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First Time Given to the Contractor — part 6

My husband hired him to remodel our kitchen. Then he handed him the room key.

Read Part 5 here:

[embed]First Time Given to the Contractor — part 5 My husband hired him to remodel our kitchen. Then he handed him the room key.medium.com

There is a very specific, undeniable awkwardness that comes with making your morning oatmeal in a kitchen where, less than seventy-two hours ago, you were howling like a feral animal while five men cheered you on.

It is Monday morning. I am standing at the newly installed, matte-black farmhouse sink, staring out the window at my neighbor’s immaculate hydrangeas.

I am wearing my sensible beige cardigan. I have my hair in a neat, professional ponytail. I have a 9:30 AM Zoom call about brand synergy.

And I am currently having a miniature, highly-caffeinated crisis.

“They are going to be here in ten minutes,” I whisper to myself, gripping my coffee mug with both hands. “How do I look them in the eye? Carter literally had my entire left breast in his mouth. What if he asks me where the electrical outlets go? Do I just… point?”

“You could always offer him your right breast,” Nolan says pleasantly, walking into the kitchen.

I jump, spilling a tiny drop of coffee on the counter. I spin around.

My husband looks like a literal GQ model. He is wearing a crisp white dress shirt and dark slacks, smelling like his expensive sandalwood cologne and freshly brewed espresso. He walks over, grabs a paper towel, wipes up my spilled coffee, and then wraps his free arm around my waist, pulling me flush against his chest.

“I am having a suburban panic attack,” I mumble into his shoulder. “I feel like everyone in the subdivision knows. I feel like the mailman knows.”

“The mailman doesn’t know,” Nolan chuckles, his chest vibrating against me. “But if you want to invite him in on Thursday, I’ll clear my schedule.”

“Nolan!” I gasp, smacking his chest playfully.

“I’m kidding,” he smiles, tilting my chin up so I have to look at him. His eyes are warm, completely devoid of any judgment or weirdness. “Tess, baby. Look at me. We had an incredible weekend. You were the most beautiful, perfect wife in the world. You have absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“But they’re going to be here,” I whine. “Installing my backsplash.”

“And they are going to be nothing but professional,” Nolan promises, kissing the tip of my nose. “Gabriel knows how to run his crew. They respect this house. And more importantly, they respect you.”

Nolan reaches into his slacks pocket.

“Hold out your arm,” he says.

I blink, confused, but I hold out my left arm. Nolan pulls a sleek, velvet jeweler’s box from his pocket. He flips it open. Resting on the dark velvet is a breathtaking, blindingly sparkly diamond tennis bracelet.

“Oh my god,” I breathe, my eyes going wide. “Nolan, what is this?”

“This,” Nolan says smoothly, taking the bracelet out and carefully securing the delicate clasp around my wrist, “is a trophy. For my brilliant, beautiful vixen who took a five-man gangbang on my Persian rug and didn’t even smudge her eyeliner.”

I let out a sound that is half-sob, half-hysterical giggle. “You bought me diamonds for being a slut?”

“I buy you diamonds because I worship the ground you walk on,” Nolan corrects me, pressing a kiss to the inside of my wrist, right next to the sparkling gems. “And because I want you to look down at your wrist while you’re on your Zoom call today, and remember exactly who you belong to.”

The sheer, overwhelming romance of it completely short-circuits my panic. The guilt evaporates. The anxiety melts away. I am not a ruined woman. I am a deeply loved, highly spoiled, incredibly pampered wife who just happens to have the absolute best sex life on the planet.

Ding-dong.

My heart does a tiny leap, but the diamonds glittering on my wrist act like a literal shield of armor.

Nolan steps back, giving me an encouraging wink, and walks to the front door.

I take a deep breath, smooth down my beige cardigan, and put on my most polite, casual housewife smile.

The heavy front door opens.

