Unfaithful

by Devon Scott

Genres: African American; African American Women's Fiction; African American Romance; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Your Wildest Fantasies. . . Smart, successful, and happily-married business executive Ryan can't stop thinking about the woman he can't have: Olivia. She's his friend, his co-worker. . .and his best friend's wife. All it takes is one irresistible moment to start an insatiable fire. . . Can Become Your Worst Nightmares. . . But Ryan's career, marriage, and friendships unravel as he discovers his passionate tryst was nothing more than a treacherous charade. Now his obsessions threaten to ruin all he's worked so hard for, pulling him deeper into a web of illicit desire, deceit, and danger. . . "A poetically scripted scandal that will keep you on the edge."--Miasha, Essence ® bestselling author

Release date: January 23, 2010

Publisher: Dafina

Print pages: 290

Sample

Olivia—

I’ve tried for days to tell you what, for me, is an absolute new feeling. I’ve been asking myself if what I dare to express is real and worth fighting for, given our circumstances and the fact that we’ve been friends for so long. But I’ve come to the point where I can no longer NOT let you know how I’m feeling.

I know a letter is not the best way to communicate affairs of the heart, but in the interest of so many things, I feel this is the only way to start.

So, here goes…

Something changed within me that night at the party. Two weeks ago, almost to this day, my life was indelibly altered. I can’t tell you exactly why it began, but all I know is I don’t look at things the way I did before. I find myself dreaming about new things—whole new realms of possibilities, and each one includes you.

Olivia, what happened between you and me that night cannot be ignored. It was profound. It was deep. And I pray that it happens again and again and again. Yes, Olivia, for me it was so much more than just physical…it affected me that much….

 

Ryan doesn’t hear the door open until the footfalls are inside his cage. He glances up to find his boss, the president of the company, standing before him. He swivels away from his laptop and quickly closes the clamshell, ensuring no one will witness this spilling of emotions.

“Ryan.”

“Rodney. Have a seat.”

“No, thanks. This won’t take but a second.” He glances back toward the door as if expecting company.

Ryan witnesses Olivia’s dark locs rise into view. Before he can breathe, she is moving through the door. Russet-colored skin and toned calf muscles, sculpted flesh that curves upward to the hemline of her short, yet fashionable, skirt. The crisp white buttondown top is fitting, following her curves the way a sports car does a winding road. Eyes drift upward to her full breasts pressed against cotton—no, that is not right. They are straining against the fabric—yes, straining.

“Ahhh, perfect timing, Olivia,” Rodney says.

She grins at Rodney before flashing her alluring smile in Ryan’s direction.

Rodney begins without preamble. “I need the two of you in New York, tonight. Sorry for the late notice, but, Olivia, your guy is having second thoughts—something he’s hearing on the street about a manufacturing defect with the optics. Pure bullshit, of course, but we need to squelch this thing before it gets out of hand.”

Olivia is nodding, as if she expected this. Ryan is turning a sour face, as if he has no idea what they are talking about. He opens his mouth to speak, but Olivia beats him to the punch.

“Rod, Ryan and I met earlier today regarding this issue, and I’ve already had my staff prepare a briefing just in case. So Ryan and I can finalize it on the shuttle going up. We’ll be ready, no problem. Just tell us when and where.”

Ryan remains silent. He is observing her, cool under fire. Her stare is unwavering, her smile captivating. He feels himself stirring, readying the switch that turns the windows opaque so fast it would make her head spin. He longs to push Rodney out of his office, then rush to her the way a cheetah attacks its prey.

“Outstanding. Jackie has all the details.” He turns to leave, swatting Ryan on the shoulder. He winks at Olivia as he says, “As usual, the two of you make quite a pair.” Then he is gone, leaving Olivia alone with Ryan, a smirk painted on her sensuously full lips.

 

Six hours later, he sits across from her, forty-seven floors up from Broadway, enjoying the tastiest broiled salmon of his life. She is dressed casually: tight jeans, dark boots, and off-white sweater showing off her curves. As she excuses herself to go to the restroom, he stares silently at her perfectly shaped ass, thanking God for answering his prayers.

