The Complete BBW Hotwife Read online

  Contents

  The Complete BBW Hotwife:

  My Nearly Man

  Girls’ Night

  Tell Me About It

  What Goes On Tour

  Take Two

  Sharing Lucy

  The Man Who's Had It All

  Complicated

  Afters: about the author

  Bonus story: Swinging in Amsterdam

  Join the Sadie Somerton mailing list and get future releases for $0.99.

  Published by James Grieve Press

  The stories in this collection were previously published separately.

  © Sadie Somerton 2015, 2016

  Join Sadie Somerton on Facebook, or on the web at www.sadiesomerton.com.

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  Cover image © Nobilior, with design by James Grieve

  This ebook is copyright material and no portion of it may be reproduced or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law.

  The Complete BBW Hotwife

  Sadie Somerton

  My Nearly Man

  I never set out to be bad, but sometimes... well, sometimes it’s so hard to stay good.

  Hang on a minute. That makes me sound so brazen, but that’s not how I really am at all.

  At least, I wasn’t the first time...

  §

  Let me introduce myself.

  My name is Lucy Sterling and I’m in my middle twenties. I’m in the middle sizes, too – I swing between loving the curves of my fuller figure and feeling horribly insecure when everyone around me seems so skinny and tall and drop-dead gorgeous.

  I should also point out that I’m very happily married. My husband, Jason, would do anything for me. He loves to indulge me, to explore who I am and what I desire. Nothing is too much trouble for Jason.

  He’s also ten years older than me and far more worldly (although it looks like I’m starting to catch up on that front).

  When we began dating, his past became something of a game between us. I would tease him and ask lots of probing questions, but Jason was always reluctant to kiss and tell on his past relationships. I had my ways, though. There’s not a lot a guy won’t tell you when you bat your eyelids at him, bite on your lower lip and... just... squeeze.

  Still... he would give away no names or identifiers, but he would always yield the juicy details. He’d tell me about the one night stands, the girls from clubs or from work, the dinner parties where one thing had led to another. About the knee-tremblers in dark alleyways, and the sumptuous weekends away in luxury hotels where all he ever saw was the inside of a hotel room.

  He made it sound exciting and daring. He made me... wet. Just talking... Mostly it was no more than the look in his eye. When I thought I was in control, teasing those stories out of him, he would toy with me, charm me, take me right to the edge just with his words and that mischievous glint in his eye.

  §

  “I sometimes worry that you’re missing out, settling down with a guy like me.”

  That night we were lying in a tangle of sheets, limbs twined, hearts pounding, exhausted. I hugged him just a bit tighter. I knew where he was heading, or at least I thought I did: he was worrying about the age gap again.

  “You’re not that old,” I told him.

  He grunted a laugh. “No,” he said. “I don’t mean that. I mean... do you ever wish you’d experienced more?”

  “More what?” I was teasing. We’d had this discussion before. Instead of talking about his past, we would talk about things I’d never done, things I might like... my fantasies, my desires.

  “More sexually. Partners. Experiences. Adventures.”

  I pressed against him. His hip-bone... just there. Our bodies fit so well!

  “Of course,” I said. “You know there are all kinds of things I fantasize about.”

  “You still could, you know. You could go out there and have any man you like.”

  “You think?” When Jason spoke words like that my insecurities were blown away and I believed him. I could have anyone I wanted.

  I pressed a little harder, felt my softness yielding against that hard bone.

  “But what would I do?” I asked. “With a man. If I could have anyone. What do you think?”

  How I love that mischievous look, that smile.

  “Tell me,” I said. “What would I do with him...?”

  It wasn’t until much later that I thought again about that conversation, and began to wonder just how much of it Jason might actually have meant.

  §

  Let me introduce Bradley.

  Dark hair and even darker eyes, a chiseled jawline that was more often than not rough with stubble. He had an easy laugh that could defuse almost any situation. He always dressed sharply and had an air of glamour about him. Most of the time he looked like he’d stepped straight out of a photo-shoot or a movie set.

  Bradley and I go back a long time. We weren’t exactly at college together, but he’d been there just ahead of me and was still part of the circle of friends that kind of adopted me when I hit my senior year.

  We were just nodding acquaintances at first, but one time I’d gone so far as to kiss him: a drunken fumble at a party, tongues and teeth and holding on tight and then – I kid you not – breaking away to try to stifle a beer burp. Me, not him. Then, somewhat embarrassed, peeling away into the press of bodies and spilt drinks and loud music of the party, the moment gone and pretty soon forgotten.

  Bradley had something of a reputation, I later learned. Far wilder even than the man who would become my husband: every time you saw Bradley back then he was with a different woman. It became a long-running group joke: what’s the latest Brad rumor? I saw him with a black eye and bruises on more than one occasion. There may have been an innocent explanation, but most likely not.

  If I ever did think about that party fumble with Bradley it was in terms of my lucky escape.

