The Only One for Her
Naughty After Hour Series, Book 4
Copyright 2013 Jasmine Haynes
Book 4 in the continuing stories of sexy hotwives and the men who love them
For every hotwife and her husband, there’s always the other man.
And Spencer Benedict is the perfect other man.
Until he meets a woman for whom he wants to be the only man.
Zoe Hudson has a most unusual marriage: she plays while she's away on business, and her husband is dying to hear all about her naughty activities when she returns home. It's certainly an unconventional arrangement, but it works perfectly for them. Until she meets Spencer Benedict and a five-day liaison away from home turns into something more. Spence becomes her full-time other man and her husband wants to know every naughty detail. He might even want to watch and participate.
Can a hotwife satisfy both men in her life? Or will this other man spell disaster?
The Only One for Her Copyright 2013 Jasmine Haynes
“Look, Mommy, sparklies!”
Across the aisle, the little girl grabbed her mother’s hand and bounced in her seat, reaching out as if she could grab the prisms of light flashing across the plane’s main cabin. Other heads turned, fingers pointed, and a low murmur began to rise above the engines as the plane taxied toward the runway.
Spencer Benedict leaned into the aisleway to look for the source of the light show on the cabin walls. It didn’t take long. Two seats ahead, a woman adjusted her sequined jacket, and the child next to Spence shrieked as the dots of light shifted and shimmered across the ceiling.
The lady was turned slightly in her seat, her long, black hair cascading over the shoulders of her burgundy jacket. The material was something soft, velour maybe, and the front panel, at least the portion Spence could see, sparkled with multi-colored sequins catching the early morning sunlight as it streamed through the window on the opposite aisle. If it had been any later, the sun would probably have been too high in the sky, but at seven o’clock, it bathed her in its rays. She moved the lapel again, and light danced across the walls. Gasps, laughter, voices, like children on a thrill ride, filled the cabin. And she smiled, full lips painted a shade that matched the velour jacket.
His body tightened just watching her, and he imagined that he detected her perfume, a light floral scent he couldn’t identify as any particular flower. She had the strong aquiline features of Mediterranean descent, her smooth skin sun-kissed, or perhaps naturally darker.
The plane turned then, rolling onto its designated runway, and the light show ended abruptly. The little girl in the opposite seat started to cry, until her mother pointed out the window, distracting her. “Look, sweetie, we’re going to take off.”
Lance glanced past the two occupants between him and the window as the tarmac began to flash by. The acceleration pushed him back into his seat, then he felt the lift of the plane with a certain amount of exhilaration. Taking off always gave him a slight thrill.
When they reached cruising altitude and the announcement was made authorizing the use of electronic devices, he pulled his computer from beneath the seat in front of him and laid it on the tray table without opening it. He could draft a few emails to be sent when he could use Wi-Fi again, or read through the agenda and schedule for the conference he was attending in Daytona Beach. But the flight had one stop, though they didn’t have to change planes, so there was plenty of time. He could have taken a nonstop from San Francisco to Orlando and rented a car—Daytona was only about an hour’s drive—but the price of the flight was almost the same and by flying into Daytona, he saved the cost of a rental car. It was only a three-day conference, Wednesday through Friday, and he didn’t plan to do any touring. Everything he needed was within walking distance of the conference and resort center. With the time change and layover, he would arrive a little after five p.m. on the East Coast. He’d make it in time for the opening mixer this evening, kicking things off before the conference got into full swing Wednesday morning.
So, with seven empty hours ahead of him, Spence indulged in a little sightseeing right from his aisle seat two rows behind the sparkle woman. She’d booted up her computer and was working on what appeared to be PowerPoint. He recognized the program though he couldn’t make out anything on her screen. A business woman preparing for some sort of presentation. There was a fifty-fifty chance she’d continue on to Daytona. And if she did, there was a fifty-fifty chance she’d be attending the same conference. He’d checked the chamber of commerce and there were only two this week, one on ceramic processing science, and the one he was attending, the Vacuum Coating Expo. Both sounded utterly thrilling. He’d once attended a conference in the same hotel as the Romantic Times Convention. Man, those ladies knew how to party. He’d gotten himself invited to a couple of their shindigs.
So, was she ceramic science or vacuum coating? With her high cheekbones and glossy hair, she didn’t look like a scientist. But then what did a scientist look like these days? Something about her made him think of that Romantic Times Convention and sultry nights spent composing sexy prose. Of course, she might have been visiting a customer, supplier, or client. Perhaps it wasn’t business at all, and his chances of ending up in the same resort were nil.
Two stewardesses—what was the politically correct term for them these days?—rolled the drink cart down the center aisle. His lady ordered a tomato juice and a coffee with creamer and sugar, a two-fisted drinker. When the cart passed him, and he had his coffee on his closed laptop, he noticed the lipstick prints on her cup. The sight gave him a little jolt, tantalizing him with images of other places she could leave her lipstick prints.
Spence liked women. A lot. He usually managed to find companionship on these business trips. He didn’t have steady relationships, he’d never been married, never would. Once, long ago, there was a girl… But he’d decided he’d never go there again, and at forty-five years old, that was getting on toward thirty years ago. He didn’t know why this woman made him think of that. Perhaps it was the long dark hair, and luscious lips. She was the stuff of dreams, his dreams.
A few minutes after everyone was served, the stewardess came by with a trash bag and cleaned away the empties. The woman stowed her laptop and her tray table and rose from her seat. Tight jeans hugged her thighs. Beneath the sequined jacket she wore a peach-colored T-shirt over full breasts. Her curves were lush, alluring. High-heeled sandals added to her height, which was hard to gauge since he was seated. She was as pretty full frontal as she’d been in profile, heart-shaped lips, deep brown eyes, aristocratic Roman features.
As she passed, close enough to touch, to smell her sweet perfume—it hadn’t been his imagination at all—his eyes dropped to her left hand.
Diamonds and gold glittered on her ring finger.
Shit. She was married. And Spence didn’t poach on another man’s territory.