Tied(52)

“But it’s not for me.”

I guide her to the back room, where Warren is playing poker—badly—with Steven, Jack, and Matthew. “Hey, douche bag, have you ever had a private dance?”

Suspicion washes over his face, probably thinking I’m setting him up to be the butt of a joke. Not that he needs any help in that department. “No, I haven’t. Why?”

I smile and motion to each of them with my hand. “Lily, this is Billy. Billy—Lily.”

Warren stands and Lily loops her arm around his. “First timer, huh? I’ll take good care of you.”

I’m just racking up the good deeds today, aren’t I? I tap both their shoulders. “You kids have fun.”

As they walk away together, I hear Warren ask, “Have you heard the one about the priest and the rabbi in a bar?”

I close my eyes and shake my head. Fucking hopeless.



I tell the poker dealer to deal me in, then lay my money on the table and stack the green chips she slides my way. Without prompting, a shot girl places a fresh whiskey in front of me, and I put my tip on the tray. Paradise isn’t your run-of-the-mill strip club. It’s not just about the dancers—it’s about making the customers feel like kings. Anticipating their wants and desires.

Jack changes two cards and comments, “Drew Evans turning down a lap dance—that makes me sad.”

“I turned it down out of respect for Kate. Just like she canceled the man massage out of respect for me.”

Steven smiles and congratulates me. “You’ve come so far, Little Grasshopper.”

I grin. “Kate and I have a very respectful relationship.”

This is mostly true. Although, at times a little disrespect can end up being a really good time.

Let’s examine that theory more closely:

After what feels like an eternity of not being inside Kate, our six-week sex ban has at last come to an end. My generous parents—whom I love tonight more than ever—agreed to come to our apartment and watch James for a few hours.

My cock has fabulous, filthy ideas on how to spend every minute of those hours.

Despite his intentions, we didn’t go straight to the hotel room I rented for the evening. Why not? you ask. The short answer is because Kate owns me, I’m now a pushover—and a f*cking idiot. The long answer is because Kate put extra effort into getting dressed for our night together—she painted her toenails, curled her hair just so, and bought a scorching-hot little black dress that makes her tits look fantastic. Meaning she wants to spend at least part of the night in public. Around other adults.

Engaging in conversation that will stimulate her mind as acutely as I plan on stimulating her clit with my tongue very shortly.

So . . . we’re eating dinner at Jean-Georges, an ultrachic restaurant that also happens to be located one block from our hotel suite. Talk during dinner was interesting and fun, as always. We talked about James, work, Kate’s upcoming transition back to the office, and my impending conversion to part-time stay-at-home dad. The food was great too. Yet it hasn’t exactly been an enjoyable meal for me.

My body is strung tight with anticipation, and every single thing Kate does just makes me want to f*ck her that much more. The way her fingers grasp her water glass, the way she licks her lips and slides the fork deep into her mouth.

Christ.

It’s a blessing you can’t actually die from horniness—’cause I’d be stone cold by now.

Even though Kate’s been strict about what she eats, because she’s breast-feeding and working hard to get back into her “skinny” jeans, I talked her into indulging in some dessert.

Not my best idea.

“Mmmm . . . ,” she moans over a bite of chocolate cake.

My dick twitches—like a wild bull raring to get out of his pen.

I swallow the rest of my wine, reminding myself it’ll only be a few more minutes until I have her all to myself. Naked. With no one and nothing to disturb us for four blissful hours.

Kate pushes her plate back and wipes her mouth elegantly with her napkin. Then she regards me thoughtfully. “I’ve been wondering about something.”

“What are you wondering?” I’m surprised that my voice is actually level. Considering the crotch of my pants is now painfully snug.

“Do you remember the night we met—at REM?”

I lean forward in my chair and run my finger up and down her bare arm. “Every provocative detail.”

She likes my answer. She smiles. “What do you think would’ve happened if I had gone home with you that night?”

I force my gaze up from Kate’s impressive rack to meet her eyes. “I would’ve done exactly what I said—given the word pleasure a whole new meaning.”

“But what about afterward?”

This is one of those tricky hypothetical questions women love to pose—just to screw with a guy’s head. “What if you had met my sister first?” “Would you have respected me if I f*cked you on the first date?” “If you could go back in time, would you still marry me?”

Contrary to popular belief, there’s definitely a right way and a wrong way to answer. Unfortunately for men, the honest answer is usually the wrong one.

But because I’ve sworn to never lie to Kate again—and because she’ll know if I am frigging lying—I go with the truth.