Chapter 1: The Wife's Night Out
The scent of pine needles and cinnamon from the living room drifted down the hall, mixing with the faint, metallic smell of snow on the evening air. Friday night. The house buzzed with a different energy, a festive hum from the twinkling lights framing our bedroom window and the quiet croon of a Christmas jazz playlist Ritchie had put on downstairs.
I stood in front of our closet, a territory of shared hangers and tangled scarves, feeling a low, insistent thrum in my veins. This week had been… research. Extensive, blush-inducing, solo research on Ritchie’s computer after I’d ‘accidentally’ found his bookmark folder. It had left me with a restless, fizzy feeling, like my skin was two sizes too small.
“Find a winner yet?” Ritchie’s voice floated in from the doorway. He leaned against the frame, a dish towel slung over his shoulder, a smirk playing on his lips. His eyes, warm and knowing, scanned the pile of discarded clothes on the bed.
“I’m aiming for ‘festive but fuckable’,” I said, holding up a slinky green satin slip. “Too much?”
“For the grocery store? Definitely. For wherever you’re scheming to go? Not enough.” He came in, his familiar cologne cutting through the spice in the air. He plucked the slip from my fingers and tossed it back on the bed. “The red velvet one. With the low back.”
I raised a brow. “The dress you said looked like it was painted on?”
“That’s the one.” His hand settled on my waist, his thumb brushing the strip of skin between my leggings and my camisole. “If you’re going to go look, you might as well look.”
That was Ritchie. No jealousy, just a cheerful, vicarious thrill in my adventures. Our open thing was his idea, initially. A theoretical liberation. But it was my curiosity, lately, that had given it shape and a very specific, hungry focus. He knew. Of course he knew. We’d talked about it over takeout last Tuesday, me fumbling with my words, him listening with that easy smile.
“It’s just a curiosity,” I’d said, pushing broccoli around my plate. “Like… a different cuisine. You don’t stop loving pizza because you want to try a really good burger once.”
He’d laughed, a full, genuine sound. “Ellie, you are the least pizza-like person I know. Go try the burger. Report back. I want details.”
Now, I pulled the red velvet dress from its depths. It was shockingly soft, a deep crimson that made my skin look porcelain-bright. It was short, tight, and backless down to the dip just above my ass.
“Bold choice, husband,” I murmured, shimmying out of my clothes.
He watched, not with predatory heat, but with an artist’s appreciation. “I have excellent taste. In all things.”
The dress sighed over my hips, clinging to every curve the swell of my 34HH breasts, the cinch of my waist, the full roundness of my ass. It was absurdly festive. Ridiculously sexy. I turned to the mirror, sucking in a breath. The woman staring back was a heightened version of me: eyes brighter, smile sharper, a current of nervous anticipation thrumming just beneath the surface.
Ritchie whistled low, coming up behind me. His hands smoothed over my hips, his chin resting on my bare shoulder. “Yeah. That’ll do it.” His voice was a rumble against my back. “Any targets in mind? Or just a general reconnaissance mission?”
I met his gaze in the mirror. The images from his computer, the specific, well-endowed performers I’d spent the week studying, flashed in my mind. “Just scouting,” I said, my tone light. “Testing the waters. Seeing if the… cuisine is even on the menu.”
He kissed my shoulder, his lips warm. “Well, dressed like that, you’re not just reading the menu. You’re the special.” He gave my backside a playful smack. “Go on. Have fun. Be safe. Text me if you’re not coming home.”
I spun, catching his hands. “You’re sure?”
“Ellie,” he said, his smile softening. “Watching you light up with a new idea is my favorite thing. Go be adventurous. Just remember who you’re coming home to.”
I kissed him, deep and slow, tasting coffee and our shared life. It was an anchor. Then I slid into my tallest black heels, spritzed perfume at the base of my throat, and grabbed a small black clutch.
The living room was a grotto of colored lights, the tree a majestic beacon in the corner. I paused, the quiet domestic joy of it a stark contrast to the mission thumping in my heart.
“Hey, Rich?” I called.
He appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Forget your keys?”
“No.” I grinned, adjusting a strap. “Just wanted to say I love you. And… thanks. For being you.”
He winked, raising an imaginary glass. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”
The cold night air hit my bare back like a shock as I stepped outside, the click of my heels on the salted path a decisive punctuation in the silent, snowy street. I slid into my car, the leather seat cold through the thin velvet. For a moment, I just sat, the engine off, watching the warm glow of our Christmas-decked windows.
Then I started the car, flipped down the visor for one last check in the mirror, and pulled out into the glittering dark, the ghost of Ritchie’s laugh and the vivid, illicit images from a screen guiding me toward the city lights.