Spying a door slightly ajar, I slip into what I presume is the office to make my call. It’s pitch dark, but I can make out a long shape across from what looks like a desk. A sofa? I fumble my way to it, and flop down.
“Shit!”
The expletive scares me so badly, I slide right off the couch, my butt hitting the rug covering the hardwood floor with a thump. The click of a lamp being turned on precedes a flood of light, and a wave of embarrassment.
“Lawd,” is all I can manage when the darkness flees, exposing a man seated on the couch where I just sat . . . on him.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to sit on you. Or to disturb you, for that matter.”
“You with the swingers?”
His question, bold, but abrupt, takes me aback. I flinch, prepared to deny it, but realize I actually am with the swingers . . .kinda.
“Not like that,” I mumble, standing and avoiding the navy blue eyes watching me from behind black-rimmed glasses. He has a bit of Clark Kent going on with those baby blues and raven-wing black hair. Broad shoulders and chest narrow at the waist and hips, tapering to strong legs that stretch out forever. Even sprawled on the couch, there’s something alert about him; a force field crackling with electric energy.
“I mean, my husband is . . .” I gesture toward the door. “Out there participating.”
“Isn’t the point of being here that you participate?” His sensual mouth tilts at one corner.
“Why are you in here?” I ask, side stepping his question. “Shouldn’t you be out there, too?”
“Nope. I’m an innocent bystander.”
There’s nothing innocent about the way his gaze travels over my hips and thighs outlined by my close-fitting dress, lingers on the swell of my breasts. He’s about as innocent as a coyote in a hen house, looking for something tender to catch between his teeth.
“No one here is innocent,” I say with a caustic laugh.
“I’m Carl’s brother visiting from LA. I surprised him and didn’t know this . . .” He waves a hand toward the closed door of the office. “Was going on. Or that he and my sister-in-law were so deviant. I must say, it makes me like them both a lot more.”
A giggle bursts past my lips, ridiculous in my current situation, but I can’t hold it back. His smile in return softens the sharply-drawn lines of his lean face.
“Have a seat.” He pats the space beside him on the couch and slants an encouraging grin up at me. “Preferably not on me this time.”
“I was gonna call an Uber,” I say, glancing uncertainly from him to the closed door.
“Or you could stay and dog out your husband to me while he ‘participates’ out there.”
A slow smile works its way to my lips. How can I smile and feel so calm right now? My marriage, which I’ve fought so hard for the last few years, is over, ending unceremoniously at a swing party. And here I am considering conversation with the host’s fine ass brother while I wait for Trey to finish his ménage business.
“I believe I will,” I tell him, which elicits a satisfied smile.
“Your name?” he asks, and the intensity of his stare makes the question more demand than request.
“Sinclaire.” I don’t bother with the last name. Who knows how much longer I’ll have it. “Yours?”
“Harper. What do you do, Sinclaire?”
“I teach fifth grade.”
His face lights up. “I wanted to be a teacher for a long time. My mom’s an educator.”
“What’d you end up doing?”
“I’m a writer.”
“Anything I would have read?”
“Oh, absolutely. I had this one blockbuster travel blog that was optioned for an online commercial and aired, like all over YouTube. I’m a really big deal.”
I snicker. “So no? I wouldn’t have read any of your stuff is what you’re saying.”
“Unless you like to travel to obscure locales on shoestring budgets, then no.” He grimaces, pressing his broad shoulders deeper into the cushions behind him. “Not exactly what my creative writing professors envisioned for me, but I’m making a living. Barely.”
“I know all about barely making a living. I mean, Trey earns a lot more than I do, as he tells me every chance he gets.”
“Excuse me for saying so, but he sounds like a real asshole who doesn’t deserve a classy lady like you.”
“How do you know I’m classy?”
“I actually don’t. Just what I came up with instead of something awkward like I think you’re one of the prettiest girls I’ve ever seen.” His steady, heated stare makes my face burn, and not for the first time, I thank God for melanin hiding blushing cheeks.
“Are you flirting with me at a swing party?”
“Is it working?”
I don’t tell him it definitely is working because that would make me as crazy as he is.
“Um . . .so are you and your brother close?” I ask, hoping to redirect the conversation somewhere other than me and the irrational, growing attraction I have for a total stranger who isn’t even here to swing, but I suspect . . .could get it.
“I thought so, but apparently he and Kelly have been running a den of debauchery all these years right under my nose.” He narrows his eyes into a pseudo-outraged glare. “And never invited me!”
I laugh, as he knew I would, and feel my own shoulders lower, sink into the softness of the cushions.
“I’m not sure I’ll be eating off any of their surfaces anytime soon,” he goes on, full lips spreading to show his teeth. “There’s no telling what’s happening on that kitchen table right now.”
He has a small gap between his two front teeth, and for some reason, my mind drifts to inserting my tongue right there in that tiny space in an otherwise perfect smile.
“You keep staring at my lips like that,” he says, his voice dipping darker, going rougher. “I’ll assume you want to kiss me.”
My eyes snap to his face, and I try to smile, but his expression has sobered. His gaze, flagrantly assessing, wanting, snatches my breath. My breasts rise and fall with the labor of pulling air in my lungs under the heat of his regard. I try to see myself through his eyes; to figure out what is provoking the quicksilver lust apparent in his stare.
“You have a thing for curvy women? For big girls?” I ask, flicking a brow up. “For Black girls? For teachers? For—”
“I apparently have a thing for you,” he murmurs, sitting up and resting his elbows on his knees. He drags his stare from the natural curls piled atop my head, over the red dress clinging to my body and down to my best pair of heels. I agonized over what to wear tonight. What message do you want to send at your first swing party? The fact that I’m here should have said it all, but it didn’t apparently because here I am in the office with a stranger I’m not having sex with, while Trey is God knows where fucking two.
And that strikes me as really unfair.
Maybe I misjudged this night. I thought it was for Trey. I was doing it to save my marriage. I was doing it to convince Trey somehow that we are worth fighting for. That there is hope. Well tonight has shown me there isn’t hope. At least not with him, but I did come prepared to fuck a stranger. I did come prepared to be open and available. But ever since we arrived, I filtered this night through my failure to make Trey happy. Through my inability to please him. Through my insecurity of not being enough for him, when honestly? He isn’t enough for me. Not by a long shot and not in a long time. He’s gotten everything his way our entire marriage. I relocated to Chicago because of his job. I turned down demanding responsibilities so we would have more time for each other. Only problem is he didn’t do the same, so he’s never available for me.