A Wager With Sadie: 003

Hope everyone had a great Christmas, and you all got what you wanted and gave to the ones you love as well! 

***

What the hell kind of notes did she write?

That’s what consumed him now . . .

There was a mental image he had of Sadie that he couldn’t shake. In the first year of college, Sadie had been in McKenzie House. He didn’t know her then, but he’d had friends in McKenzie House so he knew what the dorms looked like. He had this picture of Sadie coming in late at night, home after a date with some guy. Maybe they’d been to a movie. While she and this faceless college dude watched some drama play out on the big screen, their faces licked in shimmering gray, Sadie had sidled closer to the guy, taken his dick out, did those crazy things with her hand that he was so accustomed to. Jerked the guy off, made him come . . . probably in the Highland Cinema, the place they all went on Sundays to watch a flick when they were hungover from the Saturday. But he didn’t think about the act itself so much. No, it was Sadie slipping into her dorm room, slinking into bed and trying not to wake her roommate. McKenzie House was two residents per room. He didn’t know her roommate first year, didn’t matter, in his mind’s eye the girl was fast asleep, face turned toward the wall. Now Sadie—his mind’s eye Sadie—slipped a leather bound notebook out from under her pillow. It was closed with a small gold lock, and she kept the special key on a long leather thong around her neck. Sadie used her sacred key to open up the treasures sealed within. Pages after pages of notes on things she’d done to boys with her hand . . .

What the fuck was so wild and thrilling about that?

God, he even considered one of his experiences with her might’ve been illustrated on one of those pages.

Met this guy Graham. Good kisser. Seems like a real nice guy. Jerked him off on a park bench out front of MacPhail.

Or was there more? He could picture this journal now filled with dirty details. What kind of details? Sadie was a doodler. What if she’d doodled what she’d done? Shit, what if she’d doodled what the guy had between his legs? That got his stomach tightening. Little notes tagged alongside: Thick one. Kinda small. Oh my God, magnificent! Did she make notes like that? Detailed examinations of what other men had. God, it was endless. Did she make comments about the noises they made? How long it took them to ejaculate? How much came out? Holy shit, he thought, digging a thumb into his side as Sadie bent over with a pool cue, poised to take a shot. How far did it shoot out? . . .

Jesus, fuck.

Tonight they’d skipped the pork belly, going to the fine dining restaurant on the other side of the resort instead, the one overlooking the north side of the bay. Was it the oysters he’d eaten making him crazy? Sadie had joked about them as aphrodisiacs. He had ordered the oysters on purpose. Ever since Sadie told him the shocking dirty details about her first year in university, his sex drive had clunked up into a higher gear, desperate for traction. Lobster, king prawn, oysters . . . They’d split a bottle of French wine, sitting inside the restaurant because it was still raining. No dessert, instead coming to the lounge, a thatched-roof open-air bar by the waterside.

Waves lapped at the sandy beach just twenty feet out from where they played pool on a terrace. Steady rain pattered on the walkway beyond the handrail, and steady streams poured from the reedy roof’s overhang. Four pool tables lined along the railing, their tops matted in burgundy felt. Back home in Minneapolis, they’d taken up billiards recently. A new bar and billiards lounge had opened over on Marshall Street, a five-minute walk from their apartment, and they went there about twice a month and knocked some balls around with some of Sadie’s pals from the law firm. It was fun, and he’d even been slipping out at lunchtime, down to the Tiger Bar on Fifth Avenue, him and Donny splitting some nachos and him getting some secret practice in on the tables they had there. Right now, though, all he could think about was his dirty Sadie learning about boys’ sex organs for first time away from home, alone in that dorm room in McKenzie. God, she was so sexy. Because they’d gone to the fine dining tonight, they’d dressed appropriately. Sadie wore her slinky Prada dress that she loved. Lightweight, stretchy material that clung to her athletic curves. The back was cut in a V down to the middle of her back, and as she ran her pool cue back and forth over her elegant bridge hand preparing for her shot, he watched his wife’s graceful muscle undulate under her gleaming tanned skin. She settled on her angle, drew back her elbow then launched her shot, the cue ball zipping with backspin, hitting the 7, rebounding off the rail who knows where because all he was looking at was Sadie’s narrow waist and the shape of her sexy ass in the pink stretch material. He moved forward as Sadie backed up, her regarding the layout in the aftermath of her shot. They bumped together, his hardness into the softness of her right ass cheek. He moved her against the table; she laughed, set down the butt of her cues on the floor near his foot. He pressed her into the table with his erection; Sadie leaned forward. In a low groan next to her ear, hiding his lusty intent underneath Post Malone playing on the jukebox, he said, “You’re the sexiest fucking woman in the world.”

