Justice nods and glances out into the crowd. “We bring in people who are willing to participate, people that are well versed with this lifestyle. Some are professionals. Some just want to guest star for fun. However, this is not sex for hire. All of my employees choose who they play with. Just because they are here, that doesn’t mean they are obligated to fuck you. We hold weekly mixers so the couples can get acquainted with our featured players. Sometimes they connect with someone and decide to take it further. Other times, they just like to come here to have sex with each other.”
“Wait. So there are singles here too? Staying here on the compound?” I try and fail to keep the alarm out of my voice. That was my only saving grace—knowing that Ransom was surrounded by married couples. It would be much less likely for him to sleep with anyone while we’re here. And yeah, while I know he fucks other women and it is none of my business, I definitely don’t want to be sleeping a few doors down from it.
“They all go through a strict screening process,” Justice explains. “All STD free and bound under airtight contracts. If they even whisper about this place in their sleep, they forfeit every dime they’ve ever made and will ever make for life.”
I nod like he’s eased my reservations, though I feel even less confident. Ransom could fuck whomever he wanted, and there’d be no risk of it ending up in the tabloids. This would be like an all-you-can-eat buffet for him. And, of course, the women that I suspect are “guest stars” are all insanely gorgeous and youthful with their round, full breasts and high, perky asses. Perfect.
“Let’s take a look around. If we stumble upon something that intrigues you or confuses you, we can stop to dig deeper, no pun intended. Shall we?”
I look at Justice’s expectant guise and offered hand, then turn to my husband. Oddly enough, he looks as if he’s waiting for me to decide too. As if he’s already made up his mind.
I give each man a shaky palm and stiffen my spine, steeling every nerve within me. “Ok. Let’s do this.”
Chapter Twenty-three
I haven’t been able to sleep for two nights since the day we got a glimpse of Justice’s playground. I thought I was ready for it. Thought that it was just what we needed to open up the conversation for our marriage and our sex life. But all it’s done is leave me even more confused and obsessive about our issues.
I can’t get the look on Tucker’s face out of my mind. He looked so fascinated, so engrossed in every single devious act. Several times he would just stop and watch, chewing that full bottom lip with wolfish delight. It didn’t matter who was involved—men, women—it seemed oddly interesting to him.
We stopped to witness a couple masturbating on the bed. Their eyes stayed locked on each other as they pleasured themselves, and when they came, they did it together. It was as if they didn’t even notice us standing there watching. Like they didn’t give a damn. They were the only two people that existed in their world. Tucker gave them each his attention equally. I assumed most straight men would keep their eyes pinned on the woman and the way her fingers slipped through her slick, pink folds, but he was just as enthralled in the way the man pumped his thick cock and massaged his balls simultaneously. It was . . . unnerving. And I found myself watching my husband, instead of watching the couple’s intimate show.
There were several group sex scenes—threesomes, foursomes, and all-out orgies. Those seemed to be his favorite. And while I found them so hot that it left a wet spot in my panties, I couldn’t stop speculating why he seemed to find them so enticing.
After our tour of Oasis’s underground bedlam, Justice gave us homework—a series of questionnaires that would keep us busy for hours, which I was grateful for, considering I was trying to avoid Ransom at all costs. The motive was to have us be honest about our wants and fantasies, and even discuss them candidly. I shouldn’t have been surprised when Tucker checked Yes for sex involving others, but I was. Which was so fucking hypocritical of me considering that we’d already come to that bridge, crossed it, and were considering just burning the fucker down altogether.
As awkward as it was, we did speak about our expectations . . . sorta. He talked, I listened. He asked questions, and I deflected. The process—which should have been informative and fun, even—was frustrating, and none of it was his fault. I brought him here. I asked him to have an open mind. Now I was being stubborn that he’s willing to try things my way. Be careful what you wish for, and all that jazz.
Still, I would have rather been caught up with my feelings about me and my husband’s potential alternative lifestyle rather than what was really eating me up inside. I didn’t want to see Ransom, which was pretty easy to achieve considering the size of the compound, yet I missed him. I missed him like he was a million miles away rather than mere yards down the hall. I missed him like he had been my best friend for years and we talked every day. I missed him like he was mine. And none of those reasons made a lick of sense, but that didn’t keep me from wanting them to be true.
I can’t deny that I’m worried for him. Well, worried for me. Ever since Justice revealed that there were singles here that were down for pretty much anything, I’ve been a nervous wreck about what he could be getting into—quite literally—now that I’m not in the picture. I mean, let’s be honest, I was never in the picture. He was still sleeping with women before and after me, and rightfully so. But I don’t need to know about it. I don’t need it flaunted in my face, wearing a goofy, satisfied grin and messy, just-fucked hair.
Because of all the random ridiculousness swirling in my head, I’ve been bitchier than usual. Tucker’s been trying everything—suggesting yoga, classes, movies, even a playful couple’s game night—but I’ve shot him down at every turn, feigning work situations that needed my immediate attention, or—you guessed it—cramps. And every time, he’s shrugged his shoulders and taken it like the gentleman that he is, even bringing me pain meds on occasion.
I stand out on our balcony, overlooking the pool area where nearly a dozen couples splash around and mingle jovially. They all look so normal, so happy. You’d never guess that one is a state senator who likes to get fucked in the ass while eating his wife’s pussy. Or one is a Food Network TV personality who likes to be shackled and blindfolded while her husband whips her until her skin is raw then force-feeds her decadent cakes.
I watch these people and I both envy and loathe them for being able to accept who and what they are, and have the strength to act on it. I thought sleeping with Ransom was my way of owning my sexuality. A way for me to feel empowered by letting another man screw me into the mattress in a haze of violent passion. It was my way of taking back control—giving the finger to the sick fuck who stole from me. Yet, here we are, more than a decade later, and he’s still taking from me. And I’m letting him.
I decide that I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep letting my bullshit hang-ups affect my marriage. It isn’t Tucker’s baggage to carry, yet I keep placing it on his shoulders. And being the man that he is, he takes it without complaint.
I love him. God, I love him. And there will never be another man better than him. There will never be another man who will put up with my mood swings and my bickering and my sexual complications. There will never be a man who was born to be a father, yet has sacrificed that need within him for the woman he loves. I’ll never find a man who loves me harder and fiercer than he does. And if there is something that I can do to show him just an inkling of the gratitude I feel for him, then it’s my duty as a wife to do it.
I go back inside my room and gather the folder containing the questionnaires and contracts, looking over the details one last time. Then I slip on my sandals and make my way to the room that Justice uses as his office. It used to house the files of his many clients and gave his concierge a place to work, but now he actually uses the thing. Something about separating his work life from his home life, aka life with Ally.