“What if you’re wrong and it taints everything?”
His eyebrows knitted in thought. “So it’s not the act that you’re afraid of. It’s the consequences?”
I paused, considering the question. “I guess. Though—that club—that wasn’t about consequences. The idea of that freaked me out. I…” I swallowed, trying to find the right words for the emotions that had churned on our car ride home. “I didn’t feel like I would be in control in there. And I don’t mean that I want to be dominant—I just need to know that we only do things that I feel comfortable with. I want to feel safe. Cherished. Worshipped.” I blushed at the bare confession. “And there, I wouldn’t feel any of that. I don’t care what was inside that door. It freaked me out.”
I saw the moment he got it, his face falling with understanding and regret. He waited for me to finish, then cradled me into his chest, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “You’re right. Completely. I feel like a fucking idiot.”
He shushed me. “Elle. I was an idiot. But I also needed to know everything you just told me. I can’t read your mind.”
I nodded against his chest. “Okay.” I gave him a squeeze, then stepped back and turned. “Get my zipper?”
He gathered my hair to one side and carefully tugged on the zipper. “What if we start with something small?”
I waited as he dragged it down.
“Someone watching, but with just you and I together. And during it—if you want more, then you can instigate that.” His knuckles brushed against my shoulder blades as he unclipped my bra. “But it will be the Elle show. Everything focused on your pleasure, and somewhere you feel safe.” His hands slid around to the front and cupped my breasts under the loose bra.
I smiled and rotated to face him, peeling off the shirt. “If you want to cop a feel, you can just ask.”
“I’m asking.” There was still a wariness in his eyes and I grabbed his hands and placed them on my breasts in an attempt to chase the hesitancy away.
Raising on my toes, I put my mouth at his ear. “I think I like that idea.”
“Yeah?” His hands tightened, his thumbs brushing tenderly over my nipples. “Because that turns me the fuck on.” He leaned down and kissed my neck. “You need these panties anymore?”
I reached down before he had the chance to rip them off and skimmed them off. “Better?”
“Better. Touch me.”
I undid his belt and his jeans and let out a happy sigh as my hand closed around his cock. He hadn’t lied. My husband was turned on, stiff to the point of steel. I flicked my gaze up to meet his eyes, and any hesitancy was gone from their depths.
He grinned, a wickedly delicious expression of pure confidence and promise. My own smile widened and I gripped him tighter, anxious for what was about to come.
“On your knees,” he ordered. “And open up your throat.”
An hour later, I was flat on my back in the middle of the mattress beside Easton. Wayland was sprawled on his back in the middle of his pad, snoring loudly. On the TV, a Big Bang rerun involving Billy Bob Thornton played, the volume almost too low to hear.
“You think you could actually do it? Have sex while someone watches?”
I turned my face toward Easton. “Uh—yeah. I’ve already done that.”
“But you were drunk,” he pointed out. “And you had plausible deniability that you were aware of it. It might be different when it’s arranged.”
“Maybe,” I conceded. “But yeah, I’ll be able to do it.” I thought of the drunk blur I’d been in in Vegas. It might be a good idea to take a few shots beforehand, just to calm my nerves. My stomach curled in apprehension and arousal and maybe I wouldn’t need any liquid courage at all. Maybe I’d be ravenous for it. I thought of the way I felt when I saw the photo he’d taken on his phone. How raw and hot it had been. The burst of confidence it had given me. How alive I had felt.
I rolled onto my side and propped up my head with one hand. “So, if a guy is watching us… where are you thinking he’d be? Outside?” I glanced at the bedroom windows, which were half-covered by bougainvillea bushes. If someone tried to watch us through them, he’d be eaten up by poison ivy, cobwebs and thorns. Which brought them into our bedroom. My gaze settled on the loveseat that was framed by the two windows and half-covered with folded clothes and shoes. I tried to picture a man sitting there, his eyes on me.
It seemed awkward. Like, really awkward. Would he jerk off? Just sit there and stare?
“They could be in the bathroom,” Easton suggested. “Looking through the cracked door.”