Worth

On that evening, patient as a virgin bride, she sat in a room full of candle-lit tables ornately decorated with rose and miniature candle centerpieces. Four sets of glass doors at the opposite end of the hall led out to a landscaped stone courtyard, tent-covered and heated, illumined by gas-powered lamps and white Christmas lights wound up the magnolia trees and bushes growing sparsely at the fringe. A six-piece band was playing soft music on a dais behind her. The restaurant sat on a hilltop, overlooking a lake at the foot of the knoll. Gazing down at the moon's reflection dancing sensually on tiny ripples, Whitney Murrow relished in the knowledge that her gift was perfectly worthy.

Earlier that afternoon, they'd exchanged presents customary of Valentine's Day. After fifteen years they had the picking of those trivial items down to an art-form. Terry bought her an expensive box of chocolates and a new bathrobe. She gave him a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label and a mechanical razor to replace his old one. Pleasure and practicality.

They made love to the tune of morning news and birds chirping outside their window. When the first of the daytime soaps started, they carried over into the shower. He came twice, and she faked as many before hitting the note. Third time's a charm.

For three weeks, Whitney had racked her brain with the quintessential idea--the plan for his true gift had consumed her entire life. Even at work, she was too distracted to take meetings with clients or brief Nathan on new cases and any progress made on current open files. Nathan Waite, her boss of eight years, good friend since law school, had agreed to join her and Terry for dinner. He and his wife were, as usual, fashionably late.

Whitney had just flipped her menu open to sneak a peek, when Terry suddenly stood from his chair, brushing her arm with his shoulder. She looked up to see the hostess take a final step towards the table, before moving aside and revealing Nathan standing behind her.

He took Terry's hand in a firm shake, bending over to give Whitney a kiss on the cheek.

"Looking splendid as ever, gorgeous," he said. "You smell delicious."

"Still immune to your smooth-talking ways, thank you."

He laughed. "Can't blame a guy for trying, right?"

"Think again."

"Where's Amanda?" Terry said.

Whitney felt a twinge burst across the right side of her face.

"Checking in her coat," said Nathan. "Should be here any..."

He didn't bother finishing. He turned back and all eyes turned with him. On cue, she passed under the mission-style chandeliers at the entryway and, in her casual step, came treading up the aisle towards them.

Amanda Waite had turned thirty last April, but aged not a day since Whitney introduced her to Nathan six years ago. Now, just as then, she was a precious gem of Americana: wavy blonde hair, sparkling blue eyes, fair ivory skin, with a build as slender as her waist, and a beauty to threaten any woman. Her body was demure compared to Whitney's, but Amanda had a certain fragility about her that appealed to all men. Their first impulse wasn't to tear her clothes off and pitch their cocks into her to make her feel it. They sought to undress Amanda tenderly, savoring every moment. They didn't thirst for a fuck with her--they yearned to make love to her.

The change that came over Terry was immediate--and forever burned into Whitney's brain. She teased the hair at the nape of her husband's neck, making tiny circles with her fingers. His stare was fixed on Amanda.

Lifting the wine glass to her lips, Whitney concealed a smile.

Amanda nodded gratefully as the waiter pulled the chair out for her. She slipped her perfectly cute ass over the white satin. "Whit," she said, "thank you again for yesterday. You're a life-saver."

Whitney crossed her index finger over her mouth. "Let's keep that our little secret," she whispered. Under the table, her other hand made its move, covertly and effortlessly, gliding on top of Terry's thigh, grazing the ridge of his cock.

"Women and secrets," said Nathan, "nothing surprising about that."

Her palm found its target, tightening around the growth inside Terry's slacks. He whipped his head around at her.

"It was my pleasure," Whitney said. "Just like this is..."

She craned her neck up and found his lips with her own, probing inside with her tongue. By the time she pulled away both her mouth and hand, he'd reacted in a flourish bloom. She fixed the napkin over his lap.

Nathan smiled, never missing a thing.

"I see we probably won't be making it to dessert."

The waiter took their drink orders, and Whitney allowed herself another glance at Amanda.

Dressed in an elegant black stretch Moschino--a simple, tube top with tie-up straps, and an inconspicuous bow in the front--she was breath-taking. Her ripe, young breasts stood high and proud over a flat stomach and long, firm legs any man would happily strap 'round his waist to squeeze the life out of him, or hang over his shoulders to suck in some of hers.

