Summer Swap 4.4

Scarlet met Chey coming up the stairs. Chey was bustling.

“Hey, I was looking for you,” Scarlet said.

Chey moved like she didn’t want to stop, getting one step higher than Scarlet before pausing to turn. “Hey,” she said, almost breathless, “what’s up?”

“What’s up with you? Your cheeks are all red. What were you doing?”

“Oh,” Chey said, chuckling, scratching her head. She leaned on the handrail, one hip sticking out. “I was just, you know, poking around.”

Chey’s poking around intrigued her, and she stepped closer. “Poking around about what?”

Chey exhaled, lips pooching out, eyes shifting aside. “I’m not sure yet.”

Scarlet’s face jutted closer to Chey’s, eyes narrowing. “But you’re poking with purpose?”

Chey nodded. “So how was your bath?”

“Tell me what you’re poking around about.”

“You know Paloma’s here, right?”

“Yeah, I know,” she said in a flat tone.

“I’m poking around about that.”

“You said Philippe wanted to work it out with her.”

“I did.”

Scarlet studied Chey’s face, her posture, reading her friend. She was alert but distracted, her cheeks blushed—wait, her nipples showed through the fabric of her shirt. “But you think something’s up?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“We need to find somewhere to talk. I didn’t even get to tell you about last night...”

“We do,” Chey said. “We do have to talk.”

“Where do you want to go?”

“Meet me... Meet me on the swimming deck— No, wait, meet me on the top deck.”

“The helicopter pad?”

“No, no, the one under that.” Chey began to back her way up the stairs, but Scarlet had been searching for Chey, not headed down the stairs, so she followed her. Chey stopped, saying, “Meet me there in ten. No, uh, fifteen.”

“Where are you going?”

“To find Byron. He’s making me a cocktail.”

“I’ll come with.”

Chey stopped her with a hand.

* * *

Two perfect G & Ts, if he said so himself. Strong. Strong the way Chey liked it. Two gin to five tonic, and the good tonic, too. Tonic Arlo brought, some expensive looking British stuff from India with high quinine and a hint of ginger and mandarin. Lots of ice. Two slices of lime.

“Hey, babe,” he said with pride as Chey hustled into the kitchen. “Perfect timing.”

Chey swished around the marble island and into the workspace with him, passing by his well-presented cocktails, and looping her arms around his neck and kissing him. He laughed at her eagerness, his heart swelling in his chest with the excitement of her welcome greeting. His hands went to her sides—wow, she was warm—and eased her back.

“I’d make cocktails on the hour every hour if I knew this would be the reaction.”

Chey, with her arms around his neck still, looked over her shoulder to where the cocktail glasses were. She let him go and picked one up.

“The tonic water’s from India. Arlo must have brought it. It’s got—”

But Chey wasn’t listening. She took a big drink, and while he waited to hear what she thought, she didn’t stop drinking. Just gulp-gulp-gulp, tilting the glass higher, stretching her throat, and draining his well-made cocktail. She set the empty glass down, the ice cubes clinking, and launched her kiss to his again, hugging his neck.

Her plump lips were ice cold and lemon-lime and so fucking sexy. His heart pounded in his chest as her kisses moved from his mouth to his chin then to his neck, her hands working with frantic need to unzip his shorts. Now he was panting, slumping back against the edge of the counter and looking up at the ceiling and wondering how the hell this was happening. Chey went to her knees. He palmed his forehead. She got his limp cock out of his zipper, and into her cold mouth it went. The feel of her mouth on him, so unexpected, in the middle of the day, in a sunny kitchen where anyone could walk in, had his cock going hard and straight in about ten heartbeats. Chey made satisfied sounds feeling him grow erect in her mouth. Then she was standing again, her hands going all over his body.

“Take me somewhere,” she gasped. “Do whatever you want to me.”

“For sure.”

She put her forehead against his, eye-locking him. “But whatever it is, you have to do it hard.”

“I can do that.”

Then she bit her own lips, chest heaving, twisting his shirt in her grip. She groaned. “Fuck, baby, there’s no time.”

“No time for what?”

She looked over both shoulders, backing away from him and turning, her elbows moving in and out as she unbuttoned and unzipped her shorts. He watched in will-eyed amazement as his wife pushed her shorts down, shimmying her hips, her panties going too. Her bare ass was revealed in the bright kitchen sunlight.

“Holy shit.”

Now she put her elbows on the counter, sticking her ass out, presenting her sex. It was full and engorged and shining with wet. He couldn’t remember a time when Cheyenne had been this abruptly horny.

“What are we doing?” But despite his own whispered question, he was already on his wife’s back, thumbing his aching boner into her hot wet seam and driving inside her body. The satisfied sound she made curled his toes against the foam beds of his slides.

“Oh, god,” she panted. “Hard, baby. Hard, Byron.”

“Someone could walk in,” he grunted, humping her into the counter as hard as he could, hooking one arm around her, Cheyenne gripping it, digging her nails into his flesh.