Gabriel walks in, followed closely by Tyler, Carter, and Leo. They are all wearing their faded Carhartt t-shirts, heavy work boots, and tool belts. They look exactly like they did last Wednesday.

“Morning, Nolan,” Gabriel says, shaking my husband’s hand.

“Morning, guys,” Nolan greets them warmly. “Coffee is hot if you want some.”

Gabriel leads his crew into the kitchen. I am standing by the island.

My breath hitches for a fraction of a second. I look at Tyler, who spent a solid twenty minutes entirely buried between my thighs. I look at Carter, the massive linebacker. I look at sweet, terrified Leo.

And they all… just nod.

“Morning, Mrs. Hayes,” Tyler says politely, setting a stack of tile on the floor.

“Good morning, ma’am,” Leo squeaks, keeping his eyes firmly locked on the ceiling fan.

Gabriel stops by the island, unrolling a large sheet of blueprints. He looks up at me. His dark eyes drop to my wrist, catching the flash of the new diamond bracelet. A slow, deeply knowing, incredibly respectful smirk tugs at the corner of his bearded mouth.

“Morning, Tessa,” Gabriel says, his voice a low rumble. “Cabinets go in today. Shouldn’t take us more than a few hours.”

It is so absurdly normal. It is so perfectly compartmentalized.

“Take your time, Gabriel,” I say, my voice steady, the bubbly, confident vixen fully returning. “Let me know if you guys need any water.”

I grab my coffee mug and walk right past them, my heels clicking on the hardwood floor, heading straight for my home office. I feel like an absolute queen.

That evening, the house is quiet again. The cabinets look gorgeous. The drywall dust has been swept up.

I am sitting on the living room sofa, my laptop open on my knees, admiring my diamond bracelet in the light of the table lamp. Nolan walks in from the kitchen, handing me a glass of Pinot Noir.

“See?” Nolan says, sitting down next to me and throwing his arm around my shoulders. “No awkwardness. Just a beautifully remodeled kitchen.”

“You were right,” I admit, leaning my head against his shoulder. “As always.”

“Which is why you should trust me on my next idea,” Nolan murmurs, taking a sip of his own wine.

I look up at him, raising an eyebrow. “What next idea?”

“Well,” Nolan says, his eyes gleaming with that familiar, dark mischief. “The kitchen will be officially finished on Thursday. Gabriel is signing off on the final permits. Which means our house is going to be empty again.”

“Are you going to miss having a forest of massive men walking around our foyer?” I tease.

“I am,” Nolan laughs, kissing my temple. “But I realized something this weekend, Tessa. Watching you in the living room… it was the greatest night of my life. But keeping you all to myself in this subdivision seems a little selfish.”

My stomach does a highly-aroused, terrified little flip. “Nolan, what are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” Nolan smiles, reaching out to trace the line of my jaw, “that I booked us a VIP table at The Velvet Lounge downtown for this Saturday night.”

My jaw physically drops. The Velvet Lounge isn’t a normal nightclub. It is the premier, highly-exclusive, notoriously upscale lifestyle club in the city.

“A lifestyle club?” I whisper, my eyes wide. “With… other couples? With strangers?”

“With people who are going to look at you, realize how incredibly beautiful you are, and know that I am the man who gets to take you home,” Nolan says, his voice dropping into that possessive, feral register. “I want to dress you up, baby. I want to walk you into that club, and I want to show the entire world my perfect, filthy little masterpiece.”

I look at my sweet, sensible, spreadsheet-loving husband. I look at the diamond bracelet on my wrist. I think about the sheer, unadulterated thrill of being the center of attention in a room full of people who share our exact, delicious sickness.

I take a slow sip of my Pinot Noir.

“Okay,” I purr, a wicked, unstoppable smile spreading across my face. “But I get to pick the dress.”

If the beige cardigan was the official uniform of my old life, the dress I am currently wearing is the flag of my absolute, unrepentant liberation.