Whitney had already made up her mind.

In every respect, Amanda was perfect.

They had their drinks and ordered another round. The girls excused themselves at one point, to go the bathroom. Nathan drummed his fingers on the tabletop, and chewing reflectively on an ice cube, said to Terry:

"I envy you, old boy. Truly. A woman like Whitney...she's one for the ages. She'll never go out of style, am I right?"

"You've nothing to envy me."

"Amanda?" he shook his head. "The seventh year is knocking, Terrence. It's at the threshold, and I feel the itch right down in my balls."

They touched the base of their glasses, if grudgingly.

"Better get that checked, boyo," said Terry.

The women returned, and then dinner was served on silver platters: smoked duck, seared diver scallops or lobster bisque, beef Wellington, and chocolate soufflé. One-hundred and seventy dollars a pop—not a single raised eyebrow. The hall carried on the mindless chatter never lacking at such events. And once the plates were cleared from the table, more drinks flowed to loosen bodies, as well as tongues.

The band leader, a Dean Martinisque character with a wondering eye, was getting good and soused on the stage made of Italian marble. He flirted openly during song breaks, and one woman in particular seemed to take the bait with a blazing cunt. When he said that perhaps an introduction in the coatroom was in order, the other diners laughed heartily and she merely batted an eyelash that sent temperatures soaring. Her husband, easily twenty years her senior, was either blissfully oblivious, or utterly indifferent.

The piano player's fingers hit the opening keys to a song from their youth, and Nathan grabbed Amanda by the hand. He led her to the dance floor at the center of the room beneath a grand crystal chandelier. They laughed and moved comfortably amid a dozen other couples; Nathan whispered in her ear, and she burrowed against his arm. For one terrifying moment, Whitney feared the plan wouldn't work.

Then Terry leaned forward in his seat for a better view. His scent filled her nostrils, and she was reminded of her resolve.

"They look good together," he said. "You'd almost think they were happy."

"Appearances can be deceptive, I suppose."

"Want to go out there? Teach those amateurs a thing or two?" The usual smile played on his mouth, like a sneer immersed with genuineness. The smile of a dozen pictures littering their home, the expression of countless memories.

She shook her head, reaching up with her hand to stroke the side of his face. The heat her body flayed out sent electric shots down the center of his chest, making his heart race.

"How 'bout a talk first?" She picked up her drink, took a sip of the wine. "A quickie?"

"Talk, huh?" His lips nuzzled lightly along her cheek. He slipped a hand around her waist, climbing steeply to the flawless outer contour of her breast. The memory of her earlier tugging act was still fresh in his mind. "What about?"

"Your gift."

"Have anything to do with the feel test you pulled under the table?"

She winked, seductively, over the rim of her glass.

"Okay..." he said, sitting back. "All right. I'm all yours. Let's have it."

She set the glass down and shifted about, propping one arm over the back of her chair, and fixing him with intense eyes. At that instant, Terry's every function was fed by desire. His only urge was to thrust her across the table and rip her clothes off for the world to admire. Her luscious frame in a celine embellished dress worth a cool grand was a work of living, breathing art. Out of it, she was a masterpiece. His instincts hammered at his temples to take over; he wanted to have at her until the will was drained out of his body and driven entirely into hers.

"I've picked out the perfect present," she said. "You'll be so proud."

"Hmm. You wearing it?"

Devilishly, she grinned. She shook her head.

Nearing forty, she looked half her age, and was still as frustratingly desirable as the day he asked for her hand. After fifteen years, he often caught himself staring at her over the dinner table, from across the room, losing himself in thoughts of her. Losing himself in her deep-set eyes that sparkled when pleased and grew frighteningly dark when not, yet seemed impartially and perpetually curved in a grin. She could've actually been the mask of innocence had it not been for that time around her twelfth birthday, when a chain of events within conspired to embellish her porcelain physique with broad, alluring curves and beat out two mounds of heavy flesh forever to soil man's thoughts with temptation. It's as if God had originally set out to create the paragon of chastity and righteousness, then decided no earthly being should be quite so innocent, and thus given her a vixen's body.

