Page 1 of Naughty Wishes

Chapter One

Ipull my pink, satin bathrobe snugly around me and knot the belt tight. So much for another birthday. Except for a card from my youngest son, Justin, and a kiss from my oldest, Peter, the day has been largely uneventful. And that’s the way I like it. Nothing can stop the slow creep of age, so why the big reminder?

Still, it would have been nice if Dan had at least remembered my birthday. Although why should this year be different from any other?

“Kylie? You coming to bed, babe?” Dan calls out. “Don’t forget to turn off the lights. And make sure that faucet isn’t dripping again.”

I look up into the mirror and catch a glimpse of Dan climbing into bed. He’s wearing the skull print PJ bottoms I bought him for Christmas and the AC/DC T-shirt from the last concert we saw together, just before Peter was born. Except for a slight graying of his hair, and slightly less definition in his broad, muscular chest, he looks just as handsome as he did when he swept me off my feet at the bar where I was celebrating my twentieth birthday. Then, he was an ambitious law school student. Now, he is the “Campbell” in the law firm, Campbell Brown Myers, that he runs with two old friends

Me on the other hand . . . same shoulder-length auburn hair, same hazel eyes, but my curves are more curvy, and I’ve added an extra plus to my usual plus size.

I check the tap, turn out the light, then join Dan in bed, carefully leaving a pillow-size space between us. I always leave my robe on until Dan has turned out the bedside light. After fifteen years of marriage, we seldom touch anymore. We sleep on opposite sides of the bed. Rarely have sex. And only hold hands at church on Sunday.

“Good night.” I fiddle with the belt on my robe, waiting for Dan to roll onto his side and plunge the room into blissful darkness.

“I have a birthday present for you,” he says. “It’s under your pillow.”

“You remembered my birthday?” I rip the pillow away and snatch up the pink envelope beneath, making no effort to hide my excitement. I can’t remember the last time Dan bought me a birthday present, and I stopped reminding him five years ago because it hurt more to see the guilt on his face than it did to just pretend it was any other day.

“I always remember, Kylie. I just . . . never know what to do anymore. I don’t know what you like.”

“You’ve known me for fifteen years.” I tear open the pretty pink envelope—was it chance or did he remember my favorite color? “How can you not know what I like?”

“You’ve changed,” he says. “I’ve changed. We’re like strangers sharing a bed.”

His words send a chill through my veins and I freeze mid-tear. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying, open the envelope.”

With much less enthusiasm I pull out the card and stare at the gold “Happy Birthday” written in script across the front. No age, although I suspect they don’t make cards for thirty-five-year-olds. No “wife” or “lover” or even “friend” below. No pictures of flowers or balloons. As far as cards go, it is about as generic as they get.

“Thank you.” I muster a smile and fall back on the good manners my mother taught me when I was young and naïve and full of dreams about love lasting a lifetime.

“Open it.”

“Maybe I’ll save some of the fun for tomorrow.” I place the card carefully on my lap. If he’s just scrawled his name inside, I might burst out crying, and Dan has never handled strong emotion very well.

“Please,” he says. “Just look inside.”

Dan isn’t the begging type. Or the asking type. At least he wasn’t when we first met. He was dominant, possessive, the epitome of an alpha male. And he totally rocked my world. Now, he’s a good provider, a good father, but as emotionally closed off as he used to be open. As a result, his plea moves me to reconsider.

“Okay.” I open the card and plaster a smile on my face that should see me through whatever I find inside. “It was very thoughtful . . .” My words trail off as I read the coupon taped inside the card.

This love coupon entitles the bearer to one ménage.

My heart stutters in my chest and my stomach sinks. Would he be this cruel? Who would want to have a ménage with me? “Is this a joke?”

“No joke,” he says. “Although it’s just for one night.”

“Does this say . . . ménage? As in ménage à trois? As in three people in a bed? Together?”

Dan shifts in the bed, turning toward me. “You said you wanted to spice things up in the bedroom.”

“By ‘spice things up,’ I meant actually having sex, or taking off our clothes with the lights on, or kissing before bed,” I say. “I wasn’t really thinking of inviting someone else to join us.”

“Things haven’t been good between us for a long time.” He rubs his palms over the blanket covering his thighs, a tell-tale sign that he’s agitated. Although right now, he’s got nothing on me.

“I couldn’t possibly let a stranger see me naked.” I close the birthday card and try to tuck it back into the destroyed envelope. Maybe he had too many drinks after work. Maybe one of the other attorneys in his office put him up to this.

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