It is Saturday night. We are standing in our master bedroom. Nolan is leaning against the doorframe, wearing a tailored, charcoal gray suit that makes him look like a dangerously handsome James Bond villain, and he is staring at me like he has completely forgotten how to breathe.

“Tessa,” he finally manages to say, his voice a harsh, gravelly whisper.

I turn slowly, letting him take it all in.

I had spent three hours shopping downtown on Friday. I bypassed every sensible boutique I normally frequented and walked straight into a high-end designer store that smelled like champagne and poor financial decisions.

The dress is a liquid ruby-red silk. It has a plunging neckline that dips dangerously low, held up by two incredibly thin spaghetti straps. But the back is the real masterpiece — it is completely backless, the silk draped to scoop just above the curve of my ass. It clings to me like a second skin.

I paired it with strappy gold heels, a bold red lip, and my hair swept over one shoulder in loose, glamorous waves. And on my left wrist, catching the light from the chandelier, is the blindingly sparkly diamond tennis bracelet Nolan gave me.

“Is it too much for a lifestyle club?” I ask, biting my lower lip, fully aware that I am fishing for compliments.

Nolan crosses the room in three long strides. He wraps his arms around my waist, his hands resting on the bare skin of my lower back. The contrast of his cool, smooth palms against my heated skin sends a jolt straight to my core.

“You look like a goddess,” he murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to the curve of my neck. “You look like the most expensive, exclusive, breathtaking woman in the entire city. And you’re mine.”

“All yours,” I whisper, leaning back into his solid chest.

“You didn’t put panties on, did you?” Nolan asks, his thumb tracing the very top edge of the silk in the back.

“Of course not,” I smile, looking at our reflection in the full-length mirror. “I’m a married woman. I listen to my husband.”

Nolan lets out a dark, booming laugh. He kisses my shoulder, grabs my small gold clutch, and offers me his arm. “Let’s go show you off, Mrs. Hayes.”

The drive downtown is a buzzing, electric mix of nerves and adrenaline. The Velvet Lounge is located in a discreet, incredibly upscale building in the financial district. There are no neon signs. Just a heavy, polished mahogany door with a subtle gold “V” and a massive man in a black suit standing outside with a velvet rope.

Nolan hands his keys to the valet. He wraps his arm securely around my waist and guides me to the door. The bouncer checks a tablet, nods respectfully at Nolan, and unclips the rope.

We step inside.

The transition from the cool night air to the interior of the club is sensory overload. It doesn’t look like a seedy nightclub. It looks like the VIP room of a five-star hotel in Vegas. Deep, plush velvet booths curve along the walls, the lighting is a warm, sultry amber, and soft, heavy bass thumps through the floorboards.

There are maybe forty people in the room. They are all incredibly attractive, incredibly wealthy, and dressed to the nines. Couples are sipping champagne, chatting, and mingling. In the center of the room, on a slightly elevated dance floor, a woman in a sheer black gown is dancing closely between two men in suits.

My breath hitches. It is real. It is all completely, wonderfully real.

“Relax, baby,” Nolan whispers in my ear, sensing my brief spike of intimidation. His hand tightens reassuringly on my waist. “You’re the most beautiful woman in this room. Watch.”

Nolan guides me through the crowd toward a reserved, semi-private booth. We don’t rush. He walks me slowly, deliberately.

And just like he promised, the heads start to turn.

A man sitting at the bar in a tailored tuxedo turns around. His eyes lock onto my plunging ruby neckline, then track my movement, his jaw physically slackening. A gorgeous woman in a silver dress nudges her husband, pointing at my backless gown.

I can feel the heat of their stares. It is a physical weight. The sheer volume of raw, unfiltered lust directed at me makes my core clench instantly. I feel a rush of wetness pool between my thighs.

Nolan notices. He notices every single man who looks at me. His chest puffs out slightly, his posture radiating pure, dominant pride. He isn’t jealous that they are staring at his wife’s cleavage; he is utterly thrilled by it.