Terry's thoughts scattered when he was around his wife, and that wasn't such a bad break for a husband, thought Terry. Thoughts of hips grinding pelvis, and heavy, bouncing breasts, and probing nipples lingering on his wet tongue. He'd awaken eventually from these visions and find a hard-on greeting him on this side of consciousness. She moved as if every step were calculated and rimmed with raw sensuality--the way she looked at you, reeling you in with a twitch of her eye, a parting of her lips.

After fifteen years, she still set his insides on fire.

"So what's the gift?" he said. "Come out with it."

Her stare didn't waver. She kept her cold eyes glued firmly to his face, gauging his impatience, teasing him.

"Well? I'm listening."

Nothing from her.

"You going to say something or do I have to guess? Do I get a clue?"

Still, no answer. She took another sip of wine, glancing quickly at the bar.

"Baby, come on, the suspense is killing me."

She turned away, towards the dance floor. He waited a moment, but she never answered. In that span of minutes, a multitude of possibilities popped into his head, every one wilder and dirtier than the one before. His erection pressed so tightly to the front of his pants, it ached.

"Damn it, Whitney," he laughed to ease the tension in his body, "what is it?"

She giggled like a schoolgirl from hell with devils perched on both shoulders. He was, she concluded, sufficiently troubled now. He was very nearly salivating, and she loved it. Without so much as a shake in her voice, she said:

"Her."

The delivery was perfect. Worthy of the word. Slight, subtle gesture with her head to lead it in. Just enough to divert his attention front, enough to force Terry to the edge of his seat, searching blindly for what she signaled, and then when their faces were nearly touching, and she felt how feverish he was, how his flesh scalded...she'd whispered into his ear the word that would set her plan in motion. Her. The tone of voice, the pitch, the level--easy and controlled--everything, perfect.

His reaction, priceless. Better even than when her fingers had curled around the traces of his cock underneath the table. The large brown eyes bulged impossibly, dry mouth fell open, amazed and confused.

"You did hear me, honey," she said, smoothly. "She's my gift to you. Wrapped and delivered with a little black bow."

She'd counted on everything. The initial surprise, the bewilderment, followed surely by anger. His face drew in firmly right on time. He pulled away from her, and his hand dropped from her waist.

"What the hell game are you playing?"

"We've been married over a decade," she said, unfazed by the sudden change in tone. "Have you ever known me to play games? Except in the boudoir, that is."

"Stop it." His voice was rough, commanding. "Stop talking like a whore."

"Don't you like her, Terry?"

He looked around, searching for prying ears. The band still had their attention.

"Well, don't you, honey? Don't you want to have her?"

"I told you to stop talking to me like that."

"Like what?" she said, coyly. The very symbol of innocence.

A hit of madness shot through his chest, and his hand swung up, grasping her arm fiercely at the elbow. She winced at his grip. The fingers dug into her flesh, grinding against the joint.

"You're hurting me, Terry--"

"What are you doing?" he was whispering, but there was no denying the fury in his words. "Why are you doing this?"

"--that hurts--"

"Answer me."

She ripped her arm free.

"Is this how you get your kicks after 15 years?"

"You think this is fun for me?"

"Then why?"

"Now who's playing games?"

"That's not an answer, Whitney."

"I've put a lot of thought into this. And, baby, she's perfect. She's just what you need. She's precisely what we both need."

He stared at her, evenly, refusing to believe his ears.

"Terry..."

He lifted one hand for silence, and with the other, reached into his coat for his wallet.

"You're crazy," he said, plainly. "And this fucking charade is over."

Her hand reached under his arm, closing lightly around his wrist. Her fingers were warm on his skin; the closeness wasn't lost on him. He couldn't deny the gentle pressure she applied.

"It's the only way," she said, softly.

He knew exactly what she meant. But it wasn't enough.

"It's the only way," she repeated. "I should've thought of it long ago."

"This is insane, can't you see that? It's been five years."

"Don't tell me you don't still think about it."

"I've forgiven you. You know that."

"I know..."

She raised her face at him, lashes shimmering with tiny beads of moisture.

"But how do I forgive myself?"

He'd tried desperately to forget, but from time to time, the wrenching pain of that memory still snaked its way into his consciousness. He'd forgiven her, it was true. But he'd never forget; his mind wouldn't let him. The sight of Whitney kneeling on the edge of their marital bed, her perfect ass hiked up in the air, her body twisted over his best friend. His best friend's black cock hilt deep in her mouth, spewing jets of white cum inside until it was leeching out the corners.

