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I’m already at the bar, anyway, eyes pinned on my wife. Her hip rests against the curved mahogany, eyes glazed over as she pretends to listen to a forty-something Wall-Street dudebro stuck in his frat-boy glory days.
“I shorted the stock. Made a windfall, too, and got all sorts of attention from the media. They said I have a third eye. A real knack for this.”
Half a dozen of my employees scramble when I clear my throat. I slip behind the bar and sit on the marble shelf beside the ice maker. Just beneath the counter. Out of sight from everyone but Ari, the only person behind the bar after I made everyone scram.
At the sight of me, Ariana says nothing. Just listens to Belfort Jr. wax on about money that amounts to less than Ari’s monthly food budget during her last two pregnancies.
My fingers wrap around her calf, lazily massaging the overworked muscle. She shifts toward my touch, silently urging me to press harder.
Instead, I uncap a cold glass bottle, down half the fizzy beer, and use the mouth of the glass to lift the skirt of my wife’s bandage dress.
It’s the same one she wore the night we met.
Perhaps that’s the source of my jealousy.
Or, perhaps, I simply enjoy reminding everyone within a global radius that she. Is. Mine.
Ariana stills.
Belfort Jr. drones on about a jet he co-owns with his ex-wife, an invitation to Ibiza hissing past his snake lips.
“A bunch of us are headed to the island next week. Just me and a dozen of my closest bros from work.”
“Sounds like the set-up to a gang-bang porno,” I offer from my spot beneath the bar.
“What was that?” His voice is heavy, laced with the two scotches my wife poured him over the past half-hour.
“Sounds like the set-up to a gang-bang porno,” my wife repeats with a saccharine smile.
“Oh. Uh. I—we would never.”
Ari frowns. “Really? Not even if I offered?”
She’s making a spectacle of being offended to provoke me. We haven’t fucked in days. Not since our kids almost caught me bringing their mother to orgasm, wheel-barrel position.
Both of us are sexually frustrated. And anything—everything—is an orgasm opportunity these days, so long as it is, one mile minimum, away from our children.
Ari gasps when I slide the bottle’s mouth past her panties and inside her wet pussy, down to the glass neck.
“Good girls get rewarded,” I mutter against the inside of her knee, grazing my teeth against the sensitive skin.
There is a ninety-percent chance she cannot hear me, but her legs part for me anyway.
Such a good fucking girl.
Goosebumps rise up her arm. I pump the glass in and out a few times, drawing it back up her slit and circling her clit with the edge. The amber liquid swishes inside the bottle with each rotation.
It’s only when Belfort Jr. offers an Hermes shopping spree in exchange for sexual favors that I stand, downing the rest of the porter, lips right where my wife’s sweet pussy was mere seconds ago.
Ari swipes the glass from me before I can bring it down on her suitor’s head.
Pity.
Belfort’s eyes go wide. “Bro, where’d you come from?”
“Below.” My tongue darts out, following the curve of my lower lip. “Exploring the flavors the bar has to offer.”
Ari extends a napkin to me, which I ignore because I miss the taste of my wife. Fuck celibacy. “You’re on a diet.”
