Page 11 of Sex, Lies, and Margarita Mixes
“Step forward. Keep your arms out in front of you.”
“Like I’m pushing the universe away?” She flippantly says.
“Like you’re about to ruin my life.” I tease.
She smirks under the blindfold.
I guide her, slow. Gentle.
She moves like she trusts me impeccably. And that—that—nearly undoes me.
When she finally finds the spoon, her fingers wrap around it slow. Deliberate. She moves her hand along the handle, and I watch raptly.
Then, she lifts it, turns toward my voice, and grins as she cheekily says, “Is this like the one I licked chocolate off of before I ruined your chances at a hand job?”
Everyone laughs. I forgot we weren’t alone in here.
Later, Sasha says Roxy and I “passed with extraordinary synergy.”
Roxy proudly says, “It’s called sexual chemistry and interconnected minds. Not everyone has it.”
I stare at her. She feigns ignoring me.
Trent mutters, “Must be nice.”
Whitney chokes on her lemon water and glares at him
In the kitchen, I corner her while the others talk about moon signs and gluten, oblivious to, or ignoring, the sexual tension between my wife and I.
“You still remember every single spoon I use?” I growl.
“Of course. We’ve been together for over three and a half years.” She flippantly replies.
I lean in. “Exactly, baby. Together.” My voice lowers, “Do you remember what I do with it?”
She steps closer, not backing away. “Do you remember how fast I can make you drop it?”
My pulse spikes but I do remember. Vividly.
Her lip lifts. She smiles sexily, and then, she walks away. Leaving me with a screaming libido and a raging hard-on.
Again.
ROXY
* * *
The no sex with my husband rule was a good idea.
In theory. Like Chick-fil-A closing on Sundays. Or gluten-free croissants.
But the moment I walk into the kitchen and see Chase shirtless—again—standing behind the island with a bowl of fresh whipped cream and his hair pushed back from his face like a Greek god who fucks like the Devil—that theory fails.
He doesn’t even look up when I enter. He just keeps whipping the cream while his arms bulge and the need to trace every single tattoo adorning them with my fingers and my lips consumes me. He says, “Morning, babe.”
Sexually frustrated and pissed off about it, even though I made him sleep on the floor again, I snap, “I hope your whisk breaks.”
“Your mouth says mean things, but your eyes say ‘make me scream with my face pressed into this cutting board, husband of mine.’” I smirk even though I really don’t want to—damnit, Chase! I’m so turned on and irate about being that way.