When she returns, looking more refreshed than before, he focuses on the gap between her thighs, that sweet spot, attempting to make out the cleft that forms her core. He knows what it feels like. He has committed its form to memory…has touched it…even slipped a finger inside.

God, what a night that was.

He hopes tonight he will finish what they began.

The biz trip to New York was a godsend.

He is drinking rum and Coke. The buzz he is feeling helps his thinking along. He stares at her, pondering just how alluring she can be. They talk casually about stuff, already exhausting the technical problems that sent them there. Once again, he is barely listening. Instead, he remembers a scene very similar to this one.

Months ago, the two of them were out on a client call…another late night, one of many. For some reason, he was feeling depressed that night. Can’t recall why—but it was one of those times when self-esteem was at an all-time low. Perhaps he was just going through a midlife crisis—or reexamining his life from a different angle. We all need to do that from time to time. Right?

Regardless, he was feeling down, and needed to believe in something else for a change.

Warmth.

“Do you find me attractive?”

He recalls blurting out the question over dinner. She had glanced up, incomprehension etched in her usually smooth brow.

She was thinking.

“What do you mean?” she asked cautiously while setting down her wineglass stem and giving him her full attention.

“Just what I said. Do you find me attractive?”

He was thinking about her husband, Miles. How could he not? They had been talking about him earlier. And Ryan found that he was comparing himself to the man. Ryan was thin and lanky, like a ball player, whereas Miles was muscled, stocky. Ryan was light-skinned; Miles, on the other hand, richly brown. Ryan wore his hair short, tapered, professional, almost boring to a fault, whereas Miles wore his to fit his personality—wild, free, unencumbered. His locks were thick, dark, and long. Women loved his hair. He received stares and comments from women everywhere he went. Sometimes it made Ryan sick.

Olivia stared at him for a moment, pondering the question, and in the ensuing silence, he wondered, Could I have gotten her? Could I have been her man?

Her brow furrowed. She smiled and then said something simple that blew him away.

“I think you’re beautiful.”

Ryan considered her words for a moment. Head tilted down, he pondered their meaning.

He didn’t see her get up, didn’t notice her move to his side of the table until she was bending down. He glanced up, meeting her stare as her mouth opened. Before he had time to consider further action, her mouth was upon his, kissing him, loving him with her mouth, those luscious lips pressing against his with a passion that ignited something so deep and primal he hadn’t felt in decades.

When she was done—he wasn’t sure if it took mere seconds or minutes—Olivia finally pulled back, wiped the locs from her eyes, and sat down. She then picked up her wine and took a sip. No words were needed. He knew now how she felt….

“Penny for your thoughts?” she asks, bringing him back to reality.

He smiles in remembrance. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

“You. Me. The party a few weeks ago.”

Olivia grins. “Fucked me up.”

His breath catches in his throat. Then, he smiles. “Yeah. Almost.”

Olivia stares at him unknowingly. “What do you mean?” she asks.

He ignores the question. Instead, he drains his drink and places the glass down, staring into the kaleidoscope of ice patterns for a split second before sucking in a breath, then exhaling loudly.

“Let me ask you a question.”

“Shoot…”

“That night, did you want things to go all the way?”

Again, that look. Furrowing brow.

“Pardon?”

“You…me…the party. Hel-lo?”

She laughs. For a moment, the tension had risen to the point where one could cut it with an axe. Seconds later, thanks to her mirth, it had dissipated. So, he laughs with her before turning serious.

“Something funny?”

Olivia responds. “Yeah. As I recall, we were all pretty fired up. You, me, Carly—oh, my god—”

“This isn’t about Carly,” Ryan states, interrupting her, willing her to stay on track. To not talk about his wife.

She pauses. Stares at him hard.

“Okay.”

“I’ve known you a long time, Olivia. We go way back, right?”

“Right.”

“So, no sense in pussy-footing around.” He chuckles at his own joke. “I mean, it’s something we need to discuss.”

