“You’ve got a really great pair of jugs, Mrs. Sarkar.”

Such a deep voice, resounding even over the steady beat of the music and the hubbub of the crowded New Year’s Eve party. With two flutes of champagne in her bloodstream and heat flaring up both cheeks, Zohana whirled. More than ready to unleash bloody murder, the world was already pulsing the deepest shade of red when the crude commenter’s visage came into view.

The sort of light blue eyes capable of flinging amused sparkles across a crowded classroom or down a long hallway. That familiar mop of thick golden-blonde hair, as always, on the verge of being messy. Powerful jaw. His face, a cross between a youthful supermodel and Olympic athlete ... as was the rest of the well-sculpted mountain wrapped in a close-fit dark suit, casting his shadow over her.

“Youthful” being the operative word. Given her forty years, he was less than half that. Also, a little on the slow side. No, not quite accurate. More a complete inability to understand personal boundaries.

Though the fury sputtered, her brows knitted. “Barry Ingraham, you simply cannot go around saying such things.”

“But why?”

Unabashed, he peered into the top of the sparkle-encrusted black gown, and she started to sweep a colorful shawl across her cleavage. A very white finger landed on her dark skin, blocking the motion.

She tugged ... to no avail. “Barry, stop it!”

The heat from the thick fingertip was boring deep, and both knees wobbled. As she hissed like a trapped snake, the half-empty glass in her other hand trembled. Her pulse rushed; the upbeat music faded as if sinking into the ocean depths.

“Hmm, they’re so pretty, though,” he declared in a calm monotone while continuing to inspect the paler olive curves. “Never get to see ‘em. You’re always wearing those dress things.”

“Sari.”

His far-too-handsome head cocked. “Sorry? For what?”

“They’re called saris. The dresses.”

“Oh, right. Yeah, those.” He leaned away and scanned lower. “Very nice legs, too. You work out, Mrs. Sarkar?”

“You shouldn’t be ... It’s inappropriate.”

“Do you?”

“Yes! Yes, I work out. Now, please—”

“It’s not.”

“What?”

“Inappropriate.” His eyes rose, and he smiled; both sent the tiniest flames to lick along her soul. “You’re no longer my history teacher, Mrs. Sarkar. I graduated last year, remember?”

“Um, yes, but”—she wriggled her fingers, making the diamonds on her wedding band glint—”I’m a married woman.”

“Hmm, so what?”

Still on her chest, the large finger traced a breast’s upper swell. In its trail, the most luscious, dangerous heat. An attempt not to drag a shaky tongue across her lipstick failed. The world shimmied, and her breathing staggered, yet...

Too much.

No bedtime fantasy.

This was reality.

Heartbeat thumping, she released the shawl to clutch the sleeve on a thick, corded wrist. The muscled tower’s brows tightened, and he leaned close enough that a delicate cologne tickled her nose. A surprise; most his age wore harsher, off-the-shelf, store-brand stuff.

“I still want you, Mrs. Sarkar.”

Even as the husky whisper heated her ear, his finger lifted, leaving a delightful circle of warmth, and he turned away. As rapidly as he’d appeared, his massive bulk faded into the crowd of revelers. Only then did sound return, and a countdown over the speakers made her search.

The distant grin under a thick head of sable hair brought an iciness, like the calving of a mile-high glacier, to flood her core. Of course! A sigh escaped as she struggled to raise the latest flute.

Short, slender as a reed, and far darker than her, yet dapper in a black tux and with a smile widening with every step, Rishu, her husband, weaved nearer. Once in range, she slapped a hand onto his sleeve and tugged him close.

“That was your doing, wasn’t it, you evil little imp? You arranged for his attendance?” she whispered, scanning the nearest partygoers.

“Whatever do you mean, my dearest?”

His voice was even more British-sounding than hers. That also irked her. Arranged marriage, plus ... differences. Like desperate brakes squealing at a busy intersection, memories of the two children they’d raised tried to batter themselves past the spiraling anger.

“Oh, don’t you dare!” Her fist swatted him on the shoulder. “You know bloody well what—”

“The lad’s quite taken with you.”

His words and a following chortle dumped a truckload of chunky, sharp-edged ice along her spine, and she glared at him. The annoying little man’s response? Another laugh. Before she could counter, the room hushed as everyone’s attention shifted to a massive wall-mounted screen. An image of the glowing ball atop the Empire State Building had everybody counting down.

