Unfaithful Read Online Free Page B

it wasn’t Olivia who took you deep into her mouth that night after the party…”
    Split-second pause.
    A smile—not wicked, but filled with something else Ryan’s yet to comprehend.
    “It was me that night, Ryan. Yours truly. Me.”
    Then Ryan is scrambling out of the car and running full force, arms flailing; branches and vines are stinging his face and cheeks as he sprints blindly into the darkness, eyes wide and mouth open in a silent scream. And Miles sits patiently, fingers tapping to some unnamed, noiseless beat, waiting for him to return, as he knows he will, sooner rather than later, to face his passions and his demons—two opposite ends of the same, god-damned spectrum—the same way he has—like a man….

PART TWO

Chapter 6
    She can still taste the salt air on her tongue—that is if she concentrates real hard, closes her eyes, shuts out the cacophony of noise coming from the machines in her office—three-quarter-inch tape; digital video; DVD player; audio; high-definition plasma screen hanging on one wall opposite her desk; another flat-screen on a stand to her left; laptop docked behind her, all vying for her attention. Her senses are on overload—what she’s come to expect as a television producer. For a moment, she forces everything to grind to a halt and pushes it down defiantly, leaning back in her executive chair as she swivels, glancing out the picturesque window without really seeing the steel and concrete beyond.
    Instead, she recalls the way warm, coarse sand felt on her toes as she maneuvered between lapping waves. Ryan’s fingers interlaced with hers as they walked the shore every morning, his brown skin a stark contrast to the white sand beneath their feet. Ryan cracking jokes, stopping every several feet to bend down, examine a shell, a smooth piece of colored glass, or discarded beer bottle fragments caressed by Caribbean seas. Leaning in, he runs a hand along the small of her back, kissing her neck at the spot that makes her instantly weak, under her chin just off the mid-line, knees faltering from his feather-like touch, and Miles rushing up behind them, patting her ass playfully as he directs them to “get a room” before taking off at a dead run. Olivia’s not far behind, clad in a neon bikini, her muscular calves flexing and locs flying as she digs into the sand, attempting to gain on her husband. Ryan and Carly follow close behind, refusing to give up this daily ritual to Miles.
    Later, they all sprawl onto hard-packed sand, panting and sweating, laughing and boasting of previous nights, drinking binges featuring liberal amounts of Mount Gay rum and “wukkin’ up,” that high-energy gyrating dance that Olivia and Carly have come to fancy—their husbands and Bajan (locals), too! Racing mini mokes across the island along meandering roads that turn back on themselves as acres of sugarcane pass them by; hour-long naps in oversize hammocks strung between silk cotton trees; and gin rummy played on the veranda of their ocean-front villa.
    These thoughts alone make her smile.
    The cottage she shared with her husband for nine days was breathtaking: open air, vaulted ceilings, an explosion of colors, whitewashed hallways; orange rust living room and pale yellow dining room both beachside; cinnamon red study/library and vibrant blue bedroom. Carly could lose herself in any of these rooms and the eclectic artwork of Barbados natives for hours, while sitting cross-legged on the hardwood floor leafing through a Zane novel, Ryan’s face in her lap, eyes closed, a pair of headphones adorning his head as he bops to melodic jazz. In the evening, they dined on couscous and fried flying fish, made love on an overstuffed mattress, windows and drapes thrown open to the elements, slow spins from a ceiling fan, sea sounds invading their domain, washing over their damp bodies as Carly used a goose-down pillow to suppress her orgasmic-filled cries. Later, they’d meet Miles and Olivia at the bar,