No. I wouldn’t cheat on her. I couldn’t. If she said no to the arrangement, I’d drop it completely.
Or... maybe I just needed to present it better. Show her the research. There were studies about this, articles, and whole communities of people who practiced ethical non-monogamy successfully. I could show her that this was legitimate, that lots of couples did it and came out happier.
People who opened their marriages weren’t insecure or falling apart. They were the opposite—so secure in their love that they could share their spouse with someone else without fear. That’s strength. That’s real commitment.
If Amelia didn’t agree at lunch, I’d explain all of that.
I pulled into our driveway, grabbed the bouquet of peonies I’d picked up, and headed inside.
The house was quiet except for the faint classical music drifting up from the basement. I tiptoed down the stairs. The studio door was ajar, and I stood in the doorway for a moment, just watching her.
She was bent over her pottery wheel, completely absorbed in shaping a vase. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a messy bun, loose strands falling around her face. She wore old jeans that hugged her curves perfectly and a fitted t-shirt that had ridden up slightly, exposing a strip of skin at her lower back.
My beautiful wife.
She reached for a sculpting tool on the table, bending forward, and I felt heat rush through me. God, her ass in those jeans. The curve of her hips. I wanted to walk up behind her right now, pull her against me, and relive last night’s messy passion all over again.
I knocked softly on the door frame.
Amelia jumped, spinning around with a startled gasp. When she saw me, her face transformed. Surprise bloomed into joy, and a smile spread across her beautiful face.
“What are you doing here?” She laughed, wiping her muddy hands on a towel.
“I’m here to take you out on a lunch date.”
“Really?” She was already moving toward me, crossing the studio in quick steps.
She threw her arms around my neck and kissed me, tasting like coffee and mint. I pulled her close, breathing.
“Is something special?” she asked when we pulled apart.
“Nothing much. I just want to take my beautiful wife out for lunch.” I paused, feeling the weight of what I needed to say. “And talk.”
Why did I emphasize that word? The moment it left my mouth, I hated myself for it.
Amelia’s smile faltered. She raised one eyebrow, and the joy that had lit up her face just seconds ago vanished like someone had flipped a switch.
“Oh,” she said quietly.
The Farmer’s Fork was busy with the lunch crowd, but we’d gotten a table by the window overlooking their herb garden. Amelia had ordered her usual—Mediterranean salad with goat cheese—and I’d suggested we split a bottle of prosecco.
She’d barely touched her drink.
I reached across the table and took her hand. Her fingers were cold despite the warm restaurant.
“Have you thought about my proposal?” I asked gently.
Amelia stared at our joined hands. “Is it because you’re bored of me?”
“What? No,”
“After last night, I thought maybe you’d reconsider.” She looked up, and there was something vulnerable in her eyes that made my chest ache. “Are you not happy with me?”
“Of course I’m happy with you!” I squeezed her hand. “Amelia, you’re the best. You’re everything. This isn’t about being unhappy.”
“Then what is it about?”
I took a breath, choosing my words carefully. “It’s about opening our horizons. Making us want each other even more. It’s for us to rediscover ourselves—both of us.”
