1
Zion
I’m about to kidnap my wife.
No, that’s not a euphemism. And no, it’s not a joke.
But we’re playing here, acting out just one of her many—it turns out—fantasies.
Doing it with a stranger: check. Impact play: check. Pushing every one of her limits: check.
I’ve yet to find the thing my wife doesn’t want and I’ll tell you, keeping up with her is killing me. In a good way.
Mostly.
Something snaps under my foot and I go still. Blade, the person I’ve handpicked to be my wingman, stops beside me. I’ve known him for years. He’s quiet and dependable. Steady and solid and up for just about anything.
Around us, the woods are busy, loud, teeming with life and sounds and the smells you get when it hasn’t rained in way too long. There’s a heaviness to the air, like maybe a storm’s coming.
I hope so. Anything to relieve the tension that’s been building since my wife got here.
“That her?” asks Blade, indicating a hint of color shifting between the trees up ahead.
I nod, staring hard at the shocking red of her dress as we set off again, quieter now, careful not to give ourselves away.
The closer we get, the more details I can make out—the dress looks like something Marilyn Monroe would’ve worn, low cut with a nipped in waist and a skirt that fluffs out all around her. That’s where the resemblance ends. She’s bigger than Monroe, her curves fuller, softer, her hair a rich, dark brown, and her skin the color of warm sand. She looks like a polka dotted cake and I want to devour every curve and dimple and scar on that sweet, round body. I want to lick her smooth skin and bite into those thick thighs, while my fingers twist into that mound of loose, dark curls. I want to make her squirm.
I’m shocked at how on edge I am going into this. I don’t get nervous. Not here, at camp, and not when it comes to my body.
Now that Twyla’s in the picture, though, I’m nothing but nerves. There’s a whole useless, messed up bundle of them writhing in my gut. Fear and excitement so tightly entwined I’m not sure I’ll ever figure out which is which.
Up ahead, she moves a step closer and I come to a sudden stop, close my eyes, breathe in, deep. Beside me, Blade waits. Finally, when I’ve gotten back at least a little of my normal calm, I look at him and nod. “Definitely her.”
How do I know?
I’d recognize her anywhere. Her smell, her taste, and those little sounds she makes. I picture those warm, brown eyes, unfocused in pleasure.
Her shape’s clear—short and thick, with tiny ankles and knees and wrists, her waist cinched in and the rest of her gorgeously plush. I want to spread her apart and press my face into all that goodness.
I’m dying to play with her again, even though I had her just this morning.
And the thing about Twyla is that, though her beauty’s undeniable, it’s the rest of her that pulls me in—her mind, her heart, her sweet, sinful soul.
“Just look at all that,” I say, unable to hold my admiration inside.
Blade grins. He knows better than to dwell too long on how good my wife looks, traipsing around in that puffy little dress, those dimpled thighs just begging to be bruised, her throat already showing marks where I held her.
All consensual of course. Everything we’ve done this week’s been just dandy with her—my sweet, clueless little newbie.
The irony in this whole wild thing is that I’m the experienced one and yet, I’m the one who’s been torn apart by it. Every exchange, every interaction’s shown me that I can’t control myself when it comes to Twyla Hernandez. I’m the one who hungers and wants and chases, while she—
Bends down and picks a flower, brings it to her nose and sniffs.
“She’s so cute, man. I’m jealous.” Blade throws me a grin that I’d wipe off his face if I didn’t need him.
Because Twyla—the woman I married not for love, but for appearances—didn’t want just one man to take her and make her do unspeakable things. She wanted two.
That decision alone was a message. A bratty, little nose-snubbing that resonates deep in my bones.
