Invitation to Seduction: Open Invitation, Book 1 (5 page)

She didn’t have an answer. It just was.

He’d never been unfaithful. He’d encouraged her to pursue her dreams. She couldn’t consider retiring from her job if he hadn’t supported everything she’d wanted to do with her life. She gripped the edge of her worktable until her fingers ached.

You’d bring a man to his knees for a touch of your hand on his cock.

That
was what she wanted. Seduction, passion. Her husband didn’t have it for her anymore. Though he did have lots of excuses. He was busy at work and tired when he came home. He was getting older, and his libido was fading. He had a headache. He was getting a cold. He hadn’t slept well the night before. Over the years, he’d offered her a dozen choices. A dozen excuses. Of course, they were all about him, never attaching blame to her, and never ever saying,
Hey honey, I’m having trouble getting it up these days.
How could she fix a problem he wouldn’t admit to?

She turned off the soldering iron and pulled the card out of her pocket. Staring at it, she remembered the touch of a special man’s hands. Closing her eyes, she tipped her head back. A moan bubbled in her throat. She forced the small sound down.

Grabbing the card, she went inside to email Stephen to let him know she’d ship the horse this afternoon. In her office, her foot tapping impatiently, she booted up the computer. Slow, slow, far too slow. It gave her a moment to set the card on her desk and stare at the gold lettering.

Do you know how beautiful it is watching a woman touch herself?

No, she didn’t, but, with an intensity born of her restless emotions, she wanted her mystery man to watch her. She wanted him to take his cock in his hands because
she
turned him on. Her pulse beat at the juncture of her thighs. Her clitoris throbbed.

The computer beeped, and she realized she’d been lost in the memory of
his
voice. God. It was something she
couldn’t
have. She ripped the card into pieces and threw it in the trash.

Stephen had sent her an email asking how she was and if she’d enjoyed her night out with the girls. She’d told him about the bachelorette party. What on earth would he think of her if she told him the truth?
Yes, Stephen, I had a wonderful time watching women suck men’s cocks and my friend masturbate behind a Plexiglas window. And there was this man...

She replied to him, saying only that she’d had a nice time and would be shipping out the carousel horse that afternoon.

The glass was for a child’s playroom. She’d used lead for basic strength and jewels made of a hard plastic for decoration on the saddle. She hoped he’d be pleased with the results. Someday, she’d find the courage to ask him to take her to one of the houses he was working on so she could see the installation. She had yet to see her work in place. Which was kind of crazy.

“Jewels,” he answered a few minutes later. “Great idea. Can’t wait to see it. So where’d you go last night?”

Stephen was always chatty. She’d figured out he did it to put her at ease. Telling her a little about himself and asking questions about her so that she didn’t worry so much over his reaction to a new piece she’d sent him. If he’d been strictly business, she’d have been a mess waiting for his email after she’d made a shipment.

“A club,” she typed.

“Dancing?”

“I don’t dance.”

“Why not?”

Why not? Her husband hadn’t danced with her since her brother’s wedding over eight years ago.

“My husband’s self-conscious. He hates dancing.” The words sounded like a complaint, but in a way, it was almost cleansing. Not that she’d ever complained to Stephen about her marriage.

He didn’t reply for a while. She’d almost given up. Then he wrote, “But do YOU like to dance?”

This was probably the most personal conversation they’d had. Her stomach fluttered. “Yes, I like to dance.”

She waited, a hand over her mouth as she stared at the screen. Stephen was a nice guy, funny, articulate, smart. He complimented her, made her laugh when she felt a little down. From things he’d said—a couple of months ago he’d mentioned his class reunion—she figured he was close to fifty. He wasn’t married, though she didn’t know if he had been, and she didn’t think he had kids because he never talked about any.

Her heart beat faster when his address popped up. There were times she found she’d spent an hour emailing with him, and the messages hadn’t all been business. More like conversation.

She had to admit, too, that late at night, something he’d said would come back to her. Make her smile. She’d imagine what he looked like, what his voice sounded like. And yes, she’d put his name to a fantasy or two.

