I should go after him. Normally I would, but I don’t want the drama and at this point I’m not sure I care. I slump into the cushions, letting myself feel the full weight of what just happened. No, of what has been happening. It’s only tonight I’ve allowed myself to see it. I survey the room, emptied except for a couple making out on the couch next to me. They can’t be . . . surely not . . .
But they are.
His hand slides into her panties, and she tilts her head back, moaning and repaying the favor with her hand down his pants, gripping and tugging. He nudges her blouse aside, exposing and taking her bare breast into his mouth.
Okay. I didn’t need to see pink nipples tonight. I stand abruptly. I could call an uber and get the hell out of here. I should do that, but not beside them while they’re doing this. They’ve progressed to dry humping now, and by the sounds he’s making, it won’t be dry for long. When I walk out to the foyer, there’s a couple literally screwing against the wall. I tilt my head, trying not to stare, yet fascinated. Trey never fucked me against a wall. He implied I was too heavy. Maybe that motherfucker was too weak.
Spying a door slightly ajar, I slip into what I presume is the office to make my call. It’s pitch dark, but I can make out a long shape across from what looks like a desk. A sofa? I fumble my way to it, and flop down.
“Shit!”
The expletive scares me so badly, I slide right off the couch, my butt hitting the rug covering the hardwood floor with a thump. The click of a lamp being turned on precedes a flood of light, and a wave of embarrassment.
“Lawd,” is all I can manage when the darkness flees, exposing a man seated on the couch where I just sat . . . on him.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to sit on you. Or to disturb you, for that matter.”
“You with the swingers?”
His question, bold, but abrupt, takes me aback. I flinch, prepared to deny it, but realize I actually am with the swingers . . .kinda.
“Not like that,” I mumble, standing and avoiding the navy blue eyes watching me from behind black-rimmed glasses. He has a bit of Clark Kent going on with those baby blues and raven-wing black hair. Broad shoulders and chest narrow at the waist and hips, tapering to strong legs that stretch out forever. Even sprawled on the couch, there’s something alert about him; a force field crackling with electric energy.
“I mean, my husband is . . .” I gesture toward the door. “Out there participating.”
“Isn’t the point of being here that you participate?” His sensual mouth tilts at one corner.
“Why are you in here?” I ask, side stepping his question. “Shouldn’t you be out there, too?”
“Nope. I’m an innocent bystander.”
There’s nothing innocent about the way his gaze travels over my hips and thighs outlined by my close-fitting dress, lingers on the swell of my breasts. He’s about as innocent as a coyote in a hen house, looking for something tender to catch between his teeth.
“No one here is innocent,” I say with a caustic laugh.
“I’m Carl’s brother visiting from LA. I surprised him and didn’t know this . . .” He waves a hand toward the closed door of the office. “Was going on. Or that he and my sister-in-law were so deviant. I must say, it makes me like them both a lot more.”
A giggle bursts past my lips, ridiculous in my current situation, but I can’t hold it back. His smile in return softens the sharply-drawn lines of his lean face.
“Have a seat.” He pats the space beside him on the couch and slants an encouraging grin up at me. “Preferably not on me this time.”
“I was gonna call an Uber,” I say, glancing uncertainly from him to the closed door.
“Or you could stay and dog out your husband to me while he ‘participates’ out there.”
A slow smile works its way to my lips. How can I smile and feel so calm right now? My marriage, which I’ve fought so hard for the last few years, is over, ending unceremoniously at a swing party. And here I am considering conversation with the host’s fine ass brother while I wait for Trey to finish his ménage business.
“I believe I will,” I tell him, which elicits a satisfied smile.
“Your name?” he asks, and the intensity of his stare makes the question more demand than request.
“Sinclaire.” I don’t bother with the last name. Who knows how much longer I’ll have it. “Yours?”
“Harper. What do you do, Sinclaire?”
“I teach fifth grade.”
His face lights up. “I wanted to be a teacher for a long time. My mom’s an educator.”