Something Forbidden (8 page)

When Katie had a week-long trip to New York, she asked if I wanted to join her at the tail end. “It’s the week before Thanksgiving and I’ll be free after Saturday. You can drop Mya at my parents’ house and we can spend some time together, just the two of us, before driving up to them.”

They lived in Connecticut, a long haul for us normally, and we’d planned on spending Thanksgiving with them.

A weekend alone with Katie in a strange city? Yes please. Maybe she’d come out of her shell a little bit more. Maybe we could try another role-play. It got me hot just thinking about the possibilities.

Of course, I didn’t mention any of that to her. I had something good here, but it was delicate. Katie seemed interested in the fantasy beyond merely indulging me—
Bunny
made that crystal clear—but I didn’t want to scare her off.

The evening before Katie was set to leave, I discovered just how delicate the fantasy was. I crawled into bed and asked her if she felt bad doing this behind her husband’s back. My cock was already hard as the fantasy situation consumed me.

It was the wrong thing to say. “Max, can we just make love?”

“I’m sorry, it’s just...I thought you—”

“It’s our last time to be together until next weekend. I’d like my husband!” She laughed, but there was still an edge to it.

“I
am
your husband. I’m just trying to butter you up before you leave.”

She shook her head slowly. “Butter me up? What makes you think I need any buttering up at all?”

And like that, my cock was as hard as a steel rod.

She rolled me onto my back and stripped out of her little booty shorts. Climbing over me, Katie made sure to run my member along her buttery smooth pussy lips. “I waxed this morning. Just for this trip,” she whispered.

“God, I can tell.” She was wet, too, her pink lips glistening beneath that auburn bar of pubes. “It looks great.”

She shifted, placing me against her opening and sinking down. “I want to remember how good you feel, Max.” She leaned forward, her lips finding mine as she pumped me slowly. Pulling back, she added, “Give me something to compare, baby.”

I nearly lost it. She was actually playing the game. The electrical thought that she’d have a lover to compare me to nearly did me in.

Somehow, I managed to keep my balls from erupting. Somehow, I managed to regain control, palming her ass as she grinded into me. We didn’t talk about it again, but I did as I was told: I gave her something to compare. I may have harbored a fantasy of her taking other lovers, but in the end, I wanted her to come home to me and acknowledge that they were all inferior.

I finished her off on top, her legs wrapped around my back and my balls clapping against her taut buttocks. We kissed until we couldn’t. We bathed each other in our moans. And when I emptied myself deep inside her, I did it wondering if she ever would have someone to compare this with.

****

Katie flew out to New York the next day and was immediately caught up in meetings and work. I busied myself taking care of Mya, packing for our trip, and making sure that all the bars were ready for the Thanksgiving holidays. It was a tricky time of year since so many people took vacations, but unlike an office, we didn’t have the option to close.

I flew into Connecticut Monday afternoon, dropped Mya off with Katie’s parents, and politely declined their offer for dinner (they knew I would, else they wouldn’t have offered). Instead, I grabbed some McDonald’s at a rest stop on the way into New York.

Even on a Monday night, downtown Manhattan was a nightmare to drive through, and it was past 10:30 by the time I actually got to our hotel, parked, and checked in. I’d spoken with Katie a few hours ago, just after they’d wrapped up their session with their clients. They were going out to celebrate at The James, the speakeasy Katie had mentioned them visiting a few months ago. She wanted me to see how New York did it before we brought the idea back to our city, and I was all for it.

Changing out of my travel clothes and into some slacks and nice shirt, I caught a cab and arrived around 11:30. It was located in a shady part of Tribeca, and when the driver let me out in front of a nondescript building with no awning, no line, and no sign, I started to feel a bit sketched out.

Approaching the door, I noticed a small, brass plaque that simply read, “The James.” No hours of operation. No “open” indicator. Not even a small, paneled window like what I’d seen in the movies. Uncertainly, I knocked and, much to my surprise, was greeted with a harsh buzzing like the door of an apartment complex. Pushing on the door, it opened to a set of descending stairs.

At the bottom, a tall, thin man wearing a crisp black suit met me. “Reservation?” he asked simply.

“Um, I’m meeting someone here. Katie Callahan?”

He gave a curt nod. “You must be Maxwell. Please, right this way.” Going into this night, I wasn’t sure what to expect from The James. As I stepped into the narrow speakeasy, I realized that this was exactly what I should have been expecting. It was dark and old feeling, trendy in an un-updated way. I’d been thoroughly transported into the Prohibition Era.

The bar’s black shelves were stocked with a myriad of exotic liquors and a woman with unnaturally red hair was pouring some kind of milky white mixture into three martini glasses.

It was quieter than I’d expected, the soft din complimented by the lazy riffs of a muted trumpet. A few patrons were sitting at the bar, but most were spread out among the booths: polished black wood with red-velvet upholstered seats.

The host led me to Katie’s group, whose table was littered with empty glasses. My wife smiled as she saw me approach, shouting, “Max, you’re here!”

“Hey, honey.” I leaned down and kissed her softly on the lips. She’d painted them bright red, which fit this place so well, and didn’t want to smudge too much. “A cigarette, huh?”

Katie had a cigarette perched between her fingers. Back in college, she used to smoke when she drank, but I thought she’d given up on that habit.

Katie turned bright red. “Um, it goes well with absinthe.” 

“It’s my fault, Max, sorry.”

John stood, holding out his hand for a shake. John had become “Nadia’s husband” in my brain. It was weird seeing him in my wife’s world, even though that’s how he’d met his future wife.

“No worries, John. It’s good to see you.”

“Likewise,” he nodded. “I thought you can’t smoke in bars in New York...”

