On Holiday with the Hotwife

On Holiday with the Hotwife Holden and the Hotwife Book One Lily Chase Copyright Copyright © 2023 by Lily Chase All rights reserved. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher. Contents 1. Pleased to Meet You 2. Company Manners 3. Temptation 4. The Piper About the Author Also by the Author Also in this Series Chapter 1 Pleased to Meet You Fingertip toying with the rim of her wine glass, Jane lifts her eyebrows and gives a subtle nod to the left, pointing the man out. “Maybe that one,” she says with a slow smile. “Tall guy at the bar with neck tattoos. He’s been watching me.” I take a sip of my scotch, mirroring her smile. “Every man here is watching you, babe. You’re hot as hell.” “Aww…” She caresses my cheek, and a zing of arousal goes through me. Seventeen years married, and her touch is always a thrill—my lovely hourglassy redhead with eyes like sultry smoke. I know I’m a lucky man. If we play our cards right, the guy at the bar—late-twenties-ish, with the muscular body of a workman—might know it too before the night’s over. The anniversary trip was my idea, the location was Jane’s choice, and the decision to have a scandalous adventure was mutual. Jane has always been daring in bed. Here, far from home, we thought it might be the perfect opportunity for a no-strings-attached experiment. “Oh my god,” she says, lowering her voice with a nervous giggle. “The look he just gave me… damn.” “Describe it.” I swirl my glass, pointedly not looking toward where the man sits. “Hmm… dark and stern. Fierce. Heated. He either wants to fuck me half to death or call me a horrible cougar bitch for blatantly leering at a sexy young thing while my husband sits two feet away.” I take one of the plantain chips from the basket on our table and crunch it, angling a discreet glance at him. “Buy him a drink. Let’s see how it lands.” “All right—but I’m not sending it from a distance. I’ll get it for him in person so he can smell me.” She bites her lip, mischievous, then tips back the last swig of her wine and stands. “Pheromones, dahling...” She sashays toward the bar and I can’t resist watching her walk away. She’s forty-two, and so luscious I still feel like a teenager stunned with gratitude by his first fuck every time I’m in that sweet pussy of hers. She flicks one of her coppery waves over her bare, lightly freckled shoulder—she’s in a jade-green halter top and a short, gauzy peach skirt that shows off her long legs—and bellies up to the bar beside the slab of beefcake in her sights. Even I can see he’s got what women consider a great ass, showcased by jeans rolled at the cuffs in a rockabilly way. His white t-shirt clings to every chiseled plane and bulge of his torso, and copious tattoos creep down his arms and up from the shirt neck. His hair is dark—short but longer on top, falling in an effortless style. They’re talking, and he turns his head but not his body. Part of me is annoyed he’s doing that bullshit alpha thing, implying he’s giving Jane a gift by talking to her. But to be honest, she’s always driven the bus in our relationship, because she’s not only sexy but smart as hell, talented, and more extroverted than I am. So… I’m fascinated to see how she’ll react to a guy who seems like he could take it or leave it. The bartender sets down another glass of Chardonnay for Jane and a highball glass of whatever Beefcake is drinking. And Jane snatches power right back from that smirky mountain by picking up the drink she bought him—right as he’s reaching for it—and walking away. Oh, well played, my girl. She sets the drinks on our table and swivels a nearby empty chair to join our little two-top, then gives the guy a smirk of her own as she settles across from me. “Well, I’m either going to get myself killed or laid,” she quips. A prickle of anxiety goes through me. “Wait, what? Did you get a danger feeling about him? Because you should—” “Rob, honey… relax.” She pats my hand. “I was joking.” I manage a light chuckle. “Sorry.” She takes a sip of wine and shoots a side-eye at the bar. “The guy’s got massive BDE. Hopefully he can back it up.” “What’s his name?” She rolls a shoulder. “No clue. I called him ‘Nice Ass—What Are You Drinking?’” Moments later, the extra chair pivots and he sits on it backwards, leaning on an arm and picking up the highball glass. He agitates it—I smell bourbon before he takes a sip. “Nice of you to make it,” Jane says, playful. She points at us in turn. “Jane, Rob. You?” He takes his time replying. “Holden.” His voice is action-hero low and gritty, and I wonder if it’s natural, or something he puts on like an outfit to pull women. “Hmm.” Jane sorts through the plantain chips with a fingertip as if looking for a specific one. “That your first or last name?” “Does it matter?” he asks. She looks up slowly, and the air between them is so tense, I can tell I’ve already been relegated to the role of an observer. Which suits me fine, since it was sort of the point… I just didn’t know it’d start right in the bar. “No,” she replies with a hint of amusement. “It doesn’t matter.” She goes back to prodding the chips. “Any thoughts