A Well-Laid Trap: The Story Of A Professional Hotwife (14 page)

I was watching my wife's lips. Her eyes, moving over my face. Almost like she was touching me: over my temples, down the side of my face, along my jawline. How long had it been since either of us had spent any time looking at each other?

“You're so beautiful,” I said.

Jordan bit her lip and basked, very obviously, in the glow of my compliment. How long had it been since I'd said anything like that? Her legs, tangled up in mine, brushed up and down my thighs. I could feel myself getting hard again.

I put my hand on her cheek.

“This is so wrong,” I whispered.

Her body responded, rippling as though I had pet her unexpectedly.

What did I mean by that, exactly?

That's what Jordan should have said.

But she didn't.

Which meant that Jordan knew exactly what I meant. It meant that Jordan, too, wanted to keep flirting with strange men; and Jordan, too, liked that it threatened my career and tested the boundaries of decency and our marriage. Jordan pressed her pelvis, and then her soaked pussy, against my leg.

Her hand moved down my torso, and she found my cock. She kept going to my balls, which were slick with her juices. Her lips were close to mine. Her fingers made lazy circles over my balls and my cock bounced with each complete circle.

She grasped my scrotum, and squeezed. Not hard, just lightly, but it sent an almost painful, racking pleasure through me.

“I'm not going to give up my job,” she whispered.

Whatever I might have wanted to say in response to that, in the name of my career, my cock was telling her the real story. It seemed to slam to attention, and pressed out against her hand, throbbing. She smiled. “So why don't you come and watch sometime?”

F
IRST TIME

I was already installed in the dark recesses of The Yacht Club, a tiny upscale bar next to an expensive fish place, by the time Jordan's “mark” arrived. The Yacht Club was, predictably, crowded with the men who knew about it and could afford to drink there; and the young, flirtatious women who were pretty enough to get a drink purchased for them there.

The wealthy, then, and the beautiful.

Looking around the room, I saw that Jordan has some tough competition. Leggy, young girls with shiny hair and daringly low tops were flashing their teeth and their skin in nearly every booth in the place. A few had tried their wares on me, in fact, but I shooed them away. I was aware that I probably looked like a serial killer, glowering in the corner of a bar full of beautiful women, but I didn't care. My mind was on one thing, and one thing only.

At eight pm, the lights of the bar turned red, to look, I suppose, like the inside of a ship. The effect was arousing; the bar took on the look of a bordello. 

For Jordan, telling me what she was doing had come with greater liberty: no more lying, no more trying to scuttle home and juggle her lies and the kids and me. For me, things were much more difficult now, because seeing Jordan had become the only thing on my mind. The fact that it was so potentially damaging to my career and my lifestyle had the unexpected effect of making it much more desirable. In the red light, staring at Jordan's man, among all the glittering, sexy girls of the Yacht Club, waiting to see if my wife could reel in her fish, I was so turned on I could barely breathe.

I don't know when Jordan actually arrived. She played it cool as a cucumber. 

She had violated the rules of conduct in her own business by texting me a picture of her mark, so I knew who he was. He was there with a trio of men, all of them dressed in expensive suits and sporting the tensile facial muscles of high-powered finance executives. They were flirting, alternately, with some very beautiful women at the bar, and busily typing on their phones. Jordan's mark had struck up a conversation with a dark-haired beauty who looked like she needed to be carded, and I was wondering if I would be denied my chance to watch Jordan in action.

My phone buzzed.

Jordan.

Hi.

I looked up, and around the bar. When I found her, she had a straw between her lips, hovering over a half-fished martini. She was smirking at me. A playful smirk.

I sucked in my breath. All the other women in the bar, as stunning as they were, suddenly looked tawdry compared to Jordan. I couldn't see her entire dress, but the top was spectacular. It was expensive, and classy, and dipped low and wide between her breasts in a scoop of loose fabric that moved every time she did. It was almost impossible not to stare at her chest, hoping the fabric would shift too far this way or that way, and show more of her skin. Her hair was down, straight as an arrow, and smooth as silk. She had dark make-up on her eyes – nothing drastic, but it set the light color of her eyes off, so much that they almost rivaled her breasts for attention.

Almost.