“Then, hurry, oh, hurry—make me come.”

His free hand dove down her front side, across the flat of her tummy, between her thighs and to her pussy. It was slick and hot, and it took no effort to find her swollen clit in the nest of swollen membranes. Her legs trembled when he pleasured it.

“You’re so fucking wet, Chey. Why are you so wet?”

“That fuckin’ what’s-his-name,” she hissed.

“Cody?” A spike of adrenalin flared up red blobs in his vision. They burst with the goo of anger but dissipated to nothing. He chuckled, hugging her with one arm, the other hand mushing and swirling into her clitoris, getting her moaning, getting her head rocking. “But you come to me.”

She made sounds of hot lust, thrashing her hair around while he fucked her from behind, standing, mastering her orgasm closer in a way he didn’t anticipate he could.

Chey bit his wrist and the sexiness of that got his balls hugging his shaft with looming excitement. Then she blubbered, “He wasn’t even a cowboy, he was just fuckin’...”

As she came close to saying Carla’s husband’s name, she began seizing and bucking. He chased her clit as her body’s orgasmic convulsions threatened to tear her away from him, making her mewl and cry with ecstasy.And just like that, he exploded too, grunting and grumbling as he ejaculated inside his horny wife—his wife made horny by another man. Made horny by another man, admitting it, okay with it, coming to her husband for what she needed. As the wild pleasure of his orgasm enfolded his consciousness, he felt a funny pride, and a closeness to the woman he loved. They’d come to a strange point in their marriage, breaching some rampart and landing in a happy garden where his feelings and her feeling were harder to hurt.

They both chuckled and giggled, ticklishness thrilling them as he withdrew his slippery penis from inside her. He grabbed paper towel from the under cabinet roll and cleaned her off before taking care of himself. Then they donned their shorts before anyone caught them. They were lucky to get away with it.

He collapsed against the counter as Chey turned to face him again, her eyes shining and happy. She looked a lot different than the bundle of nerves who’d thundered into the kitchen a moment ago and drained her cocktail in one go.

He said, “Feel better?”

She laughed and fell against him, kissing his lips again, all the cold gone from the heat they’d produced.

* * *

When Carla went back inside the yacht, he knew Lily would be on him right away. They’d come up to the outdoor kitchen prep and found Carla resuming her work as his sous, chopping onions. She’d gone inside now to clean her hands with lemon, as he’d advised.

Lily turned from where she’d been mixing a batter in a stainless bowl and getting next to him, trying to catch his eye.

Without regarding her, he said, “What is it?”

She touched his arm, and he stopped tying the roast, wiping his hands and regarding her very serious face. Her beautiful eyes were wide and trembling. He touched her chin with his thumb, but she disregarded it, saying, “Please, tell me it wasn’t.”

“Wasn’t what, Lily?”

“Not what, Daddy. You know what I’m saying. Not what—who. Wasn’t who.”

“I shouldn’t have told you anything at all. That’s why we did it the way we did it. He wanted to be anonymous.”

“That’s not fair,” she said, sharp and surly.

“Hey,” he said, stern. “You knew the rules, and you accepted them.”

“I hate him,” she said.

He cocked his head, showing her a serious, no-fun expression. “It hadn’t occurred to you it might be him?”

Those trembling eyes of hers grew wet and pink and she turned away, put her back to him, sniffling. She said something, and he didn’t hear it.

“What was that?”

She sniffled more, sighed for dramatic effect, being a baby. “Not out here,” she said, voice thick with emotion.

He chuckled. He loved it when she was young and petulant and silly, but it demanded so much from him. What it demanded from him he loved to deliver, though. His Lily needed a responsible man. A disciplined man. A creative one who could be everything she needed him to be. He went to her then, being strong, being confident; strong enough to deliver to his wife even the things she was reluctant to hear. His hands went over her bare shoulders and he kissed the back of her silky blond head. “Lily, honey...”

“It’s just not fair, Daddy. You betrayed me.”

“I’ll send you to your room, Lily.”

“Good,” she said, sulky.

“You don’t mean that, Lily.” His voice was soft but the tone heavy with implication. Lily said no more to defy him or to anger him. She stayed silent.

They stayed that way for a long while, his front to her back, the sea breeze cutting across the deck toward the shore, the air warm. At last Lily whispered. “Was it him, or are you just being mean to me?”

Arlo turned her to face him. She was adorable; her cute little mouth pursed to a defiant plump little pink dollop; her chin dimpled, her brow low and mean, but so much sweet timid innocence beaming from his wife’s big, beautiful eyes.

“I make the decisions, Lily. The big ones, the hard ones. I make the decisions I don’t even want to make. I make them for us. I make them for you. I didn’t betray you.”

Her eyes rolled around in a way that told him all sorts of rebukes cascaded around her brain; things she wanted to say if she knew they wouldn’t put her over his knee.

This is bullshit. You’re bullshit. Everything is bullshit.

But she was a good girl and said nothing. He pointed to her mixing bowl and told her to get back to work.