Hotwife Island Complete Collection Read online

  I have to admit, though, I'd been rather looking forward to the chance to spend a few hours admiring her from behind without having to worry about catching an accusatory or disappointed look. It would have taken some of the sting out of the hard work of rowing. Now I'll have to endure the pinpricks of her eyes on my back the entire time.

  We set out, gliding onto the still and glassy water of the lake, and that particular worry at least proves to be baseless. She isn't going to be watching me while we row, that's for sure: the view of the wilds all around us is enchanting and breathtaking, utterly enrapturing. Majestic pines towered up along the edge of the mirror-smooth water, and brilliantly green deciduous trees beyond them going up the lower hills in a vast carpet. In the distance rise vast cerulean blue mountains and gray hills shrouded in wisps of fog. A few sandy dunes extrude out into the lake, and some large rocky outcroppings jut up over us as we slide by.

  “Beautiful,” she says, marveling at the sight, and I can't disagree.

  We paddle quietly across the surface of the water. The lake is as smooth as glass. Each dip of the oar into the mirrored surface feels like a kind of sacrilege. The ripples of our wake fan out behind us in long V's, gradually fading away behind us, then vanishing. The world is silent except for the chirping of birds in the dark trees and the quiet splashing sounds when our oars break the surface.

  We paddle out across the lake, then take one of the little connective waterways to another larger lake, and then out across that one. It's not as hard as I thought it would be; I'm actually sort of enjoying the burn, so to speak. The canoe goes easily over the smooth surface, and I'm getting into a rhythm: paddle, paddle, switch sides, paddle, paddle, switch back. The hours slip pleasantly away, and the sun arcs through the sky above us.

  We don't talk a lot, except occasionally to point out an interesting rock or a fishing heron standing in the shallows, but it's a comfortable silence. Better than the tense and brittle quiet that had been between us at breakfast, anyway.

  I'm just feeling a rumbling in my stomach when Vicky calls up to me that she wants to stop somewhere for lunch soon.

  “You got someplace in mind?” I shout back, scanning the lake shore for some kind of dock. It looks completely wild, but you never know around here when there will be a little diner tucked away near the water.

  “We'll go one lake further,” she says, “then find a beach or something.”

  Oh, right. The hamper. I twist around – carefully so as not to overturn the boat – and eye it suspiciously. I can't imagine there's a burger and fries in there. Probably yogurt and spinach leaves, if she packed it. I'm in the mood for something a little heartier, but I just sigh and put my back into the rowing.

  I'll take her out for dinner, there's an idea. Go into town and buy a steak at one of those hideously overpriced local restaurants that charge tourists an arm and a leg for cheap food. She'll like that, I think, a sort of apology meal.

  We row for almost another hour without seeing a spot she deems suitable, and at this point I'm so desperate that even the idea of spinach leaves is making my mouth water.

  The lake opens up as we pass through another of those little channels. It spreads before us like a vast unbroken mirror. We are surrounded by utter wilderness, without even the occasional cell phone tower or service road marring the unbroken woodland along the shore. A vast island or peninsula dominates the center of this huge lake. There's a wide white beach ahead flanked by crags of black rock. It looks almost like a huge mouth, bleached tongue unfurled. Vicky points to it and says that it looks like a good spot to picnic.

  Finally.

  As we get close I glimpse something through the trees, and I sit up a little on my narrow metal bench. “What's that?” I point.

  Vicky shades her eyes. “A house,” she says, and sounds disappointed.

  It's not just a house, though: it's a mansion, an immense estate nestled high on the top of the island and surrounded by thick trees on all sides. “You think this whole island belongs to whoever owns the place?” I ask.

  “I suppose,” she sighs.

  “I'm sure they won't mind us borrowing the beach for an hour,” I say quickly, worried that she's going to make us row further before stopping for lunch. “Look, you can't even see it from this angle.” We glide a little closer to the beach and the house vanishes from sight, hidden behind the trees and rocks, elusive as a mirage.