Judging by the wandering eyes of every man who walked behind her, the rest of her outfit was not bad, either. I was dying to see what she had on, but she wasn't moving. She bit into an olive, and raised a hand to order another drink.

The girl talking to her mark, however beautiful, wouldn't stand a chance against Jordan, I could see that now. Fuck. My wife was the hottest woman in this bar. And even hotter than that, she knew it.

And she was about to use it. But not for me.

I looked down at my phone and typed.

Looks like you have some competition.

I watched as Jordan read her text, and smiled with her teeth on her olive. She looked up, not at me, and bit into it with a sexy smile.

I have this,
she seemed to say.

If she was keeping an eye on her mark, she gave no indication of it. The bartender approached her with another martini, and then jerked his head to the opposite end of the bar, where I saw another man lift his glass slightly. Jordan smiled, lifted her glass, and held up her finger.

I watched as my wife, who looked, at the moment, nothing like my wife, beckoned this other guy from across the bar with one finger.

What the hell was she doing?

I was starting to sweat. My waitress blocked my view, taking orders from the table next to me. Annoyed, she turned to me. “You want to maybe sit at the bar?” she shouted over the music.

I shook my head, and she rolled her eyes. I was taking up way too much space.

“I'm waiting on someone,” I said, by way of explanation. Then I willed her to move out of my way.

By the time she cleared, the man who had ordered Jordan a drink was standing next to her. She had turned to him, and was giving her sexy man a toss of her hair. She was smiling, twisting another olive around in her drink.

And then, I saw it.

She lifted her eyes, and looked right at the man she was there to seduce. Smiling, talking to the guy who had purchased her drink. But her eyes burning right through the air, and right at her mark. The blue of her eyes was like ice under her coal-covered eyelids. There was no woman in that bar who was sexier, at that moment in particular. And her look communicated all of that.

My cock throbbed.

I watched Jordan with her other guy. This was still incredibly sexy, even though I knew it wasn't the right man. Just an appetizer. She ran her finger over the rim of the glass and brought her thumb to her mouth to suck it. The guy was eating it up, but she looked up at her mark, letting him know it was actually for him.

I watched her mark lose interest in his black-haired beauty. He got on his phone. He turned more and more in the direction of Jordan.

The bartender leaned over to Jordan, and she leaned toward him on her elbow. A smile, cruel and confident, as though she had known all along what he would say, turned up one corner of her mouth. Her eyes lifted up and she looked right at her mark.

I saw her say, “sure,” and then the bartender, looked back and forth from her to the guy she was so intimately flirting with, before shrugging and producing another martini.

Now Jordan raised her glass at the mark, and smiled.

The guy she was talking to looked behind him. I had a pang of sympathy for him, as he was slowly edged out of the picture, but wanted to maintain his dignity. Jordan, playing the cruel bitch, turned back to him and kept talking, as though nothing had happened. As though she hadn't accepted a drink from another man.

This lasted another awkward moment, before the guy made for the bathroom. I privately praised the poise with which he extracted himself from the conversation.

Jordan smiled, at no one in particular, gave her hair a light flip, and turned back to face the center of the bar area, martini in hand. Self-assured smirk on her face. 

I watched, stunned. Jordan seemed like a completely different person, even, than the last time I had watched her. She
knew
she had everything under control, and she was playing the part she needed to to get her man. What was astounding, and I made a mental note to tell her this later, is that she
was
so fucking good at it. A real pro.

She finished placed her phone on the bar.

You ready?
Her message to me read.

I typed, almost too shaky with excitement to do it.

For what?

She took a sip of her martini and smiled.

She caught the bartender, by leaning over the bar, and I watched as she handed him the glass, along with a folded bill. She stroked his finger flirtatiously as she slipped it to him, and said something that made him laugh. She winked at him, and pushed herself away from the bar.

When she rounded the end of the bar, I saw her complete outfit, and perhaps her mark did for the first time, too.

Holy fuck.

Her shimmering, loose shirt ended snugly on her hips, and a very miniscule black skirt hung a few inches below that. Her legs, long and sculpted, dangled from under the skirt and ended in boots that came up to her knee. She looked
fucking incredible.

