Filthy Vows - Alessandra Torre Page 0,52

and trading emails with my husband about his best friend. And maybe… maybe that was why I was more on edge than possible. Because I wanted to make sure that there was no misunderstanding that my honesty about my proclivities allowed him any sort of leeway at all.

Settling back in his seat, his fingers caressed my thigh in small circles, triggering an instant reaction between my legs. I captured his hand and threaded my fingers through his. He glanced at me. “No deposit yet,” he said quietly. “But we set a meeting for Monday. So, hopefully then.”

I nodded. “I’m sure she’ll do it then.” It was a transfer of funds, from Morgan Stanley to Easton’s firm. Nicole had verbally discussed moving six million dollars over to test the waters—yet had avoided actually pulling the trigger. Easton’s one percent management fee on that amount would allow us to pay off the credit cards and cover five months of mortgage payments.

If she followed through.

If not, I was wasting a potential open house opportunity by sitting here, and Easton was kissing her athletic ass for nothing. Either way, I needed to swallow my stresses and jealousy and support him through the process. I squeezed his hand and he leaned over, brushing my hair off my neck and planting a gentle kiss just above my pearl necklace. “You are so beautiful.”

I turned my head and met his lips, our kiss short and brief, the moment interrupted by Chelsea.

“Hey E.” She leaned halfway over my lap and grinned at him. “You know why you should never get into a relationship with a tennis player?”

“Why?”

“Please don’t encourage her,” I begged, the joke one I was about to hear for the third time.

“Guess.” She beamed at him.

“Ummm… they like to smack balls?”

“No, though that is an excellent point.” She pushed her sunglasses on the top of her head and paused dramatically. “Because… to them love means nothing.”

It was kinda funny, but only because—to Easton and I—love meant everything.

19

My libido woke back up Thursday afternoon, midway through a call with a buyer’s agent whose voice sounded like pure sex, dipped in chocolate. I ended the call and pushed away from my desk. Reaching back, I unzipped the top of my skirt, then hitched the Banana Republic number up around my hips. Spinning in the desk chair, I swung the door closed with my toe and flipped the lock. I had a half-hour before Easton got home. Maybe longer, depending on traffic. Plenty of time. I kicked my heels to one side and put my bare feet up on the edge of the desk, opening my knees and working my panties down around my thighs.

I felt edgy. Hungover. The dull headache in the back of my skull throbbed in concert with the ache between my legs. Last night, we’d come home from the charity match drunk, fell asleep without sex, then both overslept. I’d dealt with morning traffic and Wayland’s doggie daycare facility, who didn’t want to take him after 9am because it would “disrupt the other dogs.” Like, what the fuck? He was a hundred-and-forty pounds of unrestrained energy all day long. If he wasn’t disrupting the other dogs by his mere presence, something was horribly wrong with him.

I was knuckle deep, my ass digging into the seat, my fantasies deep into a role-play where a commission shortage could only be solved by my mouth, when our front door slammed shut.

I paused, my sexual thoughts fleeing to the open vent in my floor, where they ran off to die. Footsteps sounded and I tried to place their location in the house. Working my panties back into place, I yanked a tissue out from the holder and wiped off my fingers. Zipping up the back of my skirt, I quietly disengaged the lock and crept out of the office. The person had gone into the formal living room, then the den, best I could tell from the acoustics.

I took the opposite path, rounded the corner into the kitchen, and screamed. My toe caught painfully on the transom, and I grabbed the frame to keep from falling. “Aaron!”

He looked over from his place at the fridge, a can of Mountain Dew in hand. One eyebrow lifted in a bemused fashion. “Elle. You okay?”

“Are you the only one here?”

“Yep. Just came in. I thought you were sleeping.”

“No, I was in the office.” I pointed an unnecessary finger in the general direction of the office. “Prepping a listing agreement. A bungalow in