The Other Man (West Coast Hotwifing)

THE OTHER MAN

BOOK FOUR IN THE WEST COAST SERIES

A tale of hotwifing

Jasmine Haynes

Copyright 2013 Jasmine Haynes

Cover Design by Rae Monet Inc

This is copyrighted material. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author. This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

Summary

Book 4 in the continuing stories of sexy hotwives and the men who love them

For every hotwife and her husband, there’s always the other man.

And Spencer Benedict is the perfect other man.

Until he meets the woman for whom he wants to be the only man.

Zoe Hudson has a most unusual marriage: she plays while she's away on business, and her husband is dying to hear all about her naughty activities when she returns home. It's certainly an unconventional arrangement, but it works perfectly for them. Until Zoe meets Spencer Benedict and a five-day liaison away from home turns into something more. Should she risk making Spence her full-time other man? If she does, her husband will want to know every naughty detail. He’ll probably want to watch, maybe even participate.

Can a hotwife satisfy both men in her life? Or will this other man spell disaster?

Author Note: This book contains explicit sexual material including multiple partners.

Acknowledgments

Thanks to my special network of friends who support me, brainstorm with me, and encourage me: Bella Andre, Shelley Bates, Jenny Andersen, Jackie Yau, Ellen Higuchi, Kathy Coatney, Pamela Fryer, Rosemary Gunn, and Laurel Jacobson. Thanks to Clio and Cody Alston for all their input and help, and to Lloyd Russell, my wonderful editor. A special thanks to Rae for such great covers! And of course, as always, I appreciate everything my husband does to help make my writing career flourish and my life easier.

Chapter One

“Look, Mommy, sparklies!”

Across the aisle, the little girl grabbed her mother’s hand and bounced in her seat, reaching out as if she could grab the prisms of light flashing across the plane’s main cabin. Other heads turned, fingers pointed at the glittering colors, and a low murmur began to rise above the engines as the plane taxied toward the runway.

Spencer Benedict leaned into the aisleway to locate the source of the light show on the cabin walls. It didn’t take long. Two seats ahead, a woman adjusted her sequined jacket, and the child next to Spence shrieked as tiny rainbows shifted and shimmered across the ceiling.

The lady was turned slightly in her seat, her long, black hair cascading over the shoulders of her burgundy jacket. The material was something soft, velour maybe, and the front panel, at least the portion Spence could see, sparkled with multicolored sequins catching the early morning sunlight as it streamed through the window on the opposite aisle. If it had been any later, the sun would have been too high in the sky, but now it bathed the woman in its rays. She moved the lapel again, and light danced across the walls. Gasps, laughter, voices, like children on a thrill ride, filled the cabin. She smiled, her full lips painted a shade that matched the velour jacket.

It was the smile that charmed him, as if she were as delighted as the little girl bouncing in her seat, though he estimated the woman to be in her late thirties. He could only imagine how that playfulness would carry over into the bedroom. His body tightened just watching her, and he thought he detected her perfume, a light floral scent. She had the strong aquiline features of Mediterranean descent, her smooth skin sun-kissed.

The plane turned, rolling onto its designated runway, and the light show ended abruptly. The child in the opposite seat started to cry, until her mother pointed out the window, distracting her. “Look, sweetie, we’re going to take off.”

When they reached cruising altitude and the announcement was made authorizing the use of electronic devices, Spence pulled his computer from beneath the seat in front and laid it on his tray table without opening it. He could draft a few emails or read through the schedule for the conference he was attending in Daytona Beach, but, though they didn’t have to change planes, the flight had one stop, and there was plenty of time to work. He could have taken a nonstop from San Francisco to Orlando and rented a car—Daytona was only about an hour’s drive—but the price of the flight was almost the same. By flying into Daytona, he saved the rental car cost. It was a three-day convention, Wednesday through Friday, and everything he needed was within walking distance of the hotel. With the time change and layover, he would arrive a little after five p.m. East Coast time and make it to the opening mixer this evening, which kicked things off before the conference got into full swing tomorrow morning.

So, with several empty hours ahead of him, Spence indulged in a little sightseeing from his aisle seat two rows behind the sparkle woman. She’d booted up her computer and was working in what appeared to be PowerPoint. A business woman preparing for a presentation. There was a fifty-fifty chance she’d continue on to Daytona, and if she did, there was a chance she’d be attending the same conference. According to the chamber of commerce, there were only two this week: one on ceramic processing science, and the one he was attending, the Vacuum Coating Expo. Both sounded utterly thrilling. He’d once attended a conference in the same hotel as the Romantic Times Convention. Man, those ladies knew how to party. He’d gotten himself invited to a couple of their shindigs.

Was she ceramic science or vacuum coating? With her high cheekbones and glossy hair, she didn’t look like a scientist. But what did a scientist look like these days? Something about her made him think of that Romantic Times Convention and sultry nights spent composing sexy prose. Of course, she might have been visiting a customer, supplier, or client. Perhaps it wasn’t business at all, and his chances of ending up in the same resort were nil.

Two flight attendants rolled the drink cart down the center aisle. A two-fisted drinker, his lady ordered tomato juice and a cup of coffee with creamer and sugar. When Spence had received his coffee and the cart was past him, he noticed the lipstick prints on her cup. The sight gave him a jolt, tantalizing him with images of other places she could leave her lipstick prints.

