The Gift

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Even the most torrid couples have to keep the passion burning—so Mia is determined to give her husband, Evan, a birthday present that will blow his mind. And she’s found just the thing: an erotic massage…for both of them.

But while a touch of jealousy has always been a great aphrodisiac for Mia and Evan, will this gift go too far?

From a safe distance I watch him wind his way through the party guests, assembled in cliques throughout the room. It’s crowded. His maneuvering his way to the opposite end of the spacious room begins to resemble a subtle tango, as bodies wordlessly negotiate space.

He looks amazing in his jet-black suit, the expert tailoring highlighting his tall, fit body. I notice he’s taken off the tie and unbuttoned the first two buttons of his white shirt. His short, light brown hair is starting to misbehave, strands coming out of their gelled confinement. I can tell he’s just splashed some water on his face in the bathroom to revive himself, as he tends to do halfway into a formal party like this. I know he hates every second of this, even as he greets his subordinates with an easy, wide grin.

I’ve found the most tucked-away spot in the room, propped against the fireplace mantel, and set up camp so that I can just watch him all night long. I can’t hear a word of what he’s just said, but his companions burst out laughing, so I know he just cracked a joke that went over well. Evan fakes this whole schmoozing thing like a pro. I can’t help smiling as I watch his new secretary cock her head to the side and strike a flirtatious pose, trying to engage him in conversation. I watch them exchange a sentence or two. She’s working really hard to keep his attention, giggling, bobbing up and down, her hand periodically fluttering to her cleavage as she talks. I can see him starting to make his retreat. She clearly wants him to stay, even daring to put her hand on his forearm, the look in her eyes desperate. The little tramp, I think, then forgive her—I’d be hitting on him, too, if it wasn’t forbidden.

His eyes dart in my direction. I take a sip of my champagne, arching one eyebrow provocatively. His smile widens. He heads toward me. I never take my eyes off his. Put into slow motion, he’d look like a beautiful, sleek, black jungle cat. He has this knack for owning a room like no man I’ve met; everyone wants to be next to him, basking in his aura. He was destined to be the CEO of the company from the moment he strode through their doors and sold himself into a job he had no business even thinking about. Over the past ten years I’ve watched him conduct all aspects of his life with the same charming, at times arrogant, unshakable confidence…and the man oozes so much sexuality I’m going cross-eyed watching him stride toward me. Why had I agreed to stay away from him again?!

His sultry half smile spreads into a huge grin by the time he reaches me.

“Mrs. Landcaster.” He holds out his hand. I slide my hand delicately, formally, into his. He squeezes it, staring into my eyes. Only Evan can make a handshake seem like a dangerous transgression.

“Mr. Landcaster,” I smile, looking up at my husband of ten years flirtatiously.

“You look lovely this evening.”

“Why, thank you.”

“What are the chances you’d be willing to join me in the, uh, powder room for a tryst?”

I feign shock at this impertinence. “Why, Mr. Landcaster! You know that would be against the rules!”

Evan clears his throat, trying to look sheepish. “I apologize. It won’t happen again.” He kisses my hand stiffly and walks away, the sensual twinkle in his eyes the only thing to give him away.

We have this little game that we play at parties. It started when we met in college. We’d deliberately stay away from one another the entire night at a party, watching the other work the room. It was understood that it meant nothing, that there was no real threat of the other disappearing into a bathroom with someone else. A touch of (controlled) jealousy proved to be the best aphrodisiac, though. By the time we’d get back to our little bachelor apartment the cats would scramble out of our way as the clothes flew.

After ten years of marriage, it still works like a charm—what was once a fun game has become the best way of keeping the passion burning. Eventually, even the most torrid of couples have to work at it.

My eyes follow him as he takes his languid time moving past one of the hired waitresses, a tray of cocktail shrimp balanced dangerously on her hand. Her back is turned to him, and he places one hand on the small of her back, almost touching her ass, as he moves past. I watch breathlessly as she subtly leans toward his body, turning her face to the side to gaze coquettishly at him out of the corner of her eye.

Most women would be livid in my position; I’m more turned on than an air conditioner in the tropics.

He glances at me again. He knows I’m watching every move he makes. And I know that for a split second we both imagined him fucking her, saw him writhing naked between her spread legs, his cock deep in her sopping-wet pussy. We can read one another like a book—there’s no mistaking how much we both want to dash into the restroom and fuck standing up, facing the mirror.