We reach our booth. The waitress — a stunning girl wearing barely more than a corset — immediately brings over a bottle of Dom Pérignon and two crystal flutes.

Nolan sits down and pulls me directly onto his lap.

“Nolan, there’s a whole couch,” I giggle, blushing as I settle sideways across his thighs.

“I know,” Nolan says smoothly, wrapping one arm around my waist and using his free hand to hand me a glass of champagne. “But I want everyone in this room to know exactly whose lap you belong on before I let them play with you.”

I take a sip of the champagne. The bubbles pop against my tongue, matching the bubbly, intoxicating high flooding my brain.

“Do we… do we just sit here?” I ask, looking out at the room.

Across the lounge, a couple is walking toward us. The man is tall, distinguished, with salt-and-pepper hair. His wife is a beautiful brunette in a tight sapphire dress. They stop at the edge of our booth.

“Good evening,” the man says, his voice smooth and polite. He looks at Nolan, then drops his gaze directly to my legs, completely unashamed. “I’m Richard. This is my wife, Chloe. We couldn’t help but notice you walking in. Your wife is absolutely stunning.”

In my old life, I would have awkwardly deflected the compliment. I would have mumbled a thank you and stared at my shoes.

But I am wearing liquid ruby silk and a diamond tennis bracelet earned by taking a five-man crew on a Persian rug.

I look at Richard, a slow, confident smile spreading across my red lips. I casually cross my legs, letting the slit of the dress fall open to expose my bare thigh.

“Thank you, Richard,” I purr, my voice dripping with honey.

Nolan’s chest rumbles against my back. He takes a sip of his champagne, looking up at the older man with a calm, inviting smirk.

“Nice to meet you, Richard. I’m Nolan. And this beautiful creature is Tessa,” Nolan says smoothly. He rests his hand high on my bare thigh, his thumb brushing dangerously close to the center of my dress. “Why don’t you and Chloe sit down? I think Tessa would love some company.”

Richard and Chloe slide into the plush velvet booth. Chloe sits next to Nolan, her sapphire dress shimmering in the amber light. Richard sits directly across from me.

He doesn’t sit like a man who is nervous. He sits like a man who is used to buying entire companies before breakfast. He looks at me with a calm, heavy, deeply appreciative gaze.

“Dom Pérignon,” Richard notes, glancing at our crystal flutes. “Excellent choice, Nolan. Though I have to admit, it pales in comparison to your wife.”

“I tend to agree,” Nolan smiles, wrapping his arm around my waist and pulling me a fraction closer to his chest. “We are celebrating tonight. We just finished a rather extensive kitchen remodel.”

Chloe lets out a light, melodic laugh. “Oh, renovations are exhausting. We redid our summer home in the Hamptons last year. Did you survive the contractors?”

I take a slow sip of my champagne, letting the bubbles pop against my lips. I look over the rim of the glass, my eyes locking directly onto Richard’s.

“We survived,” I purr, my voice dripping with honey and unfiltered sin. “In fact, I think the contractor was my favorite part of the whole process. He was… incredibly thorough.”

Richard’s distinguished, silver-fox facade cracks just a fraction. A slow, deeply wicked grin spreads across his handsome face. He knows exactly what I am saying. He shifts his gaze to Nolan, reading the dynamic instantly.

“Thorough contractors are hard to find,” Richard says smoothly. “It sounds like you took very good care of her, Nolan.”

“I like to keep her entertained,” Nolan replies, his chest vibrating against my back. He reaches his hand down, resting it casually on my bare thigh, right at the edge of the ruby silk slit. “But keeping her all to myself in the suburbs seems a bit selfish. Tessa has a very high… appetite.”

“Is that so?” Richard asks. He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. The polite, country-club banter is officially over. The air at the table thickens, heavy with raw, electric intent.

“She does,” Nolan confirms. His thumb begins to slowly trace a circle on my bare skin. “In fact, I promised her a proper dessert tonight. Does The Velvet Lounge have private rooms, Richard? It’s our first time here.”