The reality was, she’d had orgasms imagining Stephen was going down on her. There, the truth.

They were only talking about dancing. He didn’t translate the conversation into something sexual. She did. Yet her hand trembled as she reached for the mouse to open his message. Maybe she was still on overload from last night.

“Then you should dance whenever you want to. You can dance with girlfriends, you know.”

She laughed to herself, her tension easing, then wrote, “That isn’t done.”

He dashed her a reply. “Why not?”

“You ask WHY too much.” Though she hadn’t noticed him doing that before. “Women aren’t supposed to dance with women.”

“We’re not talking slow dancing here. Women dance together all the time. Haven’t you been watching at those clubs you go to with your friends?”

She sucked in a breath. She’d been watching, that’s for sure. Only it wasn’t dancing. Did he think she was some party animal?

“I don’t always go to clubs.”

“I wasn’t criticizing.”

She was overreacting. The admission, if only to herself, that she’d fantasized about Stephen made her nervous. “I don’t want you to think I’m always running around with my friends.”

“I don’t think that at all. You deserve to enjoy yourself.”

He sounded like Stacy. Yet after the things she’d done last night, she didn’t know what to say or how to reply. Cupping her face, she massaged her temples. What was the big deal? Stephen was just being nice.

“I enjoy seeing my friends. We’ve known each other a long time.” There, that was noncommittal enough.

“Are you okay?”

She wasn’t used to intuitive men. For a moment, she wanted to scream.
No, everything is NOT okay. I think I’m becoming bipolar because I’m flipping moods every two seconds.

God
. “Everything’s fine, Stephen. I’d better run if I’m going to get that piece out today. Have a good one. Bye.”

Her hands shook. Now she couldn’t even email Stephen without losing it.

Chapter Four

Stephen stared at her last email on his monitor.
Shit, shit, shit.
He’d pushed too hard. But Christ, what kind of man wouldn’t dance with his wife—a wife who liked to dance—because he was self-conscious? She’d told him other things, little details she’d revealed without realizing that they drew a picture Stephen saw clearly. The guy was a self-centered prick who didn’t like her friends, wouldn’t attend parties she was invited to, groused about the family barbecues at her brother’s, and hadn’t taken her on vacation in years.

He wanted to hate the man.

Stephen would savor a dance with her. He’d hold her tight, swaying gently, as he planted kisses in her hair, against her ear, and took nibbles of those luscious lips. Just holding her. He closed his eyes and knew he wanted to do far more than dance. He wanted to love her, show her with his body how beautiful she was. Everything she missed out on, he would make sure she had.

How the hell had he managed to fall so hard for her with nothing more than emails between them? It wasn’t logical to feel he knew her so well. People pretended, people lied. He wasn’t usually so trusting, nor did he take everything at face value. Except with her. He couldn’t say why. He only knew that he did.

Yet wanting a married woman this badly could only end up in Shitsville.

* * * * *

Debbie had gotten through the weekend alternately scared, hurt, guilty, and angry, the full spectrum of emotions except the good ones. The invitation came on Tuesday, waiting for her on the kitchen table. She didn’t open her husband’s mail, and he didn’t open hers.

“What’d ya get?” he asked, standing by the sink.

No return address, a simple computer-generated mailing label. She could feel another envelope on the inside. She slit the top, revealing her made-up sex club name in beautiful gold script on the second envelope.

Her stomach turned over. How did they know where she lived? “Oh it’s nothing. One of those stockbroker invitations.”

“You wanna go?” He didn’t ask why the note had been addressed to her when the accounts were in both their names.

“No, they’re boring.” Her mind whirled. She put a hand on the table to steady herself.

In her office, she shut the door and dialed the phone.

Stacy picked up as if she’d been sitting beside it. “Hey.”

“Did you send me something?”

“Like what?”

Debbie stared at the thing in her hand as if it were a spider crawling across her palm. “An invitation.”

Stacy needed no further explanation. “Ah, an invitation to seduction.” She could almost hear Stacy’s smile. “No, I didn’t send it. Are you going?”