  Not that he was a bad kind of person in most ways. Indeed, around me Bradley was always charm personified, funny and considerate and interested in what I had to say. He was always the perfect gentleman.

  But you know what they say about the perfect gentleman, don’t you?

  There’s no such thing.

  §

  I didn’t even recognize him at first. The guy at the bar, tall and dark, with the kind of square shoulders clothes were just designed to hang off. I couldn’t work out why his eyes kept breaking away from the gorgeous woman who was talking animatedly to him, flitting across in my direction and then away again almost immediately. That whole nervous animal thing didn’t sit well on him because... he was Bradley and Bradley was always confident, in control, unfazed by anything.

  Bradley.

  Bradley.

  How many years had it been? Four? Five?

  He didn’t look any different, other than the expensive cut of his suit. It really shouldn’t have taken me so long to recognize him.

  And what was he doing here in a suburban hotel over-run with delegates for a trade conference? The world of laminates and plastic moldings was hardly his thing.

  His partner was a tall, slender blonde with legs up to her ribs and breasts that were surely at least fifty per cent silicone. The two of them would have looked far more at home in Beverly Hills or the south of France.

  Someone had said something in the small group I was with, but I wasn’t paying attention. I
looked around, suddenly flustered. Were they waiting for an answer to some question? Had they been doing that thing of going round a group for introductions and now it was my turn for a “Hi, I’m Lucy and I’m big in plumbing supplies”?

  I smiled awkwardly, and leaned forward for my drink, and that was when I knew for sure I’d chosen a top that revealed too much cleavage for the first night of the conference. At least no-one was staring at my face any more.

  The conversation moved on. I never did find out if I’d snubbed a questioner when I was distracted by the sight of Bradley.

  A short time later I glanced across towards the bar, but the two of them had gone. Those legs were probably wrapped around him by now, and I genuinely wished him well. It made me smile to know that there was still a Bradley out there, doing the Bradley thing.

  Someone had said something to me this time, while my attention was elsewhere. I must seem a complete loon to everyone else in that group, distracted and smiling vacantly like that.

  A girl with immaculate make-up and hair that must have taken hours to steer into place leaned in and enunciated, “I said–”

  A hand on my shoulder, and a voice close to my ear said, “Lucy. It’s been too long. I owe you that drink.” Then, to my perfectly coiffed interrogator he said, “I’m sorry, but this is urgent. An urgent drink debt. You know?”

  Before I knew it, I was on my feet, threading my way past legs and feet and bags to get away from that crowded booth.

  When I was free, I smiled and said, “Thank you. That was excruciating.”

  “I could tell.” He grinned, and suddenly he had the face of a cheeky schoolboy.

  “An ‘urgent drink debt’? That’s a new one on me.”

  “I was improvising.”

  “Badly.”

  “It worked.”

  “And since when did you owe me a drink?”

  “Since you gave me an excuse to get away from a very dull conversation.”

  “You actually cared about the quality of the conversation? I saw who you were with. She must have cost a fortune.”

  “She had a voice like scraping chalk.”

  “She had plenty of other compensations.”

  He laughed, put his hands up in mock surrender. “Believe me,” he said, “as soon as I saw you there was no competition. You always stole the room, as far as I was concerned.”

  And that was one of those moments. The tipping point where suddenly everything changes. A slip. A revelation. An innocent comment that reveals too much, whether it was accidental or intentional... Was that an accident, or was he playing me?

  I laughed. “You really do owe me that drink now, Bradley. You and your lines.”

  He tried to look offended, but didn’t carry it. The smooth lines and roguish charm were automatic for him,.

  We went to the bar and perched on tall stools.

  “It really is good to see you, Bradley,” I said. “So what have you been up to?”

  We caught up over a bottle of Rioja. As I’d suspected, he hadn’t somehow moved into the world of plastic moldings: he was an advertising executive, in town to meet a client, and somehow he’d ended up with the one spare room in a hotel that was otherwise over-run by a trade conference.

  “Here I was, hoping for a quiet night with a book,” he said, “and look at what I find!”

  We raised our glasses, and sipped. “Welcome to my world,” I said. I went on to tell him about my life, about the old college friends I was still in touch with, about Jason.

  He grunted at that, as if he couldn’t stop himself.

  “What?”

  “Sorry. It’s just... you were always spoken for.”

  I wasn’t quite sure what he meant. I’d had a couple of boyfriends back in those days, but nothing too serious. And why would Bradley even have noticed, let alone cared? Had I missed something?

  I reached out and put a hand on his arm where it rested on the bar. The touch was far more intense than I’d expected, even through his shirt, and I pulled my hand away. “You were always such a gentleman,” I said. I almost added Despite your reputation, but stopped myself. Then I did add: “With me, at least.”

  He looked down into his drink. Up to now he had been the old Bradley, but now he seemed uncertain, hesitant, a side of him he normally kept well-guarded.

  “You were different,” he said.

  “Really? How?”

  “Out of my league,” he said.

  I waited. For that grin to crack across his face, for those square shoulders to roll back as he started to laugh. For any of the signs that would confirm he was joking.