“They have exceptional private rooms,” Richard rumbles, his dark eyes fixed entirely on the plunging neckline of my dress. “Chloe and I have a suite reserved upstairs. Heavy oak doors. Complete privacy. If you and your beautiful wife would care to join us… I would be honored to provide dessert.”

I look up at Nolan. My heart is hammering a frantic, euphoric rhythm against my ribs. In my old life, a proposition from a strange, older man would have sent me running for the hills. Now? The sheer volume of wetness pooling between my thighs is staggering.

Nolan looks down at me. His eyes are warm, completely devoid of jealousy, radiating that familiar, absolute devotion.

“What do you think, baby?” Nolan whispers, kissing the curve of my neck. “Do you want to go upstairs with Richard?”

“Yes,” I breathe, entirely shameless.

The VIP suites on the second floor are completely soundproofed. The moment Richard closes the heavy mahogany door, the thumping bass of the club below completely vanishes, replaced by the soft hum of central air and the rustle of expensive fabrics.

The room is lavish — a massive, king-sized bed covered in dark velvet, mirrored ceilings, and a fully stocked wet bar.

Chloe immediately walks over to the bar, pouring herself a glass of sparkling water. She doesn’t look jealous. She looks perfectly content, acting as a graceful spectator to her husband’s fun.

Nolan walks me to the center of the room.

“Take the jacket off, Richard,” Nolan commands. The transition is seamless. Nolan is the youngest man in the room, but he is the absolute authority.

Richard complies instantly. He shrugs out of his tailored tuxedo jacket and tosses it onto a nearby armchair. He unties his silk bowtie, pulling it loose around his collar. He looks incredibly masculine, incredibly distinguished, and dangerously hungry.

“She is wearing liquid ruby,” Nolan murmurs, standing behind me. He reaches up and lightly traces the two incredibly thin spaghetti straps holding my dress up. “It’s a masterpiece. Let’s see how she looks out of it.”

Nolan slides the straps off my shoulders.

The liquid silk immediately pools at my feet, leaving me standing in the center of the plush room in absolutely nothing but my strappy gold heels, a bold red lip, and the blindingly sparkly diamond tennis bracelet on my left wrist.

Richard lets out a sharp, stuttering breath.

“Good god, Nolan,” Richard whispers, stepping forward. “She is flawless.”

“Touch her,” Nolan invites, stepping back to lean against the edge of a velvet chaise lounge. He crosses his arms over his chest, settling in for the show.

Richard crosses the room. He stops right in front of me. The contrast is unbelievable. He is fully dressed in formalwear, smelling like expensive cedar and aged scotch, and I am completely bare, shivering slightly under the intensity of his gaze.

He reaches out. His hands are smooth — the hands of a CEO, not a contractor — but his grip is incredibly firm. He cups my waist, his thumbs tracing the curve of my hips.

“You are breathtaking, Tessa,” Richard murmurs, leaning down.

He doesn’t kiss my mouth. He kisses my neck, right over my wildly beating pulse, and then trails his lips down to my collarbone. His hands slide over my bare ass, pulling my hips flush against his suit trousers. I can feel the heavy, rigid length of his erection pressing against the zipper of his pants.

I let out a soft, breathy moan, tilting my head back.

I look over Richard’s shoulder directly at my husband. Nolan is watching us, his eyes completely black with lust, his jaw clenched tight. The psychological thrill of performing for him, of showing him exactly what a good, filthy little wife I am, is the ultimate aphrodisiac.

“Get on the bed, Tessa,” Nolan orders, his voice dropping into that dark, gravelly register.

I practically float to the edge of the massive velvet bed. I climb on, the soft fabric a stark contrast to my dining room table from a few nights ago. I lay back on the pillows and bend my knees, letting my thighs fall wide open.

The gold heels glint in the dim lighting.