She opens her mouth to speak, then thinks better of it and nods instead.

“That night at the party, something happened between us. Something that can’t be denied. Two weeks later, we’ve yet to fully acknowledge it. I don’t know about you, but I can’t just waltz around here like nothing happened, ’cause that’s not the case.”

“Ryan—look, I know—”

The annoying clamor from her cell phone cuts the conversation short. Olivia reaches for her hip, mouthing her regret as she answers it. Her face changes—a glow emerging in place of a frown.

Miles…

He stands, slaps some bills on the table, and is walking away before she stops him with a brush to his elbow.

“Miles wants me to remind you about Friday. He’s made reservations at Bluespace for noon,” she says, gesturing to her phone. “Don’t be late, he says.”

Olivia smiles in an attempt to cut through the apprehension that has risen again between them. He smiles in return, but their conversation is done. Dejected, he heads for his room.

He was standing by the refrigerator, the door open and shielding his lower body from view. To someone standing across the room, one might assume he was naked. Fact is, he was wearing boxers—the Scooby-Doo ones Carly gave him for his birthday as a goof.

He was just standing there, head pounding from a night of crabs, Coronas, apple martinis, and cigar smoking. Just the last two were more than enough to make his head spin.

One-thirty in the morning, standing in the kitchen of his best friends’ home, Olivia and Miles asleep upstairs, Carly crashed on the futon in the basement below—and Ryan, his cotton mouth and tongue begging for moisture as he rummaged through the fridge searching for something to drink. He found a liter of Sprite and, not having the strength to search for a cup, tipped the bottle to his lips and thirstily drank.

As he dropped it back into the slot in the refrigerator, he stepped back to close the door.

That’s when he saw her.

She was standing motionless, observing him silently. He was caught off guard. What he saw took his breath away.

Olivia was clad in a button-down shirt—little else. The shirt hung open and he could see the dark patch of pubic hair that spread over her mound—and a large purplish nipple peeked out from the side of the shirt. Her hair hung free, locs surrounding her beautiful darkened face. Between her lips hung a burnt-out cigar. She moved forward on her toes, like a dancer; she seemed to glide toward him effortlessly. He glanced quickly toward the closed doorway that led to the basement stairs. Behind her, the back of the family room couch was sprinkled in shadows; the rest of the room was indigo.

He couldn’t wrestle his gaze from her body, which seemed to writhe as she moved near—the illusion of a serpent—and the fullness of her spoke to him. Not like Carly’s slender form, certainly not overweight. Just curvy hips, meat on the bones like his mama. Legs and thighs that spoke of substance and full breasts that hung invitingly. When she was within touching distance, her eyes never leaving his, the cigar now inches from his face, his cock swelling in his boxers with the certainty of a raging flood, he reached for her. Her legs parted; her eyes were unblinking. His fingers traced a line down the cotton fabric of the man’s shirt, past buttons, parting the halves, and resting a hand lightly on her breast. Gently, he circled the hard nipple before dipping down farther past her navel, which he traced gently with his fingernail before meandering through her dark patch of hair. Finally, after a splendid minute, he felt the rise of moistened flesh that met his touch.

She reached out and expertly slipped her hand inside his shorts. His cock came alive as she palmed the bulbous head, stroking the shaft, raking her fingers lightly over his balls. He found her opening effortlessly, slipping a finger inside.

His cock stretched out in front of him, gently bobbing beside her waist. She stroked it with her palm, then, just as she found her groove stroking him, she ceased and moved to the back of the couch that was dappled in darkness. Her hands spread lengthwise along the edge of the furniture as she bent forward and down, lifting up the shirt in the process—Miles’ shirt, the same one he had been wearing earlier that evening—and spread her legs wide, exhibiting in all of its splendor her heart-shaped, chocolate-colored ass.

He groaned contentedly, marveling at the exquisiteness on display before him. He could clearly see the lips to her sex, which glistened even in the half-darkness. He thought of the kiss they had shared months before, her intoxicating scent that night in the elevator, the way her skin felt when he massaged her shoulders in his office, the electricity that coursed between them. He gripped himself decisively, readying to impale his hardness into the wetness of her sweet cavern. Suddenly, unable to contain his hunger, he lunged forward with a purpose that surprised even him.