  Instead, his eyes kept flitting up to my face and then back down to his drink.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I said, play-punching him on the arm, trying to force the moment. “Tell that to Ms Silicone Valley!”

  He laughed and it was as if a relaxing wave had broken over him. He looked up then and said, “Funny: it was five years ago and yet it can still creep up on you like that. It all comes rushing back. Know what I mean?”

  I nodded.

  He went on: “It’s true, though. I always had a thing for you. Do you remember that party when we kissed? You ran away straight afterwards. You almost sprinted. I spent days trying to work out why it had been so bad you had to run. Was it my breath? Did I accidentally bite you? Did I put my hands in the wrong place? I just couldn’t work it out.”

  I touched his arm again. “You want to know the truth?”

  “Depends,” he said. “You have to promise to break it to me gently.”

  “I burped,” I told him. “A beer burp. Garlic, too. I was horribly embarrassed.”

  He stared. Opened his mouth to say something, then stopped. Then he did that thing where a new expression stole over his features and then he tipped his head back and laughed so hard I thought he was going to cry.

  §

  Later... Another of those moments where things shift.

  We’d spent the rest of the evening over that bottle of wine and then a Jim Beam for him and a vodka and tonic for me, the conversation easy and the laughs frequent.

  We ended up in the elevator, me heading for the third floor, him for the fifth. We stood in opposite corners, him with his arms folded across his chest as he leaned back against one mirrored wall, me standing primly, my hands clasped before me.

  The silence was suddenly awkward, odd after what had turned into such a chilled catch-up.

  I met his look, and said, “So... why me? And yes, I’m fishing for compliments.”

  I was thinking of that comment about me being out of his league. He’d really meant it. And of the kiss: the way he said he’d dwelled on it for days afterwards, wondering what he’d done wrong. Had he really felt he’d missed out?

  “Your eyes. I don’t know... they’re so expressive, so you. Intelligent and sharp and beautiful. And your smile. The way it breaks out across your face, transforms everything.” He shrugged. “I don’t know. There’s more, but... you’re doing it now. The smile. The eyes...”

  I shook my head, aware I was being played and allowing myself to enjoy it, flattered and amused.

  Funny the things he’d picked out, though. They’re the things I see first in a guy: the eyes, the smile, the way his character comes through in his expressions. Sure, this man standing awkwardly across the elevator from me was built like an athlete, dressed in a suit that hung off his body in just that way that made it impossible not to think of what was underneath. Sure, he looked like he’d stepped straight off a movie set. But it was the eyes and the smile that did it.

  I caught myself. Here I was, always so self-conscious about my body, my curves, and this guy with his model looks was just gazing into my eyes...

  I forced myself to look away.

  The elevator stopped, pinged, and the doors slid open.

  “You could have,” I said, as I moved away. It was said with a laugh, a smile, a batting of the eyes. I’d meant it as a jokey remark, not a come-on.

&nb
sp; A raised eyebrow.

  “Back then,” I said. “You could have.”

  I watched the understanding creep across his face.

  The doors started to slide shut, then stopped.

  I looked down and saw his foot blocking them.

  Looked up, and saw his hand moving to the side of my head, my cheek, his touch surprisingly delicate.

  “I should have,” he said.

  His kiss was like that touch, surprising in how softly his lips pressed against mine. I tasted bourbon, smelled something musky and citrus in his aftershave.

  A brief kiss and then it was over, the elevator doors bumping at his foot again, impatient like a child.

  He drew his head away, his hand; he stepped back, and the doors slid together.

  And I stood there like a fool, like a teenager kissed for the first time. My heart thumped, my breath was ragged, my face was flushed. I licked my lips, still tasting him.

  I couldn’t move. For a few seconds I thought I might remain there all night, frozen in place.

  Then I straightened, smoothed down my clothes, took a deep breath and turned towards my room.

  §

  “So you flirted with him?”

  I hadn’t intended to say anything, but it just kind of came out.

  Lying there on my hotel bed, cell-phone pressed against my jaw, catching up on the day with Jason.

  “We chatted,” I said, trying not to sound defensive. “Old times. College. Where our lives have gone. That kind of thing.”

  “It’s fine, Lucy. Really. I’m not precious. I’m not the jealously protective type, you know.”

  He wasn’t. I’d never met anyone so confident. Nothing fazed Jason.

  “We did,” I said. “Flirted. Just a bit.”

  “And how did that feel?”

  I paused, and thought. “Fun. Flattered. It was good to be enjoyed, to have a man say...” I stopped. Say that my eyes were intelligent and sharp and beautiful. Say that my smile transformed everything.

  “You were attracted to him?”

  I said nothing, which was plenty answer in itself.

  “It’s okay, babe. It’s only natural. Are you still thinking about it now? About him?”

  I grunted agreement, not mentioning that I was grinding my thighs together right now just at the memories, feeling that delicious squeeze that sent tingles through my belly.