The Mammoth Book of Threesomes and Moresomes Read Free

aisle.
    Besides, it was either go to the fancy restaurant, or tell Richard I’d rather stay home in my pyjamas with a carton of ice cream and the vibrator I hid in the refrigerator crisper.
    “Why not?” He dabbed the corner of his mouth with the white linen napkin before setting it back on his lap. “You won’t discuss sex at home.”
    “You never ask about it at home.”
    “You never talk to me at home.”
    I pursed my lips, instantly on the defensive. So what if I couldn’t remember the last time we’d had a civil conversation? I also couldn’t pinpoint exactly when we’d started leading separate lives, only that I liked it.
    No. That wasn’t quite right. I’d grown used to it. I told myself that it was well past time I put my childish ideas about love and marriage behind me and came to terms with the fact that married couples ignored each other, slept on their side of the bed careful not to touch, and bickered when someone failed to replace the toilet paper roll.
    “What if I let you?”
    I paused with a forkful of salad halfway to my mouth. The mini tomato I’d speared fell off and rolled on to the floor. My heartbeat kicked up a notch. “What if you let me do what?”
    Richard leaned forward, elbows on the table, dark eyes spearing mine. “Don’t play coy with me, Dana. I’m smarter than you think.”
    “I—”
    “Save it. I saw the way you eyed the waiter when he walked over here. You stared at his crotch like he’d hidden an icecream cone down his pants. It’s shameful, really. He must be half your age.”
    “Asshole,” I said pleasantly, reaching for my glass of champagne. “If you’re considering a mid-life crisis, leave me out of your kinky fantasies. I give you my blessing to buy a fast car and look up your secretary’s skirt.”
    My voice hitched on that last bit, and Richard scowled. Just like that, I’d turned back the clock six years. Only it hadn’t been his secretary then; it had been his personal trainer. And he didn’t just look up her skirt. He’d burned a few extra calories fucking her on the fitness circuit after hours.
    He stared at me, eyes black and hollow. “That was a long time ago. And you’re not going to believe a word I tell you anyway, so I don’t know why I bother.”
    I shrugged, saying nothing.
    Richard hesitated, cleared his throat. “Look, Dana … I don’t want to look up Amy’s skirt. I want to look up yours.” He reached across the table for my hand, and the touch of his warm fingers on my wrist made me jump. “Only you won’t let me.”
    For a tenuous moment, my breath caught in my throat and I had no reply. I’d grown so used to avoiding Richard’s advances that I’d become an expert at it. Four years ago, I bought my first set of flannel pyjamas. I now owned twelve in different colours, all sporting playful kitten designs. They were the kind with thick elastic bands, and I wore granny panties beneath them. I stuck curlers in my hair and smeared green goo on my face before heading to bed. I’d done everything except tattoo “No Entry” on my crotch.
    It wasn’t that I didn’t like sex. I thought of it constantly, wished for it incessantly. Nor was Richard’s appearance the problem. I’d thought him irresistible once. His thick hair had been black then and hung down to his shoulders; now he wore it cut short, and grey showed at his temples. His suit jacket hugged broad shoulders, and although he didn’t spend all his time at the gym like he once had, he still rose early to swim laps around the pool.
    I waited for the urge to pull back my hand. For so long, the only reaction I had to my husband’s touch was stark, pulsing anger. Sometimes, the spark of fury ignited my imagination and I’d picture him fucking his whore. That’s when the slow burn of maddening rage would combine with sullen waves of revulsion to form the kind of temper that landed people in jail.
    None of those turbulent responses came this time. Instead, the sultry