Let Me In. Lauren HawkeyeЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Halibut and green beans had never been so unappetizing.

      As I picked at the food that was artfully displayed on a bone-white china plate, which was in turn nestled onto a pink charger—the exact putrid pink of the rest of the wedding—queasiness settled deep in my belly.

      I knew it wasn’t because of anything other than my own unhappiness.

      I hadn’t had sex with my husband for more than a year. He wasn’t happy about it. Neither was I.

      And still…neither of us seemed able to do anything about it. There wasn’t any easy way to break through that ice. That ice that was colorless and tasteless, yet very much still there.

      Every attempt to make love in recent memory had been nothing short of a disaster, complete with tears, shouting and the inevitable consumption of copious amounts of alcohol.

      Consequently I felt about as far from sexy as I could. Not to mention it was all I could think about. As I sat there, my head bowed down over my plate of typical wedding fare, strands of copper sticking wetly to my sweaty neck, I felt fat, frumpy and miserable.

      It was hard to believe that I’d ever dated the groom, the still ridiculously good-looking Nick. But he’d moved on, and was marrying willow-slim, überblonde, incredibly gorgeous Suzanne. We were still friends, yes, but I was no longer the kind of woman that would, or even could, attract his attention.

      I snuck a sideways glance at my husband, handsome as ever, even with his skin glistening in the heat. He’d removed his suit jacket and loosened his tie to gain some relief from the soaring temperatures, but the rumpled look only served to heighten my attraction to the man I’d pledged to love, honor and cherish only five short years ago.

      If something didn’t change, and soon, I was incredibly afraid that five years was all we were going to get.

      With a huge sigh, I forked up a mouthful of mashed potatoes. They’d probably been pretty good once upon a time, but after sitting at the buffet for who knows how long, they’d turned the consistency of glue.

      Tasted a lot like it, too.

      I closed my lips around the tines of my fork, slid the potatoes off. As I did I exhaled, a huge sigh that had my breasts straining against the tight black satin of my halter style dress.

      “Imogen.” I turned to find Ty staring at me.

      I flushed the deep red of the fresh strawberries that decorated the wedding cake. When I felt fat, I hated people watching me eat. Even my husband, with whom I was supposed to be able to share everything. Had shared everything, not so long ago.

      Swallowing thickly, I laid my fork down beside my plate. Summoning a forced smile, I tried to make my eyes look wide and interested, though I suspected that the effect was more stunned than anything else.

      “What’s up, hon?” I noted, with only a touch of resentment, that he’d cleared half of his plate already without any hint of embarrassment. He’d finish it all, I knew, and likely go back for seconds. Not to mention dessert.

      And why shouldn’t he? He was as fit and leanly muscled as he’d been when we’d met.

      Unlike myself.

      Still, I had to give him points for putting up a show. He reached across the table, laced my fingers through his, a gesture that was as familiar to me as my own hand. Leaning forward conspiratorially, like he was going to share a big secret, he gestured for me to do the same.

      “Listen to the couple at the end of the table.” There was an empty chair beside each of us, and on the other side of those pink beribboned chairs was a remarkable specimen of humanity. I’d noticed both the man and the woman when we’d sat down at the table and exchanged those perfunctory nods and stiff smiles that were de rigueur when dining with strangers.

      But I hadn’t listened to them. Hadn’t listened to much of anything, actually, other than the depressing monologue that was running through my own head.

      But whatever it was had put a sparkle in Ty’s verdant eyes, and a flush in his cheeks. So I nonchalantly tilted my head in an effort to hear better, and made a show of picking up my glass of buttery chardonnay and sipping.

      It was hard to hear over the roaring music of the swing band, but the occasional words and snippets that I caught seemed to all add up to the same thing.

      The couple at the end of the table were looking to swing.

      I furrowed my brow a bit at Ty. “Does that mean what I think it means?” I giggled a bit as he tapped my bare ankle with his foot under the table, some of the stiffness of the situation momentarily forgotten in the absolute ridiculousness of our eavesdropping.

      He nodded and grinned. “Yep. They’re looking for another couple to do the nasty with.” We both laughed then, trying to stifle it, to swallow it, but the bubble of mirth kept frothing to the surface.

      When we finally calmed, it was to find the couple at the end of the table looking our way.

      I looked down at my plate, my cheeks reddening. I was sure that Ty’s were, too. But to their credit, the other couple, whose names were Hannah and Cal, didn’t say anything about our blatant eavesdropping. Instead they simply began to chat about the wedding—beautiful if ostentatious, the food—not that great, the bride’s dress—obviously pricey.

      But I couldn’t forget what we’d overheard. Couldn’t let go of the idea that this seemingly happily married couple—they both sported intricate bands of rose gold on their left hands—had sex with other people. Together.

      All together. Like an orgy. And were okay with it.

      The idea made my flesh feel swollen and too big for my skin to contain. I was conscious of the material that touched my body, the black silk, the tug of the lace of my underpants.

      I couldn’t say why it was this, of all things, but the thought of swinging had me excited, sexually excited in a way that I hadn’t been for months.

      Cal procured another round of drinks for our table, and I gulped gratefully at the chilled wine, which cooled my dry throat.

      And then I nearly choked, when he spoke his next words.

      “I couldn’t help but notice that you seemed interested in our conversation earlier.” With a professional looking swirl of his wineglass, he lifted his glass of deep red to his lips, sipped and swallowed after a long pause. I watched, mesmerized, at the bob of his Adam’s apple as the liquid slid down the lean length of his throat. “Is swinging something you’re curious about?”

      “I—” I was flustered. I looked frantically at Ty, who seemed more bemused than anything, and appeared to be leaving it to me to answer.

      I kicked him under the table. He winced as the needle sharp tip of my stiletto heel caught him in the shin.

      “We’ve…” Ty trailed off. I glared at him. I wasn’t answering this one, no way. Not when the denial of any