She was walking fast, though. She gave her hair a toss, and zipped up her purse. She made no sign of stopping as she approached the place where her mark was standing, gawking, like the men he had come with, as she walked by.

I felt disappointment snake through me, as she passed him, thinking maybe she was going to lose this one, but marveling at how ultra-confident her face was as she did it. She looked over at me, and winked.

And then, her mark quickly spun a full 180 degrees, and grabbed her hand, just barely reaching her in time. He pulled her back toward him, and Jordan shot me one final look, rolling her eyes a little, before her face transformed into a look of sexy surprise.

Her mark blocked out his gawking buddies, and turned toward Jordan, who neatly wedged herself against the bar. She propped her foot up on the footrest, and it exposed the length of her thigh. She gave him a challenging, defiant shake of the head.

I could see it was exactly what he wanted. He grinned. His eyes went up and down her body. I felt every inch of his lewd gaze like fingers closing around my heart. He was clearly undressing my wife, and my wife was, well...savoring it.

Instead of making Jordan uncomfortable, like the Jordan I knew would have been, this man's aggressive, mental stripping of her clothing only seemed to pique her interest. I watched, in a mixture of lust and near-horror, as Jordan's own eyes took a long, racy walk over his body as well. She leaned her arm on the bar and rested her head against her hand. I watched her eyes, and the subtle way she changed her expression to be both unconvinced and inviting.

It was a totally different tack than the one she had used at The Brown, and I was impressed by (what I hope were) her acting skills. She had his number, this guy.

Then I felt another jolt: her left hand was exposed now, and on her ring finger was our wedding ring.

I wondered if she had forgotten to take it off. I actually worried for the operation a little, but I quickly discarded that thought: the way this guy was looking at Jordan, he wouldn't have noticed a three-hundred pound man hanging off her ring finger.

The bartender, amused now, set a drink down in front of Jordan. She had ordered, oddly enough, a shot of some kind. I watched her tap her glass to his, and down the clear liquid (no colorful, flavored shot). I was surprised to see her knock it back so smoothly. She set it down on the bar and said something to the bartender, who seemed to start pouring more beneath the counter.

I was starting to worry about Jordan's judgment. She was a small woman and the drinks I'd counted would normally have put her under the table.

She lifted up her phone at that moment, however, and held a long, sexy finger up to her prey as she ran her eyes over the screen.

The bartender set the shots on the table.

Jordan leaned forward, picking up the hot-shot's tie in both of her hands to pull his smirking face closer to hers. Her forehead was very nearly touching his, and she was looking down at his crotch while her fingers worked on his tie. I realized that from that angle, he could see down her shirt – and probably a great deal, too, maybe even her nipples. Jordan's mouth was moving, and I could tell by the way he caught his breath, she was saying something very,
very
explicit. I think I actually saw his cock twitch in his pants.

It took her a long time, whatever it was, and then she opened her purse. She took out a small envelope, just the right size for a room key. With the key, and the implications, clearly on display, she picked up her shot and slammed it. She wiped a trace of the liquid from the corner of her mouth with a long finger, ran her eyes up and down her man one last time, said something, and then set the glass and the key on the bar.

In one quick movement, she spun around and was gone.

I stared at her mark, who was staring after her. He was also stunned. One of his buddies shook him on the shoulder, and he reached out for the room key, slid it into his pocket, and turned around.

“
Fuck,”
I saw him say.

My own cock was so hard I was reluctant to get out of the booth and push through the crowd, but I wanted to go find Jordan. I was high on the danger of what had just transpired: danger to my career, maybe my marriage, maybe Jordan's physical safety...all of it. An electricity was buzzing inside of me, a high I hadn't ever felt before.

I stumbled through the crowd, rudely pushing a few people out of the way. The Yacht Club's back exit dumped into an adjacent hotel, but when I pushed the door open the marble lobby was cold and nearly silent. I spun around, looking for evidence of Jordan. I looked out to the street, but there was no cab, no Jordan, no anything. This bar was in the financial district and not the haunt of club-going twenty-somethings (except for the serious gold-diggers inside). Where the fuck was she?

I pushed myself into the revolving doors. My phone buzzed in my pocket, humming along the length of my hard cock. I snatched it and read.