The Husband Sitter

We walk down a long stretch of hallway and down the stairs, taking a left at the bottom and veering toward the back of the house. There’s a low baseline of music that grows louder as we approach a closed door. I’m not sure what I expect to see when Mrs. Black opens the door, but I’m not prepared for the sight of Mr. Black.

I’ve grown up around all different kinds of men. Because of the relaxed atmosphere of the compound, I’ve seen them in various states of undress. Shirtless or in underwear. None of those men made me tingle between my legs at the sight of them. Mr. Black wears nothing but perspiration-soaked sweatpants. He’s boxing. He wails on a red punching bag with tape-wrapped hands, his lips peeled back in a growl as he pummels it. The muscles in his torso ripple and bunch, those sweatpants slipping lower and lower on his hips until he stops and tugs them up with a superior sniff. Yes, superior. This man’s arrogance is heavy in the air, ripe as summer fruit.

“This is what he does to burn off the excess…stamina.” She arches an eyebrow at me. “It stopped working a while ago. He’s like a caged animal, poor man.”

I shift in my heels. “If you don’t mind me saying so…you seem like you could do just about anything. Especially help him burn off his…um…”

“Oh, I can and do satisfy him. It’s merely a time crunch issue.” She laughs quietly. “Today alone, I have meetings beginning at noon until seven, then I’m flying to Nova Scotia to pick out tile for a pop star’s guest bathroom. From there, I’ll travel to Rome for two nights because there’s an heiress in Beverly Hills who simply must have Italian marble. Then back to Los Angeles for another endless round of meetings. When I said I’m busy, I meant it.” She nods at her husband. “Meanwhile his physical needs go unmet. I’ll be much happier knowing he’s not ready to snap.”

Ready to snap.

Those words bring my nipples to tight peaks.

Mr. Black is young. Maybe in his early twenties, only a few years older than me—and his face and body remind me of a sculpture, almost too symmetrical and handsome with high cheekbones and golden hair that curls over his ears. Sweat drips from his body and makes his tan skin shine. He’s compelling and…gorgeous.

“Hello, darling,” croons Mrs. Black.

Mr. Black steadies the punching bag and turns with a predatory expression. Ready to pounce. When he sees me, his feral smile fades and the arrogance I felt in the air before wavers. “What is this?” Is that a French accent? I think so. It’s hard to tell when there’s so much bite in it. He takes a step in our direction and stops, making a visible effort not to look at me. “Who is she?”

“Your date for the morning.”

There’s a guarded rise of heat in his expression, but he swallows and turns away, levering a punch at the bag. Another. Another. “I knew you were planning something. All this sneaking around.” He stops and plants his hands on his hips. “I know you’ve been worried about me needing more from you. But this? It’s not happening. I won’t do it.”

Mrs. Black laces her fingers with mine and guides me into the room, even though I feel terribly out of place. Even if I wasn’t wearing underwear and high heels in a home gym, Mr. Black clearly doesn’t want me here and the last thing I want is to go closer to him. To feel his disdain.

“Darling, I’m only going to get busier. And you are only going to get more miserable.” She trails a finger down the sweating slope of his back. “I’d rather be in control of an arrangement. To know and trust who you’re with, rather than you losing patience and seeking pleasure elsewh—”

“I would never!” Mr. Black pins her with a fierce look. “I would never be unfaithful. No matter how badly I…” He accidentally looks at me, his gaze sliding over my breasts. His pupils dilate, blocking out the gold of his eyes. “I wouldn’t,” he finishes hoarsely.

“I know.” She threads her fingers through her husband’s hair. “When I found you, darling, you were an escort in Paris. Not because you needed money, but because you enjoyed giving pleasure. It’s one of the things you’re built to do. You’re withering without an outlet. I’m giving you one.”

“Please no—”

“She’s a virgin.”

Mr. Black’s eyes flare and he makes a rough sound, turning his head away from me, his fists shaking at his sides.

“Imagine if someone without your skill and care made the first time terrible for her,” she murmurs. “We can’t have that. Look at her, darling. She’s beautiful.”

“I saw her,” he snaps, that arrogance whipping back into place.