In that same moment, they clearly heard the rustling coming from upstairs, the weighty, uncoordinated footfalls, and Miles’ unmistakable deep voice calling out, “Olivia, baby, is that you I hear?”

The hallway is silent. He stands in front of the door to her room, glancing down at his feet, listening for sounds, willing his breathing to slow. It is after one A.M.; the hotel and most of its occupants are fast asleep.

He has been standing there for the better part of five minutes, not moving, fingering the letter he holds in his hand. He’s ready to slip it under her door, but each time he musters up the strength to bend down and release it, an ache appears out of nowhere, righting him.

He knocks on the door. Hears rustling. Knocks again. More noise, then footsteps. Locks and bolts undone. The door opens, and he finds himself facing her.

“Know what time it is?” she inquires, wiping at the corner of one eye. She is clad in a wrinkly, man’s button-down white shirt, way too big for her frame. He looks her over, musing about what, if anything, she wears underneath. Immediately, his thoughts return to the party two weeks ago, and the night that made him a man obsessed. Even at the lateness of this hour, her sensuality reaches out and tickles his skin, caressing him in the lonely hallway. He smells her, takes in the smoothness of her skin, the roundness of her cheekbones, the surety of her stare. Her graceful curves cannot be concealed by another man’s shirt.

All of this conspires to confuse him, tear him down, and make him weak, a slave to the physical. Yet, it is his stare that is unyielding now. He can hear the pulse in his ears. He is growing hard, can feel it tighten his jeans, and is certain she can sense his awakening, too.

“Anything wrong?” she asks, her gaze washing over him hastily, hand on her hip, making no move to let him pass.

“Need to talk—didn’t get to finish what we started earlier.”

“This can’t wait?” she inquires, somewhat exasperated. The hour is late.

“Obviously not.”

They stare each other down for a moment before he hears her sigh. She retreats, and he enters the room.

The bed is unmade, oversize pillows and thick comforter haphazardly situated. She climbs onto the bed, exposing thighs. A hint of white emerges—and he conjures up images of silk panties, erotic g-strings, and other sexual things. She witnesses his stare. Asks him what it is exactly that he wants.

Silently, he hands her the letter, which has occupied his time for several evenings.

“What is this?”

“How I feel.” With nothing more to say, he sits on the edge of the bed, facing away from her.

She repositions the comforter over her legs, ensures she is buttoned up top, unfolds the letter, and glances over at him. Then she begins to read.

It takes her a minute to complete. He is silent watching her. Her expression doesn’t change, as if she has been expecting this. When she is done, she refolds the letter slowly and glances up.

“Ryan.”

“Yes.” He is waiting, breathless.

She is cautious with her words.

“This is my fault,” she says. “I’ve led you on. Things happened after that party which cannot be undone. I would be lying if I said I regretted them all, but the truth is”—and here she pauses for a moment to search the ceiling, as if she can find comfort there—“they shouldn’t have happened.”

He is silent. She takes his silence as an approval to continue.

“For several reasons, Ryan. One, I am married. We both are. We love our spouses, and are not about to jeopardize what we have.”

A statement, not a question.

“Two, you and I are friends—been that way for as long as I can recall. Don’t want to mess that up—right? I mean, what good can come of this? Lose a friendship for twenty minutes of pleasure?” She stares at him, yet he looks away. “Ryan, is it really worth it?”

She barrels forward, finding the strength—the energy to go on, regardless of the effect it has on him.

“Three, we work together. We’re on the same team. You and I built this company together. I love what I do, and I know you do, too. Don’t want to do anything else; don’t want to work anywhere else. I know you feel the same.”

She spreads her hands wide, palms upturned. “So you see, Ryan, what happened that night was a mistake. All of it a serious error—I realize that now. I was being selfish—enjoying the attention, the stares, and the energy you threw my. . .