Page 58 of Tempt Her

Mateo reads my heart. “Quit fighting it. I know you want her too.”

CHAPTERSIXTEEN

S.L.U.T. by Bea Miller

Wonder how I can sneak arsenic into that sugar packet?

Ah, the things that get my mind working.

The tricks I can perfect as I watch my mother-in-law, Phyllis Evans, rip open the ninth packet and sprinkle it over her tea. She does it with her shriveled pinky up like no one notices her odd habit. How she makes iced tea so sweet, it’s poison. You can’t drink it.

But as the evil queen, she’s immune.

Lifting it to her lips that would embarrass a duck, she has to flick another insult my way before she wets her wicked whistle.

“I see Lycra has escaped your shopping list lately.”

Since the woman can’t bring back the days of hoop skirts, corsets, and evil exploitation, she’s a fierce advocate of anything that chains your body so tight you can’t breathe.

I swear, she must duct tape her twat, thighs, and ass under that limeade floral dress. She’s water-tight, stewing in her shit, so she has to release it from her mouth instead.

Lifting my coffee, I raise my pinky too. Mentally, it’s my middle finger. “Since Gentry won’t let me do yoga anymore, I gotta free my body somehow.”

Her eyes roll while nothing else on her face can move because she’s so full of Botox that it’s stuck in permanent serial-killer mode.

Inwardly, I high-five myself.

My monthly Sunday brunches with my mother-in-law are like the Salem Witch Trials. I’m the proud heretic, just waiting for this woman to accuse me of affliction so she can watch me hang.

But here, in the country club dining room, she can’t put a rope around my neck as I suffer Eggs Benedict with her while Gentry plays eighteen holes, and we wait for him.

Phyllis cheers him on like a Black Hawk helicopter mom, threatening an air assault on anyone who takes her baby’s victory.

Me? I know out on that course, behind some tree, Gentry’s aiming his little putter to get into more than eighteen holes.

“You’ve been trained better,” Phyllis snarls lowly. “You’re a distinguished senator’s wife, and you know better than to sit here with your nipples pointing a path straight to hell.”

“Whoops.” I giggle. “Itisa bit nipply in here.”

So crank up the A/C, boys!

It’s my new thing. No bra. No panties. No more shapewear worn in my own damn house or this uptight country club.

What the hell is the point of looking good in a dress when you’re wearing so much nylon and spandex you can’t get properly fucked in it?

Because that’s my life now, since my yoga clothes are collecting dust, I wear these swing dresses in dumbass neon floral prints.

They’re as sexy as a colonoscopy.

But they tempt Mateo and Luke. They know now I’m not wearing panties, my nipples proudly teasing too, pearling hard under soft cotton.

I love the freedom, the feeling of my naked pussy, tingling and tempting them from under a short, demure dress. We let a couple of hours pass each morning as I get so wet, sashaying past them, lifting my hem for their glance. Then one or the other—I love how I don’t know which one—will meet me in the dozen spots in Gentry’s house not surveilled by cameras.

And there, they set me free.

Getting the best fucks of my life each day, each more mind-blowing and pussy gushing than the previous because, with every sunrise and proper railing, I’m getting stronger. Bolder. More daring and hawking for a way to bring Gentry down.

But I have to play it smart and be sweet.

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