  “Alright,” she says, though she's clearly annoyed that the dwelling is intruding on our wilderness.

  A moment later the canoe bottom scrapes softly against the sand as we slide up onto the shore. We stow the oars and pull the boat a little further up, then head onto the beach with our hamper.

  “Not a bad workout,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. I flash her what I hope is a winning grin.

  She smiles back – a little reluctantly – and nods.

  Lunch isn't as bad as I'd feared. She made sandwiches and packed some fruit and serving-sized bags of chips along. I groan with appreciation as I dig in to a thick ham and cheese sandwich. She murmurs a vague reply and nibbles at her own, rather leafier, lunch.

  “When did you make all this?” I ask.

  “Last night,” she says, and looks away from me.

  I gulp as I swallow a mouthful. “Right.” She had to have been doing something in the cabin all night long after... what happened. “Um, Vicky, I just wanted to... well, I mean... I want to apologize about what...”

  “There's nothing to apologize for, Jason,” she said, cutting me off. Her words are gentle, but her tone has an edge to it. “It's not like you did it on purpose. I shouldn't expect you to... perform on command.”

  Ouch. That one stings. I can't help but feel a flash of anger. I don't know who I'm angry with, though: her or myself. Maybe both. “It's not like I'm... you know...”

  She looks at me, and I can see the white sand and the blue sky reflected in the wide lenses of her glasses. “What?” she says.

  Impotent. “Nothing,” I mutter, and look away. “Maybe we should just... forget it...” I say quietly.

  “Forget what?” she asks.

  I shrug, and dip the toe of my foot in the cool lake water. “I dunno... us...”

  “You want to forget us?” she says.

  I take a long deep breath. Oh boy, here it comes. I knew the talk was gonna have to happen sooner or later. I've been putting it off for a long time now. “I don't want to, it's just... I know I can't... satisfy you, uh, the way you... want.”

  I can see her eyes flashing behind her sunglasses. “So it's my fault?”

  “No, that's not... I didn't mean...”

  She stands up, and suddenly she's towering over me, miles and miles of toned tanned flesh and a stormy blonde French woman's face at the top. “I've been patient, Jason. I've been more than patient. I'm sorry if that's not good enough for you, but this is hard for me. Do you just expect me to give up sex forever? I'm in the prime of my life, Jason, and I'm not going to live like some old maid. Isn't it enough that I've settled for that little-” she cuts herself off, her mouth tightening into a thin line.

  I feel like I've been stabbed in the heart. “My dick?” I said, “Is that what you were going to say? I'm too small for you?”

  “I didn't say that,” she said tightly.

  “I've never been good enough for you, that's what this is about,” I snap, and look out at the lake. I can feel tears stinging my eyes.

  She stands there for a long moment, then sighs and crouches down beside me. She loops a slender arm over my shoulders and touches her forehead against the back of my head. “I love you, Jason,” she says.

  “Love you too,” I manage to force out, though it's difficult to keep my voice steady. God, this is really happening, isn't it? I'm going to lose her, this perfect incredible woman. I never deserved her, couldn't believe my luck when I got her. I feel like I'm about to wake up from a beautiful dream and don't want to.

  She holds me for a long moment, th
en rises and walks off across the sand. We're each of us deep in our own thoughts, our own private sorrows. She climbs up on the rocks and sits there awhile. I stay below, and watch the orange peels she tosses down into the water float by.

  We sit there on the beach, together and yet separate, for some time. I couldn't even guess how long.

  Then the weather starts to shift. At first I think it's just my darkening mood, but then I realize that the sun is hidden behind a great roiling gray cloud. It comes in fast. A second later I feel a little droplet on the back of my neck.

  “Shit,” Vicky swears as she comes back down to the sand.

  “Maybe it's just a sprinkle,” I say, though looking up at those huge clouds I know that's not likely. We paddled for probably three or four hours to get out here. No chance we can make it back during a thunderstorm. I don't think it's even safe to be on the water. I can only imagine that this big metal thing in the middle of the lake would be like a magnet for lightning bolts.

