Page 21 of Hotwife

A mournful smile emerged as he looked down at me. “I wish I believed that, Dot.”

And that’s where the fight always ended. Right there. There was no way around it, under it, over it.

I had come to terms with the fact that I was existing in a sexless marriage. I had decided that even if Cedric never touched me again, I still wanted to be with him. My husband couldn’t get it up anymore. He couldn’t make love to me even if he could. His desire was gone because he felt that he was gone.

Because my husband thought he was a murderer.

* * *

As if my wine-headache and rejection weren’t enough of a slap in the face, I reached for my phone and memories of the prior night flashed through my mind. So I took a nude, I didn’t send it, right?

One new text from Desmond.

No. Oh no no no…

Opening the chat box, my topless photo above his response greeted me. A cringe sank my eyebrows. My cheeks were rosy, eyes glassy in the dim light. I looked like the goddess of drunk-texts. The grey box holding his response sent a thrill of desire surging through my blood.

Desmond: You’re in trouble next time I see you.

* * *

My party planning experience extended to grocery store cakes and streamers from church baby-showers. The internet was no help and only sent a wave of overwhelm over my already foggy brain. Should I host here at home or at a venue? Private chef or caterers? Did I need music?

Eva made every event look effortless.

I made a mental note to pay closer attention to her setup at our upcoming Doctor’s Wives meeting. Would Des be there? The thought lifted my heart rate.

What did he mean I’d be in trouble? He probably thought it was wildly inappropriate that a married woman sent him an unsolicited nude. But he did bite me. That meant he found me somewhat attractive, right? More likely explanation was he was just messing with me in that devious, hot-guy way. A man as sexy as Desmond probably had no shortage of beautiful, unmarried women to choose from. I was sure getting a nude was a regular occurrence for him.

A knock on the doorframe pulled me from my laptop. I’d parked myself on the round breakfast table in our kitchen. Truthfully, the coziness of the kitchen made it my favorite room in the house. Glancing over my shoulder, I flicked Cedric a glance before returning to the screen. I didn’t want to look at him. His slick back grey and blond hair. His sharp jaw and those stupid-hot glasses on the brim of his nose. My unbelievably hot husband… who wouldn’t touch me.

“I’m going to the gym to swim a few laps before surgery. Do you need anything, sweetheart?” Sincerity and care dripping from his words. Why did he have to be so goddamn perfect in every other way?

“No, I’m fine. When’s surgery today?”

“Three this afternoon. I have a few scheduled and then I’ll stay to oversee a few assisting.”

“Of course you are,” I muttered under my breath. My bratty attitude hadn’t dissipated even as the day lagged on. Cedric had retreated into his study with a bowl of oatmeal and I straightened my hair and did a twenty-step skincare routine like that would get my life together. Spoiler alert, it didn’t. But at least I was a moisturized mess.

My husband’s warm presence radiated next to me and I turned, looking up warily. He put a hand on my shoulder, as I imagined he did for people before explaining a medical procedure, or to comfort old ladies waiting for their husband to return from the operating room. “Next Thursday I’m off-call. I want to take you out on a date. Would you like that, Dotty?”

Some battered and bruised butterflies poked their heads out of the dark cave of my soul at that suggestion. “Really?” I asked, skeptical. I couldn’t recall the last time we went on an honest to god date.

“Really, really,” he smiled. “I’ll make reservations. Leave it to me.” He leaned down and gave my cheek a chaste kiss. Maybe a date was what we needed. Time to connect outside of scrubs and lemon-scented tile. “There’s that smile I love,” he remarked, pulling back and shouldering his gym duffle. “I’ll text you later. Have a good day.”

“You too,” I said to my laptop as the sound of the front door closing alerted me my husband had left.

Tik tok. Tik tok. The Grandfather clock interrupted my rabbit hole into online conspiracy theory videos. But really, what if Titanic was an inside job? Opening my phone, I stared at Desmond’s last message. What should I say? Nothing?

As if my magic, my phone buzzed in my hand and I startled. My jack-rabbit of a heart picked up at as a new grey box appeared.

Desmond: Send me your address. Picking you up in twenty minutes.

Every feminist urge I’d worked so hard to cultivate since leaving the south poked me in the ribs, urging me to tell this bossy bastard to fuck off. But the horny-bitch put her on mute and clapped like a seal.

Still, I couldn’t resist the urge to be a little obstinate.

Me: What if I’m busy?

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