Sadie wiggled against him, said, “I can tell you think so . . .”

He breathed against her long neck a moment, Sadie staying still, then he said, “My shot.”

She bumped her butt against him, said, “Maybe you should untuck your shirt before we get kicked out of here.”

He laughed, did what she told him. It was probably a good idea. He untucked his polo, walked around to the other side of the table, his eyes on Sadie. Sadie was into it, giving him that sly look back, even cocking out one hip, giving him a sexy pose. How the fuck did he get so lucky?

He lowered to the table, drew back two practice pulls, then shot the cue ball into the 13, balls clattering around the table. He sunk what he was aiming for, hid the cue ball behind the eight then shot a finger-pistol at his wife. “Good luck with that one,” he said.

“Guy wants to get lucky tonight,” she said, “might be a good idea to let the lady win.”

“But my Sadie loves a challenge.”

She smiled, showed him her confident face. “I do, indeed,” she said, sauntering around the table, studying her angles.

Two of the three other tables were played by couples; a man and wife from Paris, and another couple from Portugal, young people who spoke very little English. Everyone engaged in their own play, and the table closest to them vacant, he and Sadie were left alone. At the foot of the table, set back against the terrace railing, their drinks sat on a small high-table; a glass of Côte Rôtie for Sadie, two fingers of Basil Hayden on ice for him. It could rain all it wanted, things were looking good.

As Sadie came around, she brushed against him, and he kissed under her ear, letting her silky hair tickle at his chin. She was playing it up, acting sultry, bending in front of him even though there was no shot to make, purposely teasing him with the view of her strong, graceful body wrapped in tight fabric.

She rose again, like she’d studied her next shot. She said, “Put me in a bad spot, Teddy. But you left yourself open for trouble . . .”

No care what she was talking about, just enjoying the scent of her perfume, he smiled at her. She sauntered, bent over again. He put the butt of the pool cue between his feet, hands gripping the cue’s point, rested his chin on his wrist, and watched her slinky body lower to the table, the muscles moving as she launched her shot. She admired her handiwork, rose to stand and face him. She stuck the point of her tongue into one cheek and gave him a sly look. “Get out of that one,” she said.

He regarded her a long moment then looked to the table. Fuck. She’d left him in big trouble. He looked at the balls, looked back at her, and she closed the distance between them.

He said, “That’s a nasty leave, Sades.”

She said, “Flub your shot, then take me upstairs.”

“I don’t flub anything.”

“You’re not going to beat me, Teddy.”

Their faces were close, their breath touching each other’s skin. He was so in love with her. The things she’d told him today, it was like he’d been living in this amazing house for the longest time, and he was moving boxes down in the basement and discovered this door. Where does this door go?  . . . You peek inside, and you see all this great stuff in there, but you’re gonna need a flashlight . . .

He said, “I make the shot, Sadie, I get my way . . .”

“And what’s your way?”

“My choice. Anything I want.”

Her eyes flicked up and down, his wife assessing him. “What are we talking about here, Teddy Bear?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

She nodded once, narrowed her eyes. “Sex, right?”

He tried not to laugh, tried to keep a straight face. “Sex, Sadie.”

More nodding, pondering. “I’m up for that,” she said, raising her chin confidently.

“Whatever I want?”

“You gotta make the shot first, Teddy.”

“I make it, I get whatever I want?”

“You sure can,” she said, and they both smiled at each other, both of them knowing fifteen minutes from now they would be back in their beachfront villa tearing each other’s clothes off.

Sadie had no idea what he could ask for. Things were calling to him from a distant horizon, harpies on an island, singing him wonderful but terrifying songs. His heart pounded in his chest, but he showed his wife nothing but every inch of his confidence. He snuffled laughter, narrowed his eyes, showed her his back as he lowered to the table. No way to make this shot. Eight-ball balancing on the precipice of instant defeat, both his remaining balls sandwiched it on either side. Certain doom. No shot to make. Elbow drawn back, he lined it up, chewed the inside of his cheek, eyes burrowing fiercely, bulging out of his head as he thought of the possibilities of getting Sadie to do whatever it was he wanted.