  As we look out the mirror-smooth surface of the lake starts to dance with raindrops, tiny little ripples spreading from each impact.

  “Come on,” she says, “let's get the canoe further up on the beach.”

  By the time we've dragged it well away from the shore the rain is coming down properly, pouring in thick gray torrents from the dark sky. We hurry under the shelter of the trees and watch our little beach get drenched.

  A perfect end to a perfect day, I think bitterly to myself.

  My shirt's drenched, sticking to my back like it's plastered on. My trunks are as soaked as if I'd gone into the lake for a swim. Vicky's holding herself and shivering, her tiny little wisp of a shirt translucent against her skin. I can see her perky nipples through the material of the little top.

  The tree branches above over little in the way of real shelter. “Do you think there's a cave or something nearby!” I call out, shouting to be heard over the thundering downpour.

  “I have no idea!” she shouts back, holding her hat to keep it from blowing off.

  Then I smack my forehead. “Duh!”

  “What?” she says.

  “The house! There's a frickin' mansion just up the hill! We can wait out the storm there.”

  She looks dubious. “It's probably locked. Some millionaire's vacation home or something!”

  “Well, maybe they're on vacation!” I shout back, “There'll probably be a shed or something we can take cover in! It's better than staying here!”

  She thinks for just a second, but there really aren't any other options, unless we want to huddle under our canoe and – again – it's a lightning magnet. She takes my hand and we start up the hill into the woods, fighting our way through the brush towards the house that's somewhere up there.

  We finally stumble out of the forest and into a clearing, both of us absolutely drenched. The rain's only getting harder and harder with every passing moment. We rush across the immaculately manicured lawn – which feels strange and out of place given the wild surroundings – and I slam my first against a huge burgundy doorway.

  For a long moment I'm sure that it's no good. If there is anybody here, they probably can't hear us over the storm. I'm about to turn away when the handle turns, and slowly opens inward.

  “Hello. Please, come in out of the rain.”

  A man stands before us. I say 'stands,' but towers is a more accurate word for it. He's at least 6'3'', and built like a linebacker, with broad shoulders and powerful arms and not an ounce of fat on him. He's wearing a neat little pair of glasses that glint in the light of the chandelier hanging overhead and an elegant-looking suit jacket – somehow appearing casual and fashionable at the same time. His skin is a deep ebony black, and his eyes flash with an obviously sharp wit.

  He steps back, ushering us in, his voice deep and calm, and he stands there patiently waiting as the rain pours down.

  Vicky and I glance at each other quickly; she steps forward and enters the huge mansion. I take a deep breath and follow after, curious to see what awaits us in this strange island retreat.

  Chapter Three

  Our host stands back for a moment, his hands slipped casually in his pockets as he considers us. We stand there in his exquisite foyer, dripping on the Persian carpet and shivering. He seems almost amused, and shakes his head slowly, disbelievingly.

  I can't help but noticed Vicky has the majority of his attention. He spared no more than a cursory glance for me, but has been gazing intently at her ever since we came in. She's looking back, too, and acting flustered and shy in a way that I'm not used to seeing on her. She's shivering in her little micro-bikini and drenched see-through shirt, looking like a soaking wet sexual fantasy come to life.

  I imagine that I just look like a shlub who got caught in the rain.

  “Pardon me,” the dark-skinned man says, his voice deep and sonorous, ever so faintly accented, “where are my manners? You must be cold. Can I offer you a towel?”

  “That would be l-lovely,” Vicky says, her voice trembling slightly as a shiver passes through her.

  He gestures a little further down the hall. “This way, if you like.”

  “We don't want to impose...” my wife says. I give her a sidelong glance. Her voice sounds different than usual, more subdued than I've ever heard before. Must just be the cold and the wet. She seems almost deferential, which isn't an attitude I tend to associate with Vicky. My wife is fiercely independent and feisty to a degree that many people – men especially – tend to find abrasive. Not now, though.

  “It's no imposition,” the man assures us, and starts walking. We turn a corner and he opens a little linen closet stocked with fluffy lavender towels and sheets.