Richard steps up to the edge of the bed. He unzips his trousers and pushes them down.

He isn’t as massive as Gabriel, but he is thick, perfectly rigid, and clearly knows exactly what he is doing. He steps between my parted knees. He doesn’t rush. He grips my thighs, pushing them slightly wider, and slowly, deliberately sinks himself into my slick, waiting core.

I gasp loudly, my hands flying up to grip the velvet headboard.

“Look at that, Chloe,” Richard praises, his voice a deep, vibrating hum in the quiet room. He begins to move, setting a slow, agonizingly deep rhythm. “Look how perfectly she takes it.”

“She is beautiful, darling,” Chloe agrees from the bar, her voice entirely serene.

I am in sensory heaven. The friction is completely different from the contractor. It is smooth, refined, and incredibly deliberate. Richard holds my hips securely, his thumbs pressing into my skin, driving himself to the hilt with every stroke.

“Nolan,” I whimper, my head thrashing on the velvet pillows.

Nolan pushes off the chaise lounge. He walks over to the side of the bed. He doesn’t take his clothes off. He just leans down, hovering right over my face.

“I’m right here, my beautiful vixen,” Nolan whispers. He reaches out and gently cups my cheek. “You are doing so perfectly. Show this whole club who you belong to.”

I reach my left hand up, tangling my fingers in Nolan’s hair. The diamond tennis bracelet catches the light from the mirrored ceiling, throwing scattered rainbows across the dark velvet walls.

“I’m yours,” I sob, my eyes locking entirely onto my husband’s while Richard pounds relentlessly into my core from below. “Nolan, I’m all yours.”

“That’s right,” Nolan praises, leaning in to capture my lips in a deep, bruising kiss.

The combination of my husband’s sweet, claiming mouth and the older man’s relentless, sophisticated rhythm shatters me completely. The orgasm hits with the force of a tidal wave. I scream into Nolan’s mouth, my back arching violently off the mattress. My inner walls spasm, clamping down hard around Richard’s length.

Richard groans, a deep, guttural sound of pure surrender. He grips my hips tight, driving his hips forward, and freezes. I feel the hot, heavy pulse of his climax filling me completely.

He unloads inside me while my husband kisses my tears of pleasure away.

Twenty minutes later, we are back in our car.

The valet had brought the car around, and we walked out of The Velvet Lounge looking exactly like the respectable, upper-middle-class couple we were when we arrived.

I am sitting in the passenger seat, wrapped in my ruby silk dress, completely exhausted, completely ruined, and completely, blissfully happy. The sticky, warm mess drying between my thighs is a secret trophy I am carrying home to our quiet subdivision.

Nolan reaches across the center console. He takes my left hand, the one wearing the diamond bracelet, and brings it to his lips, kissing my knuckles.

“So,” Nolan says, his eyes fixed on the road, a slow, deeply contented smile on his face. “Did you enjoy your dessert, Mrs. Hayes?”

I look at my brilliant, supportive, perfectly normal husband. I look at the diamond bracelet. I think about the finished kitchen, the contractor, and the silver fox at the club.

I lean my head back against the leather headrest and let out a happy, tired little sigh.

“I did,” I smile into the dark car. “But I think we are going to need to start renovating the master bathroom next.”

It turns out, the only thing more expensive than a matte-black farmhouse sink is imported Italian marble for a walk-in dual shower.

It is a Tuesday morning in late September. The air outside is crisp, the leaves in our perfectly manicured subdivision are just starting to turn orange, and I am standing in my kitchen making a fresh pot of French press coffee.

I am wearing my blush-pink silk robe.

It is the exact same robe I was wearing months ago when Gabriel first caught me in the kitchen. But the woman wearing it is completely different. I am not terrified. I am not spiraling into a pit of suburban guilt. I am humming along to a pop song on the radio, entirely unbothered by the fact that I am not wearing panties and the silk is loosely tied, exposing a generous amount of cleavage.

