“Wanted what? What’s going on?” My head was spinning, my heart racing. Freya and I had had a frank discussion about sex and monogamy, but had we talked about sleeping with each other’s husbands? No, we had not.
“It’s okay,” he said softly. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” He stroked my cheek with the back of his fingers. They were slightly rough, a man’s hands. Brian’s hands were always soft from typing and washing dishes. I found Max’s eyes in the darkened room and felt the pull of attraction. I swallowed audibly.
“I can’t. Brian would never.”
“Freya is very persuasive.”
I knew this to be true. Was Freya seducing my husband right now? Was Brian high enough to forget his moral code? Hot enough for my beautiful blond friend to break our vows?
“Forget about them.” Max’s fingers trailed down my neck. “What do you want?”
My hand moved of its own accord to his chest. When I felt his muscles through his shirt, the heat of his skin, my breath caught in my throat. Oh shit . . . I did want this. I wanted it badly.
“Can I kiss you?”
I should have said no. I should have thrown off the blanket, gotten up, hurried upstairs. I should have called for Brian, phoned a taxi, gone home. But I didn’t. I let Max kiss me. I let his rough hands roam through my hair and over my body. Lust surged through me, and suddenly I was tearing at his clothes, yanking his shirt over his head. My hands ran over his broad shoulders, his strong arms, his powerful chest. I loved Brian’s body, it was lithe, furry, warm. It felt like home. Max’s felt like an adventure.
My fingertips felt the wound first, sliding over the puckered flesh on his impressive pec. Pulling away from his kiss, I peered at the damage. In the dark, I could make out four evenly spaced puncture marks, already turning to scar tissue.
“What happened?”
He moved my hand away from the lesion. “Long story.” He kissed me again and lay me back on the bed. And then, he moved over me.
I could blame the drugs, or the toll infertility had taken on my sex life with my husband. I could put it on my lack of sexual partners, or my recent epiphany about living an indulgent, hedonistic life. But there is no excuse for what I did that night with Freya’s husband. I told myself we were all consenting adults, mature enough to handle this. I told myself it would all be okay.
But I was wrong.
19
It took me several seconds to get my bearings when I woke up in Freya’s spare room. The sun was low in the sky, indicating the early hour. I was alone in bed, and I was naked. The night came back to me in a rush: the ’shrooms, the music, the colors, the visions. And Max. His strong body over me, on me, in me.
Perhaps I had hallucinated the whole encounter? Maybe it was just an incredibly vivid psychedelic trip? God, I wanted it to be. But the warmth of Max’s skin, the taste of his mouth, the sensation of his muscles under my hands was so real. A bubble of guilt rose in my throat . . . guilt mixed with a heavy dose of jealousy. Because, if I had made love to Freya’s husband, that meant she had made love to mine.
Feeling fragile and shaky, I found my clothes on the floor beside me and quickly dressed. I slipped into the bathroom to pee and wash my face. Taking in my reflection in the mirror above the sink, I saw that my skin was pale, my eyes puffy, my lips dry. My pupils were still dilated, making my eyes look dark and haunted. Jesus Christ.
My heart hammered in my chest as I climbed the stairs to the main floor. I didn’t know what to expect after our night of debauchery. Would we talk about what happened, or pretend it never had? Would we act as if everything was fine, or would Freya say: Morning, hon. Your husband was great last night. How was mine? I couldn’t bear it. I needed to find Brian, get in our car, and drive home to our cozy cottage. I needed to shower away the memory of last night, to make coffee, and talk to him about what happened. We needed to reaffirm our love and commitment, we needed to put this incident behind