  He takes out a towel and tosses it offhandedly at me, then takes another and unfolds it. He holds it up for Vicky. She turns compliantly around and he drapes it gently over her shoulders. His hands linger on her shoulders for just a moment, and he gives her a little squeeze.

  I lift an eyebrow at her but she pretends not to notice.

  “Before we get to the introductions,” he says smoothly, “perhaps you'll indulge my curiosity.”

  “Sure, what do you wanna know?” I say, trying to take charge of the situation, though not especially successfully.

  “I'm curious how you came to be here on the island. I don't get many visitors dropping by unannounced.”

  “We were canoeing on the lake,” Vicky says softly, huddled in the big fluffy towel. “We stopped for lunch on the beach and then the rain came up out of nowhere...”

  “Is that so? You must have made something of a journey; there aren't many boat launches around here.”

  “We have a cabin on, um... Blue Flower Lake.”

  “Ah. A lovely place. You're vacationing there?”

  “That's right... I'm Victoria Dubois. This is my husband,” she gestures at me, “Jason Thomas.”

  He lifts one eyebrow at that, and seems secretly pleased.

  I try not to wince. It smarts a little, even still, that she wouldn't take my name when we got married. My friends have been making fun of me about it for years. She says that she didn't want to give up her name because it was part of her French heritage – which she already felt too distant from, having grown up and lived almost her whole life in America. I've always suspected that there was another level to it, however. Before the wedding she'd once suggest that maybe I should take her name, then tried to play it off as if she'd only been joking.

  I really never would have lived that one down with the guys.

  “Dubois?” he says, after giving the most perfunctory of nods in my general direction, “a lovely name.”

  “Thank you,” she says, and blushes prettily. Blushes! I've never in my life made my wife blush. What is it with this guy?

  “My name,” he says, his eyes sliding smoothly up and down her mostly unclothed body – not outright salaciously, but undeniably, “is Antoine Moreau.”

  Vicky's eyes go wide. “The Antoine Moreau?” she gasps, �
��the French billionaire venture capitalist?”

  He laughs softly. “Venture capitalist? Is that what they're calling me now? I prefer to think of myself as a... facilitator. But yes... that's me.”

  “Huh? Facilitator?” I say dumbly. I feel really lost. My wife seems really impressed with the guy, but I've never heard of him. Not that I'd be exactly likely to have heard of some French businessman. If it doesn't involve lines of code, I don't generally pay much attention to it.

  “I like to say that I help make people's dreams come true,” he says, and flashes a radiant white smile.

  “That's just... so inspiring,” Vicky says, slipping the towel off her shoulders just a little.

  I stare at her. Is she for real? She sounds like a high school girl talking to the Captain of the Football team, or something. This isn't like her at all, and it makes me feel strangely... I don't even know. Uncomfortable, I guess. I've got this weird twisting feeling in my stomach as I watch them.

  I decide to break up the love-in. “Look, is there any chance we could use a phone? We'll just call for a ride or something.”

  Antoine Moreau chuckles softly. “Unless you plan to send for a helicopter, Mr. Thomas, I don't think that will do you any good.”

  “Huh? Oh, right... Island,” I say, feeling stupider by the minute.

  “Look, it's just me here for the week,” he says, “the house staff isn't getting here until later, but I decided to come early. I'm staying for the summer. Bit of a chance to recharge. You're welcome to stay until the weather clears. I could even take you back in my boat, if you like.”

  “Oh, we couldn't,” Vicky gushes.

  “No, we really couldn't,” I growl, but neither of them seems to even hear me. They're staring deep into each other's eyes in a way that I don't entirely like. “What about our boat rental?” I say, trying to get their attention, “we're due to have it back in the morning. I don't want to pay a late fee or anything.”

  Antoine smiles calmly. No doubt the idea of paying an extra twenty bucks for a canoe rental is utterly laughable to him. “Don't worry,” he says, “I know the man who does the rentals. I'll call him and explain the situation.”