Brett

 

Any half decent sportsman knows that commitment to training plays a big part in winning the game.

I was as committed as an athlete striving for world class fitness, pushing myself to the limits every night in my quest to master my wife’s body.

I watched her through the eyes of a stranger in a brand new sport, observing all her quirks and quivers with absolute attention.

She had a whole host of whimpers I’d never fully appreciated. Shivers which blared out loud that she was teetering on the cliff of explosion, but they came in different flavours. I learned them all. Loved them all.

I loved all of her, and within a few days of this rediscovered me I knew without a single doubt in my body that she loved all of me too.

I could’ve cancelled Heath’s reservation without breaking too much of a sweat, but I didn’t want to. Not just because I had a point to prove, to myself as well as him, but because of Grace. Because of her dreams. Because of the way her eyes lit up at every filthy mention of us both stretching her full at once.

“One day to go,” she told me as she stretched out her limbs in bed on Monday morning.

“One too many,” I said, and flashed a smile.

Her confusion was delicious. Her smile was more fuel than I’d ever need to go through with such a crazy fucking rerun.

“You really want this?” she asked.

“Because you do,” I answered. “Because I wake up hard every morning at the thought of you going wild between two men who’ll be busting their nuts to be the best for you.”

It was all the encouragement she needed to dive that pretty mouth beneath the bedcovers and check out my revelation for herself.

As much as I hated the sonofabitch Heath for his mission to fuck our shit up, I couldn’t deny I owed the guy a grudging drink on me.

My wife was shining in ways I’d never seen before. Loving me in ways I’d never seen before. It was in the finer details, the way she responded so beautifully to the reacquired strength in me.

He’d seen it before I had, the little siren in my woman that craved a man strong enough in bed to drag her ashore and claim her as she thrashed on the sand. She was ripe to be exposed, loving the kind of growled out instructions which set her free from her well-ordered brain and her perfect manners.

Hell, I owed him more than a drink. I owed him a slap on the back as well, but he wouldn’t be getting one. Not until it was the commiserating slap of a well-played, loser.

She fussed all day long getting his bedroom right for him. Polishing every surface to gleaming like it would make a damned bit of difference to a prick like him. He’d be there for the pussy and the pomp, not the fucking decor, but I smiled wide as she showed off her handiwork, kissing her cheek at a job well done.

We were busy for a Monday, springtime coming in fast and bringing the long weekenders with it. Our bar was surprisingly bustling as we busied ourselves behind the pumps, and that’s when we first heard them — the tales of refunded bookings from the place down the road.

“They offered an alternative,” the one guy told us. “But it was twenty miles north, nowhere near as nice as this place.”

We checked out their website once we’d wrapped up for the night, Grace’s bottom lip pinned between her teeth as she crossed her fingers and stared at the laptop screen.

“Postponed,” I said, not quite believing it for myself. “New opening date July provisional, ready for the summer break.”

“This is crazy,” she said, clicking refresh obsessively just to see it reappear time and time again.

“Crazy good,” I replied and closed the screen.

It was crazy good. Our bookings were on the up, the pings coming through steady and growing. Our reviews were glowing positive and our repeat bookings were coming in strong.

“All we need is a chef,” she told me for the hundredth time, and I was coming to believe her. “If we can get a decent chef in place by the summer we’ll smash their sorry asses.”

And there we had it. Competitive Grace, blooming out from the shadows with enough fire to burn their shit hole to dust.

I held her close in bed when we finally got there, my arms tight around her as she breathed in my breath.

“Tomorrow,” she said, and grazed her fingers up my back. “I hope he’s ready for round two.”

“We’re saying no to the money,” I told her. “No matter how much he puts on the table.”

“No matter how much?” she asked with a giggle, and I nipped the squidgy tip of her nose.

“No matter how fucking much, Grace. The answer’s no. No thanks, you smarmy cunt, we don’t need your fucking money.”

“I wouldn’t put it in quite those words,” she sighed. “But I’ll toe the same line in sentiment.”

“How about, no thanks, you smarmy cunt, we don’t need your fucking money, just your dick?” I suggested.

I loved her laugh. “No, not those words either.”

“Say it,” I told her. “Just to me. Say it like you mean it.”

Her eyes were dark in the pale moonlight, so clichéd but so true as they stared right at mine.

“No thanks, you smarmy cunt, wanker-face Heath, we don’t need your fucking money, just your dick. Hard please. Make it good. And this time make sure you fucking come for me, asshole.”

I’d almost forgotten about her own insecurities, losing sight of them under my own fight and fury.

“He’ll come for you,” I told her. “You’ve just got to believe it, Grace. Hell knows, I believe it.”