Katie answered, even though my question was directed at John. “Unspoken agreement not to turn anyone in. It’s part of the spirit of the speakeasy.”

I took a seat, nodding at the rest of the group. The three other guys were in their thirties, and like Katie, were still in their suits. With their loosened ties and rolled up sleeves, I recognized their like from my shifts at the bar: they were the guys who’d let their happy hour extend too long.

I’d met them all before, but it had always been at some social event: a holiday party, someone’s retirement. Other spouses had been present. Looking back at Katie in her unfamiliar dark suit and crisp blouse, I realized how weird this must be for her—two worlds colliding.

A server came around. I ordered a martini, figuring straight liquor fit the bill for this place, and toasted to the group. “To a successful whatever, may you have many more.”

The mumbled response wasn’t what I was expecting. Katie stubbed out her cigarette and gave a slight shake of the head:
We’ll talk later,
that gesture suggested.

I wasn’t here to rock the boat. When the morning came, Katie had to work with these guys. She had her work identity here: the mother hen in a group of raucous boys. She wasn’t the oldest, but it was clear after the first half hour that she was the most mature.

As my second drink arrived, I realized how strong they were. I wasn’t a heavy liquor drinker, but I didn’t normally get buzzed after one drink. The McDonald’s Value meal felt like ages ago.

“Hey, remind me not to make the drinks this strong when I open a speakeasy,” I whispered to my wife.

“A Callahan speakeasy?” one of the guys asked, suddenly interested. “Back home?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Man, that’s a great idea!” The others agreed, and I suddenly felt modest. “We need a relaxed place like this.”

“It was actually Katie’s idea.” I wanted to put credit where credit was due. I patted her knee and smiled at her.

“You should go talk to the owner,” John said. “I’m pretty sure that’s her right over there.”

The owner, it turned out, was the brightly dyed redhead working bar. She’d moved into a booth in the back of The James and was flipping through a three-ring binder of financials. I knew the feeling, although I usually did that in my office.

John introduced us, exchanging a European-style kiss on each cheek.
Pretty sure that’s her?
I wondered, looking at him. He just shrugged and left us to chit-chat.

“I’m Tatyana.” Her voice carried a light Eastern European accent. She was striking up close. The wrinkles around her eyes put her about my age, and the shock of fire engine red hair made her unblemished skin appear even paler. “It’s so nice to meet another restaurateur. Or whatever we’re called.”

“Bar owner?” I offered. “Booze pusher.”

“You’re a funny one. Please, join me!”

It was the perfect solution to Katie and her two worlds. I could pass the time getting advice from the Tatyana, while Katie celebrated with her coworkers. The only drawback was that the drinks were free and I didn’t have the heart to turn any of them down. By the time I made my way back to the accountants’ table, I was trashed.

John had moved over to the seat I’d left and he and Katie were chatting away as the other three guys played quarters with The James’ expensive highball glasses. Definitely need to remember to make the drinks lighter, I reminded myself.

I paused a few booth-lengths away and watched my wife. The professional Katie and the home Katie weren’t so different. In both worlds, she was a hard working, play-by-the-rules type of woman. She’d always been like that; that was the girl I’d fallen in love with in college. Work came first, then play.

But she also knew when to let her hair down—not literally, though. Tonight she’d arranged the copper locks into a tight, straight braid that hung between her shoulder blades. But as she spoke with John, another cigarette pinched between her fingers and a glass of some fancy gin drink in the other, she was relaxed in this element. She navigated it as well as I did the bar scene.

As I noticed John watching her, something else occurred to me—call it drunken intuition. He was into her.

I’d always thought of the quiet guy in one of two ways: he was either Katie’s shy coworker, or Nadia’s husband. He was never more complex than that—until now. Watching the two of them sitting so close, turned into one another, sent adrenaline racing through my veins. John talked; Katie was riveted. Was she into him, too? Impossible!

“Hey, guys.” Both Katie and John jumped as I barreled back toward the table. The others just looked up from their game with amusement.

“Tatyana give you some good tips?” Katie put out the cigarette, even though it was only half-smoked.

“She did. But if I even catch another whiff of vodka, I think I’m liable to fall over.”

“I thought you owned bars,” one of the guys ribbed. I ignored him.

“Ready to head out, honey?” Katie asked.

“Oh yeah.”
Just not ready to go to sleep
.

I offered Katie my hand even though I was pretty sure I was shakier than her. She took it, waving back at the table on her way out. “I’ll see you guys after Thanksgiving.”

I watched John carefully; watched that unmistakable look of longing. Even drunk, he kept it well concealed, but now that I knew what to look for, I knew that I saw envy there, too. It sent a thrill through my body, even as I thought of Nadia back home and how wrong this attraction was.

“God, I missed you, Max.” Katie kissed me when we crawled into our cab. “I know my co-workers are sometimes a lot to handle.”

“I don’t know how you work with them sometimes. Seems like such a guy’s world.”

“Yeah, but I can hold my own.” Good ol’ boys or not, the group clearly respected her. “And John helps keep me sane.” John. His name burned in my ears. “Anyway, I owe you for being a good husband.” She kissed me softly on the cheek.

“Owe me what?” I reached out and stroked her leg.

“Mmm, a confession?”

Something tingled between my legs. “Oh yeah?”

“Mmm hmm.” With that wide grin on her face, I realized she was drunker than I’d thought. Leaning close, she whispered, “I kissed a boy.”

I was stunned.
Hello
. She had to be fucking with me? Another game. By now, she knew what turned me on.

I could feel the taxi driver watching us but ignored it. We were hundreds of miles from home, who was he to care? “When?”

Still smiling broadly, she replied, “Last month. Last time we were here.”