Later that night, she lay on her back, motionless under crisp sheets. The ceiling refused to stop whirling, and that kept the bubbling froth of anger on simmer. Beside her, Rishu was silent, but his breathing hadn’t transformed into that stuttering wheeze, so the irksome rascal remained awake.

So much to say. Yet, where to start? She’d let him kiss her as the shiny ball settled above Times Square. They’d exchanged pleasantries with his doctor colleagues, and his loving wife had even smiled while clasping his arm on the way out.

The short ride home had been like traipsing through a graveyard at midnight. He’d glance from the driver’s seat and start to open his mouth. She’d hold up a palm. Those thin lips would seal.

“Honey, I don’t see—”

His shaky whisper did it, igniting the bomb. In a flash, she rolled to face him. The loud smack of her hand slapping onto the hard plastic between his legs echoed in the darkness.

With his yelp also filling the gloom, she used the cage as a lever and kept moving until astride his hips. Beneath her, the plastic was chilly, and might’ve made her shiver, but far too much heat was alive. Brows tight, she glanced at the glossy pink hardness, then found his shadowed eyes.

“What I tell you in this bed is our business, Rishu. I don’t spout out your peccadilloes.”

“Y-you could”—he gulped—”to, um, him.”

“Humph, is that it?” She swept an aggravating shock of hair from her face. Unrestrained, it became a massive sable mane and tickled bare shoulders. “You wish him to fuck you? Too far, imp. You’re some kind of bloody—”

“No.” His head eased from side-to-side. “Not what I mean, my princess.”

“Princess?” Her hips glided back and forth, rubbing thin red lace panties over the unyielding plastic. “Rich. That’s so rich.”

His lips trembled, and the dark eyes grew white perimeters. Well-trained, he kept his hands flat on the mattress, but the rise of a see-through crimson negligee held his attention. While cupping one of the heavy breasts too-young and too-handsome and too-tall and too-muscled Barry apparently admired, she leaned forward.

Once in range, a ravenous Rishu surged. The forceful latching around an achy nipple pulled a moan from her, and she cradled his head while settling atop the most adoring partner.

How those pretty eyes sparkled as he suckled. Yes, her first child.

They’d learned so much while suffering the initial year of marriage, back in the cramped Jaipur apartment with the clacking air conditioner that never really worked. Chest out, fists thumping, and marching around like a tin general, the silly little man had tried to put on a show, but she was not one to be cowed. Not by such as him, anyway.

Then he’d admitted—no, she’d teased, then tugged—his kinkiness into the hazy orange light of their bedroom. No, she’d never spouted, only told her mother. How the old woman had giggled. That memory got her to smile even as Rishu’s voracious feeding sent the most wondrous waves of pleasure through a tired frame.

He wasn’t that bad. Gotten her to the sprawling suburbs of Chicago. Had given her two children. Boys, thank each of the blessed gods, now off attending college.

So, just them, all alone. Of course, her mind had wandered. Nothing new; it had always done so. She’d shared her fantasies, but this time ... This was the first breach of ... well, had never sworn him to secrecy, but really. She rose, pulling the glossy teat from his lips.

“Too far, you rapscallion. Why tell him?” She traced his mouth with a crimson fingernail. “He’s our neighbor, you bloody fool.”

“You talk in your sleep, honeyed one.” His fists tightened on the mattress. “You’re, um, rather besotted.”

“Besotted?”

“Mm-hmm. Quite graphic, as well ... your dreams, I mean.” His soft chuckle made her grimace, but a truth began sinking into her core, like a cooling rod in a nuclear reactor. “My poor ears.”

“Bah, your bloody ears!”

With a groan, she rolled from him and slid under the sheets, but her fist stayed tight to the cage. Again, the silence settled, and still neither slept.

“He is very handsome.”

Oh, she tried to rewind the whispered words, but that’s not how the universe works. Instead of another annoying laugh, Rishu sent his hand over to caress her cheek. Yes, a violation, but she permitted it; she needed it, maybe more than anything, just then.

“Should I release you, dear?” she murmured before taking one of his digits into her mouth.

“N-no. I’ll be fine.”

He always said that, but it was a brand new year, and she reached for the tiny key on her nightstand. A little finagling—the mechanism was getting old—and she had the hard plastic off, letting his manhood throb in her palm. Its owner’s breathing raced as she inspected the slender appendage in the gloom. Her turn to laugh.