The heavy rumble of a diesel truck vibrates through the floorboards.

I smile, taking a slow sip of my coffee.

The front door unlocks — we gave him the permanent code this time — and the sound of heavy work boots echoes in the foyer.

Gabriel walks into the kitchen. He is wearing his faded Carhartt t-shirt, his tool belt slung low over his hips, looking like a massive, rugged mountain of a man. He stops when he sees me.

His dark eyes do that familiar, heavy crawl down my body. But this time, I don’t blush and run away. I lean back against the newly finished granite island, cross my bare ankles, and let the silk robe fall open just a fraction more.

“Morning, Gabriel,” I purr, a wicked little smirk playing on my lips.

“Morning, Tessa,” Gabriel rumbles. He sets a clipboard on the counter. His gaze drops directly to the V of my robe. “You’re looking very… relaxed today.”

“I am a very relaxed woman,” I agree, taking another sip of my coffee. “Are the marble tiles in the truck?”

“They are,” Gabriel nods, though he isn’t looking anywhere near the driveway. “Going to take my crew a solid three weeks to get that master bathroom demoed and the new plumbing run.”

“Three weeks?”

Nolan’s voice comes from the hallway. He walks into the kitchen, looking like the ultimate, devastatingly handsome corporate shark in his tailored charcoal suit. He adjusts his expensive watch, walks right past Gabriel, and wraps his arm around my waist, pulling my back flush against his chest.

He leans down and kisses my neck, his hand resting possessively on my bare thigh through the slit of the robe.

“Morning, Gabriel,” Nolan says smoothly, resting his chin on my shoulder. “Three weeks seems like a long time.”

Gabriel crosses his massive arms over his chest. A slow, incredibly dark smile spreads across his bearded face. He knows exactly what game we are playing.

“It’s a big job, Nolan,” Gabriel replies, his voice a deep vibration in the quiet kitchen. “Marble is heavy. Requires a lot of attention to detail. I’m going to have to put in a lot of manual labor to make sure your wife is completely satisfied.”

Nolan’s chest rumbles with laughter against my back. He reaches his hand up, his thumb lightly brushing against the diamond tennis bracelet on my left wrist.

“I appreciate your dedication, Gabriel,” Nolan says, his eyes gleaming with that familiar, dark, feral pride. “In fact, since it’s such a heavy job, I think we should negotiate a new overtime contract. Maybe start with a private consultation in the guest bedroom at noon?”

My breath hitches. A hot, heavy rush of wetness instantly pools between my thighs.

Gabriel doesn’t hesitate. He picks up his clipboard. “Noon works for me. I’ll make sure to bring my heavy tools.”

“See that you do,” Nolan smirks.

Gabriel gives me one last, searing, unapologetically filthy look, and then turns and walks heavily up the stairs to begin the demolition.

The house is quiet again, save for the distant sound of a sledgehammer hitting drywall.

Nolan turns me around in his arms. He cups my face, looking at me with so much absolute, overwhelming love that it actually makes my heart ache.

“You are so bad,” I whisper, a giddy, breathless laugh escaping my lips. “A noon appointment? I have a Zoom call at 2:00 PM.”

“Then you better make sure he works fast,” Nolan murmurs, kissing my nose. “I want you to leave the camera off for your meeting. I want you to sit at your desk, covered in his mess, and remember exactly what a perfect, beautiful, filthy little wife you are.”

“I love you,” I sigh, wrapping my arms around his neck, feeling completely, utterly invincible.

“I love you too, my vixen,” Nolan whispers, kissing me deeply.

He grabs his briefcase, gives my ass one final, firm squeeze, and walks out the front door to go conquer the financial district.

I stand in my gorgeous, perfectly remodeled kitchen. I listen to the sound of my contractor working upstairs. I think about my brilliant, supportive, perfectly normal husband.

I look down at my diamond bracelet, catching the morning light, and I smile.

Life in the suburbs is truly a beautiful thing.

The End.

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