Chapter 3: The Dinner Party
The candles had burned down to nubs, their flames dancing in pools of melted wax that spread across the mahogany like spilled honey. Brandon watched a droplet of cream-colored paraffin slide down the side of a brass holder and pool on the tablecloth, and he thought about how easy it would be for everything to unravel just like that—slow, inevitable, impossible to stop once it started.
Across the table, Tarryn laughed at something Marcus said, her head tilting back, her throat exposed. She wore a black dress that hugged her curves like it had been painted on, and her shoulder-length brown hair caught the candlelight with every movement. She looked stunning. She looked like she knew exactly what she was doing.
She probably did.
Under the table, her bare foot found his ankle again. It had been there most of the night, sliding up his calf during the appetizers, pressing against his shin during the main course, and now—as dessert plates were being cleared—it had migrated higher, her toes tracing lazy circles on the inside of his knee.
Brandon took a long drink of wine and tried to remember how to breathe normally.
The dinner party had been Gabby's idea. "We need to see people," she'd said three days ago, standing in the kitchen with a wooden spoon in her hand and that gleam in her eye that he'd learned to recognize. "We've been holed up for two weeks. People are going to talk."
People were already talking. That was the problem.
He'd caught Marcus looking at him twice tonight with an expression he couldn't quite read—curiosity, maybe, or suspicion. Priya had asked pointed questions about why Gabby seemed so relaxed lately, so happy, and Gabby had laughed and said something about finally getting enough sleep. The lie had landed smoothly, but Brandon had felt the weight of it settle in his chest like a stone.
Twelve days since the shower. Twelve days since he'd watched his wife go down on her best friend while he fucked her from behind. Twelve days since everything he thought he knew about his marriage had turned inside out and rearranged itself into something he didn't recognize.
They hadn't talked about it. Not really. They'd fucked about it—God, had they fucked about it—but the conversations had been brief, practical, almost clinical.
"I want to do it again."
"Okay."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
That was it. That was the whole negotiation. And now here they were, sitting at a dinner party with their closest friends, pretending to be a normal couple while Tarryn's foot crept higher and Gabby's hand disappeared beneath the tablecloth.
Brandon watched his wife's face. She was nodding at something Priya was saying about her son's soccer game, her expression warm and engaged, but her right arm was angled down, her elbow tucked against her side. He couldn't see what her hand was doing. He didn't need to.
Tarryn's breath hitched—just slightly, barely audible over the hum of conversation—and Brandon felt his cock twitch against his thigh.
"More wine?" he asked, standing abruptly.
Four faces turned toward him with varying degrees of surprise.
"Brandon, sit down," Gabby said, but her eyes were laughing at him. "You're not the host."
"I'm being helpful."
"You're being weird." That was Priya, her dark eyes narrowing with amusement. "Are you okay? You've been jumpy all night."
"Just tired. Long week."
Marcus snorted. "Financial advising keeping you up at night?"
"Something like that."
Brandon refilled his glass from the bottle on the sideboard, taking his time, letting the cool air from the hallway chill the sweat on the back of his neck. When he turned around, Tarryn was watching him. Her blue eyes held his across the room, and there was something in them—a challenge, a promise, a question—that made his mouth go dry.
She excused herself to the bathroom.
The words registered dimly. He watched her push back from the table, watched the sway of her hips as she walked toward the hallway, watched Gabby's gaze follow her with an intensity that made his stomach clench.
Gabby waited thirty seconds. Maybe forty. Then she set down her napkin and stood.
"I'll be right back."
"Everything okay?" Priya asked.
"Just need to check on something in the kitchen."
She disappeared around the corner, and Brandon sat frozen in his chair, his heart hammering against his ribs like it was trying to escape. Marcus was saying something about the housing market. Priya was laughing at something else. The normalcy of it all felt surreal, like watching a movie on mute while a bomb ticked in the background.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
He didn't check it right away. He counted to ten, then twenty, then pulled it out with what he hoped was casual indifference.
Your turn. Ten minutes. Upstairs. Guest bedroom.
He read the words three times before they made sense.
"Sorry," he said, standing again. His legs felt like they belonged to someone else. "Bathroom."
Neither of them acknowledged his exit.
He climbed the stairs slowly, deliberately, one hand sliding along the banister while the sounds of the dinner party faded behind him. The hallway upstairs was dark, lit only by the glow of a nightlight in the guest bathroom. The door to the guest bedroom was closed.
He pushed it open.
The scene inside stopped his heart.
Tarryn was on the bed, her black dress pooled on the floor like a shadow. She wore nothing but a lace thong and a matching bra, both midnight blue, both tiny. Her legs were stretched out in front of her, crossed at the ankle, and her hair was tousled like someone had been running their fingers through it.
That someone was Gabby.
She stood at the foot of the bed, still fully dressed except for her shoes. Her blonde waves were loose around her shoulders, and her lips were swollen, and she was looking at him with an expression that mixed hunger and satisfaction in equal measure.
"Close the door," she said.
He did.
Everything else in the house—the clink of silverware, the hum of conversation, the distant laughter—became background noise. In here, there was only the quick rasp of his breath, the scent of Tarryn's perfume, and the weight of his wife's gaze.
"Come here," Gabby said.