"Amanda's my best friend. She tells me about Nathan's cheating. She's known about the other girls for years."

"That doesn't mean anything to me," he said.

"She won't ever leave him, but she's unhappy."

"Then she needs a good marriage counselor--"

"One night in your arms is just what she wants. It's perfect."

"This isn't the answer," he said. "What kind of fucked-up logic--"

"It's the only closure there is." A tear slithered down the side of her face. "Don't rob me of that, Terry. Please."

He couldn't bear to look at her. Snippets of that day five years ago kept piercing the levy he'd put up; if he turned to her now, it would level completely, and everything would come flooding back in. He focused on the wall-sized window next to him and through it, the winter night. The beauty of it was gone.

"After all," Whitney said, wiping at her eyes with her napkin, "it isn't like you don't want to."

He swung around, stunned by her words, shocked silent by her boldness. It was her face, though, that really crushed him. Once more, it changed, transformed completely. Where the tears had been, there was only a hard, frigid resolution. The red flaring around her eyes was the only thing to remind him of the woman that sat tearful before him only a heartbeat earlier.

The bile rose again in his chest. "What the hell did you say to me?"

"I saw the way you looked at her when she walked in. Eyes so fired up they could burn holes in her dress. The same look on the waiter's face when her ass grazed his fingers as he pulled her chair out. The exact same way every swinging dick in the place is watching her dance." She grinned wide as a lecher. "Even I wanted to jump her."

He couldn't process what his ears took in. He couldn't trust his eyes. This woman was his wife. The woman with whom he'd shared 15 years; he didn't even know her.

"Think of it as a blessing, not a sin..."

She grabbed the back of his head and pulled it to her lips, forcing her tongue deeply into his mouth. He didn't respond to her passion--but shoved her away with his elbow.

She laughed at the disdain in his expression. "How many men have their wife's permission to fuck another woman?" She grazed the side of his face with her own. "I'm doing more than just that..." She pulled out her tongue and ran it up the side of his jaw starting from his neck. "I'm begging you to fuck her."

He swung his hand up and grabbed her chin, fiercely, between his fingers, clamping her mouth--that mouth, the source of her poison--shut finally.

"Looks like things here are already getting started," Nathan said, coming up to the table. "Didn't take you lovebirds long, did it?"

He raised his arm high in the air to signal the waiter.

"One more, champ?" asked Nathan.

Terry nodded, absently, draining the little Scotch left in his glass. The alcohol burned all the way down to his stomach.

"Another glass, Mandy?"

For a reason he couldn't understand, Terry glanced up at Amanda. She held his stare, too, if only for a moment before he tore his eyes from her and to the stranger sitting beside him. His wife. Whitney never stole her own eyes from him, not once.

"Absolutely," Amanda said, softly. "This is a celebration, isn't it?"

The next song was a slow number, a crooner for the band leader to delve out with very little accompaniment. It's been a staple in many Las Vegas sets for years, therefore frequently butchered. The guy, though, gave it a good turn. He showed himself worthy.

"This is one of your favorites, honey, isn't it?" said Whitney.

Nathan scoffed. "Mandy's, too, I'm afraid."

"Lovely. Go on, Terry," Whitney said, prodding him in the ribs, "don't be such a brute."

"I'd like that," said Amanda.

Her warmth burned through her clothing, stinging his fingertips. She snuggled closer to him as the music slowed to an easy, rhythmic sway--a song for lovers. Her footing was off, shaky and laggard. After six glasses of wine, he was surprised she was faring as well as she was.

He peered over her head at the table, to the two sets of eyes staring back at him. One pair, calm--slightly inebriated, happy in its ignorance. The other pair was just as relaxed, but far more in control, reveling of her potency. To any other witness, Whitney was smiling--but it was a smile her husband had never known.

Amanda lifted her face just then. Her eyes narrowed closely as they gazed up at him; her brows twisting to clear the blurs dancing across her vision. She was standing so close that he could see her pupils dilated, draw in the sweet smell of grapes on her breath; so close he could swear the heat radiating out from between her legs was spreading like a trail of smoke and engulfing him.

Nathan and Whitney were engrossed in conversation, both propped forward in their seats, shutting out the rest of the world. Then Nathan turned. For that split second before a pair of dancers twirled directly in front of Terry, Nathan fired a glare that struck as a blow in the dark.