Standalone:
Sustain
More books to come!
For our five-year wedding anniversary, my husband decides he wants another woman.
The traditional gift is wood, but okay.
After trying everything with little improvement, our marriage counselor suggests we experiment to reignite our sex life. A swing party is my husband’s adventure of choice.
Once inside, I can’t go through with it. Seeing him walk off with someone else, I realize we want very different things. Our marriage is over, and I have no intention of having a random hook up with a stranger.
But then away from the noise and revelry, I find him.
It’s one illicit encounter. A night with no names and no inhibitions.
I don’t hold back, knowing I’ll never see him again.
And I don’t…until my parents’ Christmas party.
Sinclaire
Tonight I’ll sleep with someone who is not my husband.
Wood is the traditional five-year anniversary gift, but my bridegroom wanted a swing party. No accounting for taste.
“You sure you want to do this?” Trey asks.
The concern in his words doesn’t disguise his excitement. It’s the most life I’ve seen in his eyes in a long time. I try to ignore the sting of hurt that it’s for some random woman he doesn’t even know, not for me.
“I don’t know that want to do this is exactly accurate.” I swallow the nausea and anxiety back down to the recesses of my belly. “But I want us to work, and if you think trying something like this may save our marriage, I’m willing to try.”
“Remember Dr. Casanov suggested it,” he rushes to say, obviously not wanting to take full responsibility for his desires. I don’t point out that he brought it up, and she said it might be a good idea. Next thing I knew, Trey was suggesting this swing party he’d found on some app or forum.
Which brings us here. Parked in front of what looks like a perfectly normal house in a perfectly typical suburb. Trash bins kiss the curbs, awaiting pick up. A man walking his Doberman sports a fluorescent vest with night reflectors and trails his pet with a pooper scooper. The house next door has a Yard of the Month sign planted in the grass. Suburbia at its most unsuspecting.
“This place is huge,” I say, taking in the sprawling traditional house at the end of the driveaway.
“Six bedrooms.” There’s a note of eagerness in Trey’s voice when he opens the car door and gets out. He starts toward the house, not pausing to make sure I’m following. Not that I’m necessary for the fun he’s planning to have tonight.
I get out and, using my fob, lock the car he didn’t bother alarming. Lagging several steps behind, I climb the steep hill with cinderblock shoes.
Why the hell did I agree to do this?
I’m getting cold feet in my cinderblock shoes and seriously considering sprinting back to the car, when the door decorated with an autumn-themed wreath opens. A tall man fills the doorway, his dark hair shiny under the lights cast from the porch and the foyer inside.
“Welcome!” His greeting is effusive and, knowing about tonight’s swap meet, makes me clutch my coat at the neck. Ridiculous. The man won’t pounce on me. I saw the “rules” for the night, and it’s all very respectful, actually. There must be consent and no one will ever be forced to do anything they don’t want to do. No protection, no action, so condoms for all. Watching is fair play. If I decide I can’t go through with this (and that’s feeling like a strong possibility), I can choose to watch.
Watch what? My husband give someone else pleasure when I can’t remember the last time he gave me any? Worse comes to worst, I’ll find some unoccupied corner and wait. When Trey first proposed this, though I was disconcerted, I’ll admit there was something adventurous about it. Now it just feels weird and wrong and like something I’m not sure we’ll be able to come back from. Not because I think it’s wrong for couples who want it, but because he wants this and I don’t. It never occurred to me, but apparently the idea of having sex with someone else had been living rent-free in my husband’s head given the quickness of his suggestion and finding this party in record time.
‘I’m Carl,” the man says, gesturing for us to come in. “Nice to meet you.”
Trey enters, pep in his step. I hesitate on the threshold, feeling like it’s not just a new home I’m entering, but the portal to something inevitable and irreversible. I was too nervous all day to eat, so there’s little in my stomach, but what is there threatens to come back up.
“You okay?” Carl crinkles his brows with what looks like genuine concern. He has a kind face, and my breaths even out.
“Yes. Sorry. Nice to meet you, too.” I step through the door. “Maybe just hungry. I skipped lunch.”
It’s a lie. I think I’ll vomit all over his nice checker board tiles if I try to eat a thing right now.
“Hunger I can handle.” He leads us to the living room where several people already gather. “We have a spread fit for a king and his queen.”
There’s maybe twelve people present, some standing, others sitting in a living room decorated in what I would consider French country. Lots of flowers and colors, balanced with a few chintzy solid patterns. I’m a minimalist, so this room isn’t what I’d choose to come home to every night, but I can appreciate the furnishings are expensive and tasteful. Small platters of food are strategically placed through the room for optimal grazing. Dishes ranging from meaty things wrapped in flaky pastries to buffalo cauliflower. Wine circulates through the capillaries of the group, casting a spell of languor. Eyes crawl discreetly over strangers’ bodies, and an illicit undercurrent cuts through the banal conversation and polite laughter.
I tuck into the corner of a love seat and nurse several glasses of chardonnay, waiting for the libation to do its job; to relax me and lull my inhibitions. So far it’s only proven to make me slightly fuzzy-headed, but still nervous as hell. I risk the occasional bite of a kabob with veggies and grilled chicken to keep the alcohol company in my empty stomach. Trey, on the other hand, works the room. Eyes glittering with promise, he floats from conversation to conversation, like a bee considering where to alight and whom to pollinate.