Page 115 of The Wrong Husband
"Touch becomes magnified…" Her voice falters. "Th-thought narrows. The body starts chasing a single point of release—like every nerve ending is being drawn forward, pulled taut, until it’s almost unbearable. Until it has to snap."
I keep going. Keep my eyes on the yacht, now less than a five-minute walk away.
"And when it does? Every muscle contracts. The pelvic floor spasms. The abdominal wall quivers. A full-body seizure of pleasure. And then… A collapse."
"This must be how you’re going to feel when I lick into your cunt and the cleavage between your butt cheeks."
A moan spills from her lips. She digs her fingers into the lapel of my jacket, and a trembling grips her.
Reaching the jetty, I turn in. I’m almost running now. Not far… Twenty steps. Ten…
"A wash of serotonin. A flood of calm. It’s the most controlled loss of control the body allows. And it leaves you wrecked." She raises her head to press her nose to the underside of my chin and breathes deeply. That viselike grip at the base of my spine tightens.
Desire is a demanding mistress, urging me to reach the yacht and climb aboard.
"Rewired. Sometimes, wrecked for good." She presses her breasts into my chest, whimpering with need.
That’s it. Something inside me snaps. I stop at the edge of the gangway which leads to the yacht.
I lower my head as she raises hers, and our lips clash. Our mouths fuse. Our tongues tangle. Teeth, breath, a mingling of our saliva, of that sweet essence of hers which goes straight to my head. I kiss her deeply, and she holds onto me and kisses me right back. I’m drowning in her.
Losing sight of my surroundings, wanting to take her below deck, but also wanting the evening to unfold as I planned.
Knowing I need to stop before we're spotted, when the sound of someone clearing their throat reaches me.
She must hear it at the same time as me because she freezes. We stare into each other’s eyes—hers gone dark with desire. No doubt, mine must show my frustration and my crazed desire, which I’m fighting hard to bring under control.
"Mr. Davenport, the yacht is prepped as per your specifications. You have everything you need for your trip," the crew member who readied the craft says. There’s a hint of apology in his voice.
Without taking my gaze off my wife, I nod in his direction. "Thank you, Simon."
"I’ve made the final checks, so with your permission, my team and I will leave. If you need anything at any time?—"
"I’ll radio you."
Simon leaves, accompanied by another man and a woman. His footsteps fade away.
"We’re taking a trip?" Fever’s voice is more composed, but her eyes hold the lingering effects of our earlier kiss.
"We are."
She glances toward the sleek craft moored on the other side of the gangway. “That one’s yours?”
I nod. Then walk with her in my arms, across the gangway, and onto the side deck.
“Carrying me over the threshold?” Her voice is soft, almost shy.
I glance down at her flushed cheeks. “You didn’t think I’d pass up the chance, did you?”
She nuzzles into my chest. “You are the most romantic man on the planet.”
“And this”—I brush a kiss to her temple—”is only the beginning, baby.”
I step inside the main salon. It’s a sunken living space with rich walnut flooring, oversized, cream, modular sofas, and a glass ceiling strip to let in sunlight. Floor-to-ceiling windows on both sides frame the ocean. Sunlight bounces off the waves, and in the distance is the outline of islands, with the occasional sail from other boats billowing at intervals.
"Breathtaking," she breathes.
"It is." I watch her take in the surroundings.