“How did they get my address? You didn’t give it to them, did you?” They knew where she lived, the nebulous
they
. Spies who knew everything about you.

“Of course not. Did you give it to someone?”

“Get real.” She paced as far as the phone cord would allow.

“How about your phone number? They might have done that reverse directory thing.”

“I didn’t give anyone anything.” Except that she’d given a stranger a touch of her crotch. Oh my God. Could he have followed her home? “This is scary.”

“Only if you let it be.”

“Stacy. This was supposed to be a secret. No one was supposed to know.” Her voice and her pulse rose with every word.

“Calm down.”

“I can’t.”

“It’s just an invitation. Don’t start worrying unless something happens.”

“I could get attacked.” Her husband could find out.

Stacy snorted. “Maybe someone wants you to come back.”

“Well, I’m not going.” Friday night had been a mistake.

“Then throw the invitation away. Pretend you never got it. Ignore it.” Stacy’s sigh sounded over the phone line. “If you really want to.”

“I’m ripping it into a million little pieces.” She heard something outside the door. A soft footfall receding down the hall? “I gotta go. I’ll bring your stuff by this week. I took them to the dry cleaner.”

“You should keep the outfit,” Stacy said softly. “Maybe you’ll need it.”

No. Not again. Yet, instead of shoving the invitation down the garbage disposal as she should have, she tucked it in the back of her desk drawer.

* * * * *

“Got the carousel horse. You’re fantastic.”
Talented. Desirable. I need you. I’m going crazy waiting for you.

Stephen hit Send on the email, wondering if she’d gotten the invitation, and if so, what she’d done with it. One thing for sure, she hadn’t used it. He’d gone to the club every night this week. Without her, the unbridled sexual activity didn’t do a thing for him. And the wait was killing him.

Stacy had called, saying Debbie was freaked about the invitation. He’d admitted nothing. His strategy had been simple. Let Debbie know she was wanted, that someone was willing to pay for her to come again. Instead, he’d frightened the hell out of her. Her emails since had been short, sentences clipped, no pronouns, too many acronyms. She usually spelled everything out. She couldn’t know he’d sent the invitation, but his rash act had somehow made her turn in on herself.

Her answer to his email, when it came half an hour later, was once again short. “Glad you liked the horse.”

Come see your beautiful work when it’s installed.
His fingertips itched to type the words. Instead, he picked an innocuous statement. “You’re very talented.”

“Thank you.”

Goddamn it, talk to me. “Have a good night.”

“Thanks. You, too.”

He wanted to slam his fist through the monitor. He’d fucked up. Still, he headed out to the club. He’d go until he had no hope left.

* * * * *

Debbie had made it through a week and a half subsisting on caffeine and fear of that damn invitation—an invitation to seduction—but she’d survived on the sound of a stranger’s voice in her head.

Do you know how beautiful it is watching a woman touch herself?

Moisture creamed her thighs at the memory even as a spectacular television explosion shook the bedroom wall.

Think about how scary it is that he knows your address.

The frightening thought didn’t drive out the passionate ones. Her nipples tightened, ached, and begged for a touch.

I’d go mad watching you. I’d have to stroke my cock.

She wanted him to watch her. She wanted to spread herself for his eyes, wanted to feel his gaze on all the intimate, moist, aching parts of her body. She wanted him to fuck her with that vibrator.

Would her husband really worry if another man took care of her needs? Maybe, maybe not, but going to the club was wrong; it was adultery. But it also might be the only thing that kept her sane. In a way, it was like closing the bedroom door and bringing herself to orgasm, but with help from someone else’s hand.

A voice sneaked through her mind.
You’re rationalizing.

Yet her marriage couldn’t continue the way it was.
She
couldn’t continue. The Sex Club could give her what she needed. The slut Nazis weren’t after her.
He’d
sent the invitation. He wanted her to come back. To finish what they’d started. To watch her touch herself, to taste her, to make her come.

The next orgasm she had would be with him.