Despite climbing the corporate ladder and earning all the material trappings of success, there’s still one thing that forty-one-year-old Leela still desperately craves. But when her husband agrees to gift her the ultimate erotic thrill, she discovers a dark side of desire that thrusts her into an unexpected world of danger, rage and gut-wrenching uncertainty.

All I want
Is to stand barefoot in the rain
To sing, to dance
To strip from my clothing

I want to lose it all. Everything.
Bra
Panties
Let them tumble to the ground

I want to walk in the sparkling drops from God unjudged by the thoughts of man
To unearth pleasures that have become entombed in decades of proper living
I want to be free
I want to be me
I just want to be
Liberated

Chapter 1

I have this desire inside of me, deep and insatiable. I can feel it pulsing like an unstoppable flood. It’s anchored in my womb, primal and intrinsically tied to my being … suppressed for far too long. From the outside looking in, my life is picturesque – perfect even, to some, but there’s an essential part of me clamoring for freedom. Dying for attention. Grasping for repeated orgasms of cataclysmic proportion. In the midnight of my soul is a labyrinth of licentious thoughts that leads to one man. His name is Michael. It’s been almost three years since I’ve seen him, but later tonight we’re finally going to be alone again. God, how I’ve been waiting for this!

Michael and I met at a time when my life was much simpler. When I was younger, before scaling the corporate ladder at heel-breaking pace. Before the estate and vacation home, before I’d settled down into restrained comfort and unwitting, self-imprisoning portrayals of perfection. Michael was a fling who was supposed to disappear into the forgotten. But he never did. We never had a traditional relationship and seemingly flowed into each other’s lives only during bad times. It was probably better that way. Michael and I are volcanic.

“I don’t know what it is about you that’s so intoxicating,” he always says, “I can never get enough.” He freely admits that no matter what we start chatting about inevitably ends up with us being torturously aroused. “You just have this effect on me. Talking to you sends embers of desire rippling under my skin.”

“Likewise.” I blush.

“I couldn’t stop them if I wanted to,” he adds incredulously.

“Neither can I,” I typically respond. The feeling was mutual.

There’s always a dormant lust for Michael in me. Memories of our moments together bring flurries to my stomach. Sighs of pleasure run through me as I close my eyes and lose myself in thoughts of him. He is a spectacular lover, and I craved time alone with him for longer than I wanted to admit.

Our attraction was effortless – the kind of magnetism that’s dangerous if not carefully managed. Addictive. So yes, perhaps it was best that the universe only allowed us to collide every so often. But tonight was the night. I’d waited long enough. I needed this man inside me.

“Jameson?” I called out to my protection dog to shower him with love before my chauffeur arrived to shuttle me to the airport. “Come here, big boy!” I was such a sucker for this Rottweiler. He cost an average American’s annual salary but was worth every penny. I felt safer around him than the bodyguard my husband hired for me after our second home was burglarized while I was there alone. “Are you gonna miss me, Jameson? You better!” I touched my nose to his and scratched his ears.

Yes, I’m married, but it’s not what you think. My husband is sort of a cuckold. He knows about my feelings of sexual deprivation and has obliged in my quest to quench my body’s thirst elsewhere. Although quite honestly, I’ve never done anything like this before. I’ve never flown to an exotic island to meet another man with whom I’d only had text and phone call flirt sessions for the greater part of a year – that’s how long it had been since Michael and I started chatting again.

I’ve only been with one other person since getting married but I wasn’t as mentally prepared for the act as I’d thought … so I never called him again. It’s different now. Michael is the exception, and my husband is a strange kind of amazing for allowing this escapade.

I really don’t like the term cuckold, however, because it has a negative connotation. I love my husband dearly. He has taken my well of carnal urges and encouraged the help of other men to fulfill my needs whether he’s involved or not. It’s not that he’s inadequate in bed – he’s actually amazing. He’s just not enough. I need it a lot. My body is an ocean of sexual energy potent beyond measure. Besides, he revels in hearing about me being with another man and fantasizes about it openly with me. It’s different and taboo for most couples, but I’ve grown used to it. The fact that my husband’s desires allows me to be with Michael and not feel guilty is sublime.

There was just one problem: Michael didn’t know I was married and I still wasn’t sure I should tell him. I didn’t want to scare him off.

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