Spence liked women. He usually managed to find companionship on his business trips. He didn’t have steady relationships, he’d never been married, never would. Once, there was a girl… But he’d decided he’d never go there again, and at his age of forty-five, that was getting on toward thirty years in the past. He didn’t know why this woman made him think of long ago things. Perhaps it was the long, dark hair and luscious lips. She was the stuff of his dreams.

A few minutes after everyone was served, the stewardess came by with a trash bag and cleaned away the empties. The sparkle woman stowed her laptop and tray table and rose from her seat. Tight jeans hugged her thighs. Beneath the sequined jacket, she wore a peach-colored T-shirt over full breasts. Her curves were lush, alluring. High-heeled sandals added to her height, which was hard to gauge since he was seated. She was as pretty full frontal as she’d been in profile, heart-shaped lips, deep brown eyes, aristocratic Roman features.

As she passed, close enough for Spence to smell her sweet perfume, his eyes dropped to her left hand.

Diamonds and gold glittered on her ring finger.

Shit. She was married. And Spence didn’t poach on another man’s territory.

* * * * *

Her marital status didn’t stop Spence from watching. When they arrived in Atlanta, she didn’t deplane. He was glad, simply because he enjoyed looking at her. He wouldn’t mind another couple of hours.

At Daytona International Airport, she exited before him. He pulled his carry-on, which was all he’d brought, from the overhead and followed her. Enjoying the view, he stayed behind her as they proceeded to baggage claim and ground transportation. And there they parted, he to the hotel shuttle buses and the blast of Florida’s June heat and she to the carousel where luggage was already circling.

Poof, she was gone. Probably a good thing, he thought as he settled into a rear seat on the shuttle. She was temptation. But because he’d never see her again, he was free to fantasize about her. Sometimes fantasy could be a hell of a lot better than reality. Especially with a married woman where there could be consequences.

It was a short ride from the airport, and waiting for his bag to be unloaded from the back of the shuttle, he was glad he’d worn short sleeves; the humidity was oppressive. It had been like this in New York when he was a kid, the hot, sticky summer air, but he’d been in California so long he’d lost his tolerance for it.

After checking in, he grabbed a bite from room service, sent his emails, then headed down to the conference registration. In the ballroom where the mixer was being held, armed with a drink, he waded into the sea of faces, glad-handing, back-slapping.

“George, how ya doing?” He stuck out his hand.

“Great to see you.” A small man with a big voice, George’s words boomed above the noise level. He worked for one of West Coast’s substrate suppliers.

Though Spence was VP of Sales, he was familiar with their major vendors, substrate being the bedrock, the material upon which their coatings were sputtered. Based on the properties of the coating, the products had applications from energy-saving windows to touchscreen panels.

The world of vacuum coating was relatively small, and he saw many of the same faces at all the conferences. That meant it had never been a fifty-fifty chance the sparkle lady would be here, wishful thinking only. Yet the moment he thought of her, her scent seemed to waft on the air. He couldn’t get it out of his head.

He chitchatted with George, moved on, and in an odd shifting of bodies, a path opened up in front of him, past this group, through that one, to a tall cocktail table and a woman surrounded by three men.

His sparkle lady. A black cocktail dress draped her curves, falling to just above her knees. Her shoulders were bared by the straps, and the neckline showcased bountiful breasts. Tasteful, elegant, and sexy as hell. Her long legs in high heels, she was still shorter than the men flanking her, average height. But that was the only thing average about her. She laughed, a full-throated sound that reached deep down inside him.

Just as quickly as it had come, the gap closed, people merging together again, cutting off his view. The echo of her laughter stayed with him. Voices rising over each other, glasses clinking, plates clattering together as waiters gathered them, and too many people, it all suddenly grated on him. He was a people person, but in that moment, he wanted to get away.

He
needed
to get away. Before he pushed his way through the crowd and actually hit on a married woman. It wasn’t simply ethics. It was the mess of it. She probably had children. There were all sorts of reasons. That wasn’t to say he’d never succumbed, but he didn’t make it a habit.

He was waylaid by several acquaintances on his way out and didn’t hit the exit for another ten minutes. By the time he did, it was dark outside the floor-to-ceiling windows along the corridor. He could see only his reflection, but the beach was out there beyond the glass.

Shoving the outer door open, he stepped into the sultry heat of the night. As he crossed the courtyard to the promenade along the beach, a light breeze picked up, toning down the humidity. He strolled to the low wall and stood, hands in pockets as the waves crashed on the shore. It was summer, school was already out in most places, and the walkway was crowded with teenagers, families, couples. His footwear wasn’t appropriate—street shoes—but he headed down the stone steps to the beach. Heat rose from sand that had been baking in the sun all day, but down at the edge of the water, a cool breeze blew off the ocean. And above the scents of sea and salt and lingering suntan lotion, he smelled her flowery perfume as if it had stuck in his head.

But the voice wasn’t a trick of his imagination.

“It’s a gorgeous night, but I’m not used to this heat.” Her tone was husky, low, sexy. She held a paper fan in her hand, stirring the air around her, blowing her scent over him. Her high heels dangled from her fingers. She looked at him, wrinkling her nose. “It was getting terribly stuffy in there.”

“Yes,” he agreed. They weren’t alone on the beach, but the ceaseless beat of the ocean waves cocooned them.