He walked toward the bed like a man approaching the edge of a cliff. His knees hit the mattress, and Tarryn reached for him, her fingers curling around his tie and pulling him down. Her mouth was on his before he could think, hot and demanding, tasting like wine and mint and something underneath that was purely her.
She kissed like she fucked. No hesitation. No apology. Just pure, unfiltered want.
Gabby's hands found his belt.
"I want to watch you fuck her," she said against his ear, her voice low and steady. "Right here. Right now. While our friends are downstairs eating my cheesecake."
Brandon groaned into Tarryn's mouth.
The belt came loose. His zipper slid down. Gabby's hand wrapped around his cock, already hard and leaking, and stroked him once, twice, three times before pulling him out of his pants entirely.
"Get on the bed," she commanded. "On your back."
Tarryn moved to let him lie down. The sheets were cool against his overheated skin, and he stared at the ceiling—at the simple white fan lamp with its frosted glass—and tried to anchor himself to something solid.
Tarryn climbed over him.
She didn't wait for a preamble. Her thong hit the floor. Her thighs bracketed his hips. And then she was sinking down onto his cock with a moan that she buried against his neck.
"Holy fuck," he whispered.
She was tight and wet and desperate. She rode him with a rhythm that was almost punishing, her hips rolling against his in a way that made his eyes roll back. Her perfume filled his head. Her breasts pressed against his chest. Her mouth found his ear and her teeth found his earlobe and somewhere in the haze of sensation, he heard Gabby's voice.
"That's it. Fuck him like that."
He turned his head. Gabby sat in the wingback chair across from the bed. Her dress was hiked up to her waist, her hand buried between her legs, her fingers working circles over her clit. She watched them with an intensity that bordered on predatory, her jaw tight, her breathing uneven.
"Does she feel good?" Gabby asked.
"Yes," he gasped. "God, yes."
"Better than me?"
"Different."
Gabby smiled. "Good answer."
Tarryn increased her pace—faster, harder, her skin slapping against his with wet sounds that filled the room. Brandon grabbed her hips and thrust up into her, meeting her stroke for stroke, and she cried out, arching her back, her hair falling around her shoulders like a curtain.
"Fuck," she said. "Fuck, fuck, fuck—"
"Quiet," Gabby warned. "They'll hear you."
Tarryn bit her lip. Her eyes were wild, her chest flushed, and Brandon could feel her tightening around him, her inner walls beginning to tremble. She was close. So was he.
"Don't come yet," Gabby said, rising from the chair. "Not until I tell you."
She walked to the bed slowly, deliberately, and climbed onto the mattress behind Tarryn. Her hands found Tarryn's breasts, cupping them, thumbing the nipples through the lace. Tarryn whimpered, her rhythm faltering, and Brandon felt her pussy clench around his cock.
"You like that?" Gabby murmured against Tarryn's neck. "You like him inside you while I touch you?"
"Yes," Tarryn breathed. "Yes, please, don't stop."
Gabby's hand slid lower, down Tarryn's stomach, fingers finding her clit. She traced light circles around it while Brandon continued to thrust, and the combination pushed Tarryn over the edge almost immediately.
She came with a gush of wetness that coated his cock and his balls, her body convulsing, her mouth open in a silent scream. Brandon watched her face—the way her eyes squeezed shut, the way her lips formed words she couldn't speak—and felt his own release building like a wave.
"Now," Gabby said. "Come now."
He did.
It exploded out of him with a force that made his vision white out. He pumped into Tarryn's trembling cunt, filling her, claiming her, while Gabby watched with a satisfied smile. When it was over, Tarryn collapsed onto his chest, and the three of them lay tangled together in the dark, listening to the distant sound of laughter from downstairs.
"Someone's going to notice we're all gone," Brandon said eventually.
"Priya thinks you're having a migraine," Gabby said. "I told her you get them sometimes."
"And Tarryn?"
"Upset stomach. Bad shrimp."
Tarryn laughed weakly. "You're a terrible person."
"I'm a genius."
The laughter died down. The silence stretched. And then, from the first floor, came the sound of a chair scraping back and Marcus's voice, faint but unmistakable:
"Where'd they all go?"
Brandon went cold.
Gabby was already moving, sliding off the bed with a grace that belied what they'd just done. She pulled down her dress, smoothed her hair, and pressed a kiss to Tarryn's shoulder before turning to Brandon.
"Clean up. Wait five minutes. Come down like nothing happened."
"And if they ask?"
"They won't."
She left the room without another word, the door clicking shut behind her. Brandon lay there, still buried inside Tarryn, his heart racing, his mind a blank.
What the fuck are we doing?
"Hey," Tarryn said softly, lifting her head. "You okay?"
"I don't know."
She kissed him gently—a different kiss than before, tender and searching. "I'm here," she said. "Whatever this is. I'm here."
He nodded. He didn't trust himself to speak.
Five minutes later, he walked downstairs to find the party exactly as he'd left it. Gabby was laughing at something Priya said. Marcus was pouring himself another scotch. Tarryn was back in her chair, her cheeks flushed, her smile easy.
No one looked twice at him.
And for the rest of the night, as they finished their wine and said their goodbyes and waved from the front porch as the last car pulled away, Brandon couldn't shake the feeling that he'd just stepped through a door that only swung one way.
He didn't know what was on the other side.
But he was starting to want to find out.