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"You betcha." She trails her finger up my thigh. "For you, I'll even put on a belly-dance show."
I absently pet the photo album with one finger. "You know how to belly dance?"
"Sure do, baby." She shuts the album and closes my fingers around it. "Look at the pictures. Take your time. Let me know which costume you like the best, and I'll make your fantasy come true."
I study the album for a moment, then tuck it in my pocket.
We resume sorting through her boxes. My eyes decide to keep glancing at the pink vibrator, but we unpack the remainder of her belongings without any additional surprises. Emery stays in her room to organize the closet or some such bollocks, while I rush downstairs to my office and peruse the photo album.
That costume. The bodysuit. The dark Egyptian eyeliner that makes her eyes look even more entrancing.
But my wife isn't done shocking me. I get another surprise when I walk into our shared bathroom that night. Emery has decorated the space with womanly rubbish. A pink towel. A furry pink bath rug. Packages of…maxi pads with wings, the package tells me, along with pink disposable razors.
Bod an Donais.
This is my punishment for telling Emery it's her house too.
Of course, I sneaked into her room after she went downstairs and left a surprise of my own for her. When she opens the drawer on the nightstand, she'll find a box of condoms with a note on them: "For later." Aye, I need to shag my wife—but not until I've won our wager.
Though Emery had declared we would dine together every evening, she doesn't hunt me down to enforce that law, not tonight, or the one after that. Mrs. Darroch reminds me that Emery will be eating in the dining room, but I have a feeling my wife encouraged her to do that. On the third day, I'm sitting in my office shortly after lunch, intending to focus on work but thinking about my wife instead. I fling open a drawer and pull out Emery's photo album, flipping to the ancient Egyptian costume.
Then I dump the album back into the drawer and slam it shut.
If I keep looking at the blasted thing, I'll voluntarily forfeit our wager.
The door swings open, and my wife sashays onto the threshold, wearing only minuscule denim shorts. They look like the same ones she wore the day after our first night together in New Orleans. She leans against the doorjamb with one foot braced on it and her arms loosely at her sides. The powder-blue halter top she wears shows off a lot of skin, and the lush waves of her hair kiss her shoulders.
I try to act as if I've been browsing the files laid out on my desk. Then I look up at her. "No shoes again, I see."
"Told you, I don't wear them in the house." She aims a pointed glance at the leather loafers on my feet, which I'm sure she can see under the desk. "How can you be comfortable in those shoes? I mean, aren't you itching to kick them off?"
"I dress for work."
"You work at home. Locked up in this office. Nobody will see if you ditch the loafers."
I recline in my chair, holding a pen between my thumb and forefinger with its tip planted on the desktop. "Did you pop in to chastise me for my choice of wardrobe?"
"No, I'm here to tempt you."
"Are you." I tap the pen on the desktop while my mind flashes back to the photo album. "You mentioned you're shameless when it comes to winning our wager, but I don't have time to play with you. I have work."
"You always have work." She slides her foot higher up the doorjamb, bending her knee more deeply, and strokes her hand along her exposed thigh. "Do you dream about files and cases and clients? Or do you dream about me?"
I stop tapping my pen. My gaze is nailed to her thigh, and her palm resting on it.
With one hand positioned at the hem of her shorts, she trails the fingertips of the other hand along the neckline of her shirt, skimming it down the inner slope of one breast. "That's a nice, big desk. Have you ever fantasized about stripping me naked, laying me over that smooth wood, and having your way with me right here in your office?"
Of course I have. Repeatedly.
I grit my teeth, clenching my hand around the pen tightly enough to make my fingers ache. My attention gravitates to her breasts where her fingers tease her own flesh.
Emery pushes away from the jamb, padding toward me with her hips swaying. "You have. I can tell from the way you're devouring me with your gaze."
My hand pops open, and the pen drops to the floor. I grip my thighs, my breaths shortening as my slat thickens inside my trousers, straining the fabric and my self-control.
She perches her erse on the desk right in front of me. "Would you like me to sit on your lap the way I did the other night? This time, I'll take your cock in my hand and stroke you while I whisper your name."
"Bloody hell." I grind the words out between my teeth.
