Page 37 of Unmatched

I can’t wait to get my hands on you.

My dick twitches. I close the app and set the phone aside. I need to focus on work, but the thought of squeezing tits I’m actually allowed to touch and plunging my cock into a wet, turned-on pussy has my pulse pounding throughout my body. I adjust my pants and turn the wedding photo back around in an effort to stay on track. And it works, maybe a little too well. Seeing Lydia on my arm, beautiful in her wedding dress, infuses me with more than a flicker of regret. Because even after years of being frozen out and frustrated, driven to find an outlet somewhere else, I still wish I could just go home tonight and fuck my wife.

Right before six thirty, after the longest workday of my life, I park in the back of the Colorado Springs Hyatt and walk around the building. It seems stupid to be paranoid sixty miles from home, but I feel better not leaving my truck out front. I check over my shoulder as I go, not even sure what I’m looking for. Nothing is familiar. Everything feels foreign and wrong. Which is how it should be, how I want it. But as I approach the main doors and a man comes out, my eyes widen. It’s our next-door neighbor, Matt Devore—oh my fucking God. I turn away, looking for some place to hide where he won’t see me entering a hotel in another town without my wife. Or should I just run to my truck and drive straight back up I-25? I’m frozen in my tracks, unable to do anything but stare as he comes toward me, but then his phone rings. He answers, and I look closer as he passes. It isn’t Matt. The guy doesn’t even look remotely like him.

My stomach is sick with self-loathing. There have to be few more disgusting scenarios than a husband meeting a woman who isn’t his wife at a hotel, yet here I am, about to do just that. If I go in, there’s every chance I’ll get laid by a woman ready and willing to let me fuck her in ways that would absolutely horrify my frigid Lydia. And despite some off-the-charts anxiety, I can’t deny I’m excited about that. On the other hand, if I leave now, I won’t be an asshole. Well, not as big of one. I could just forget this whole scenario, stay faithful, and drive home with fucking blue balls.

My phone vibrates in my pocket.

LonelyGirl8

Excited to see you soon . . .

Like a jackass, I let my dick decide.

I head through the front doors. We stayed at this place once, Lydia and me. Got stranded in a blizzard five years ago and barely made it here before the highway closed. I picked it for tonight because I knew it was an okay place, but I’m not expecting the wave of nostalgia that hits me when I walk in. Everything inside is exactly the same. The leather chairs and wood paneling. The smell of coffee and fresh fruit in the lobby. It’s nothing extraordinary, just a generic hotel like a bunch of others, but we actually had a nice night here. It was earlier in our relationship, but something about being snowed in, cut off from work and everything else, made it romantic, intimate. We spent the night naked in each other’s arms, taking pleasure in touching each other, and nothing felt forced. We just enjoyed being together. Or at least, I did.

My chest tightens as I approach reception. “Uh, hi, I have a reservation,” I say, clearing my throat. “The name is Smith.”

The girl behind the desk types on her computer, and I swear she’s smirking. Everything feels so obvious. Sure, Mr. Smith. Wink-wink.

She glances up. “It looks like your wife already checked in.”

“What?” My blood runs cold before I realize she doesn’t mean Lydia, but Mrs. Smith.

She nods, going into well-practiced instructions like this is completely normal. Like my entire evening hasn’t just been thrown off. “You’re in room 212. Here’s your key. This also gets you into the pool.” She points to a small map of the property. “The business center is around the corner. There’s a shop here in the lobby if you need any personal items or snacks. Breakfast is complimentary, served from seven to nine a.m.” She sticks the plastic room key into a paper sheath and hands me the materials. “Do you have any questions?”

I swallow hard and take them from her. I have about a million questions, but none of them are for her.

“Uh, no . . . that sounds perfect.”

“Enjoy your stay.” She glances up, taking me in head to toe as if she’s seeing me for the first time. She hesitates on my biceps, then my jaw, and licks her lips. I’m not stupid, I know women find me attractive—at least women who aren’t my wife. The girl glances away toward the elevators, her cheeks pink, and again I get the sense she knows exactly what I’m up to. Who’s in that room upstairs, waiting for me. But then an elderly couple shuffles through the doors, and she turns away to help them.

I carry my duffle bag up to the second floor, pulse pounding in my ears, key card gripped in a sweaty hand. I’m not sure how my “date” got here before me. I was counting on getting here first. To have time to prepare. But somehow she’s already in there, waiting for me, and I need to be ready when I walk through the door. Adrenaline makes the thirty steps to the end of the hall feel like a thousand, my brain flashing back and forth the whole time between memory and fantasy. The firm, full globes of my wife’s magnificent breasts swinging as we fucked in this very hotel. The promise of a pair of tits nearly as nice waiting for me behind the door. Tits that, as soon as I touch them, will permanently change me. Brand me an adulterer. But also give me permission, I guess, to enjoy myself. Maybe even do this again.

I press my hand against the door frame.

It’s not too late. I can still walk out and go home.

To flannel pajama armor and a chafed, neglected dick.

I wave the key card in front of the knob, and with a click, the light turns from red to green.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I checked in right at four o’clock, though reception tried to give me a hard time. Anton made the reservation for Mr. and Mrs. Smith, as we agreed, but stupidly used his own credit card. Since the name and address on my ID matched the card—Mr. and Mrs. Richie of 1101 E. Columbine Place—the girl at the desk let me check in, but I’m pretty sure she shouldn’t have. When I leave, I’m going to slip her a nice tip.

My husband is predictable. He won’t leave work until exactly five, and with traffic, he’ll be lucky to show up by six thirty at the earliest. This gives me plenty of time to get ready.

Once I get into the room, I shower and shave, making sure to fill the air with a bold citrus perfume. Something I would never, ever wear. I put on a lot of makeup—also out of the ordinary. I don’t know if it will matter once he gets a look at me, but I’ll feel silly wearing over-the-top lingerie if I don’t dress my face up too. I add a wig borrowed from a friend who works in a costume shop on Colfax. My profile picture on Unmatched made my hair look darker, and if I’m trying to embody Anton’s hookup, I’m taking it all the way. Briefly, I consider removing my wedding ring and paw print necklace, but quickly decide they’re staying on. Finally, I slip into the lingerie that looks and feels like a suggestion of sex. The room is a little cold, and my nipples stand out against the sheer fabric, adding to the overall effect.

Anton better drool.

At exactly six thirty, with nothing much left to do, I send him an Unmatched message saying how excited I am. Just in case whatever morals he has left are giving him second thoughts. I haven’t really considered what I’ll do if he actually stayed home, but I guess I’ll worry about that if it happens. I put on some music using the bedside Bluetooth speaker, draw the curtains, and turn the lights way down—just enough to illuminate my figure on the bed. He won’t see much detail until we’re close. We’ve barely spoken the last two days at home—I was too busy seething, and I guess he was preoccupied fantasizing about tits. But I’ve been careful. I don’t think he’s suspicious at all, and I want to keep it that way till the last possible second.

I can’t wait to see the look on his face once he knows he’s fucked.

There’s a sound in the hall, and my whole body tenses. I force myself back into a leisurely position, but it’s hard with my back to the door and my lace-framed ass pretty much presented on a silver platter.

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