“Not much is it?” she muttered.

“N-no, my queen. This tiny worm’s penis is unworthy of you. I am also—”

He gasped as her grip tightened, and she rolled to snuggle against his ribs. In the dimness, his eyes fluttered as he found her grin.

While prodding his narrow chin with her tongue, she began languid, twisting strokes. “Do you love me?”

“Oh, y-yes. Um, very much.”

“Hmm, not just saying that because I have you in my fist?”

“No!” His head whipped from side-to-side. “No, my princess.”

A girlish giggle, those only he could tease, escaped. “Thought I was your queen?”

Before he could react, a wave of the purest warmth flooded deep, and she mashed her lips to his mouth. He let her tongue inside to chase his as her strokes grew faster. Soon enough, his slim frame twisted and began to buck. The ooze from a leaking wand made her fingers slick.

How long has it been? A month? No, surely not? Wait, longer - about six weeks. He would make a mess. Such is life.

No sooner had the initial pulsation begun than she pulled from his lips to enjoy the spectacle. Her grip shifted to clasp just beneath the pulsing helm; it grew so very dark and hot. His breathing hitched, and he gulped.

Heart thundering, she stared into his unblinking gaze. Each slow squeeze made his eyes widen. A clock was ticking.

After flicking his tongue around quivering lips, he murmured, “Pl-please, my love.”

A quick dip let her mouth tap his. Her fist sped once more, and again his slender frame squirmed. A peek showed more glistening tackiness. Just as his wand prepared to unleash its magnificence, her grip released, and the hand flew upward.

As always, he expelled all the air in his lungs, then emitted that lovely moan as the little mushroom spit a stripe of twinkling drool across his heaving belly. With each unfettered jerk of his rod, more strands followed, filling the night with their sharp pungency. Neither very far, nor much seed spattered before the wand softened into a coil once more.

“Clean yourself,” she murmured, rolling onto her back.

The bed creaked under his sliding frame as he obeyed. Only then did her eyelashes flutter closed.

Such luscious dreams. Yes, Rishu was correct. Youthful, tall, handsome Barry Ingraham starred in many ... no, in all of them. Oh, and the things she permitted the young stud to do to her. The filthiest things no man had ever done. How he smiled while doing them, making her cry out and shake and moan and plead for more. The tenderness of his caresses after each arduous event left her shivering.

With January marking the start of a new school term, life marched onward. A few daydreams. The better-looking, older boys and that well-sculpted gym teacher, Coach Carver. Although added to her fantasy list, Zohana had learned her lesson and kept those selections to herself. If Rishu overheard any muttering while enjoying their entry into a surreal, sensuous dreamscape, he said nothing.

Not that Barry Ingraham had departed her fantasies. Many a morning saw her shuddering as fingers raced and moans got swallowed. An overheard conversation in the school hallway revealed that he was attending the local college, which meant he remained nearby.

One evening, a blizzard bombarded the neighborhood, leaving the world shrouded in mountainous snowy drifts. With the tall young man flinging fountains of white from a driveway, she wasn’t shy about admiring him from the upstairs bedroom window. Alright, a little shy; she’d left the lights off.

Also below, long scrapes announced Rishu clearing their drive. Her heart thumped when he paused to navigate the ice and slush while heading down the street. After halting in the giant’s shadow, he began chatting with Barry. When both men shared a laugh, her brows knitted. Though she leaned close enough to mist the pane with her breath, their conversation couldn’t penetrate the twin layers of glass.

Later that night, she sat beside a naked Rishu on the couch, watching idiots do idiotic things on some reality TV show. Although making a wondrous meal, he’d not mentioned the earlier discussion with their neighbor. While playing with a shiny black leather leash attached to his glossy pink collar, she couldn’t shake the image of them talking.

“I saw you with Barry. What were you two discussing?” she muttered at last.

“You.”

The single word shouldn’t have been a surprise, but every nerve sizzled. Her husband’s grin held her attention as if he were a mouse before a diving hawk. So adorable, that caged little imp, and the anger refused to become more than an annoyed sputter.

While twisting the slim rawhide, she growled, “What do you—”

“He’s coming over for dinner Friday. His parents are leaving for the Caribbean. Gone two weeks.”

“Rishu Sarkar!”

Not just returning, the fury became the brightest of flares. Only his nude frame remained; all else was a blurry orange glow.