Page 63 of The Write Choice

An absolutely delicious thrill passes through me, raising the hairs on my arms and making me shiver. I wanted to rile him up a little, but he turned that right back on me. A second point goes to Brandon. From the wry smile on his face, he knows exactly what he’s doing, too.

Once the stretches are done, Brittani takes over for the warm-up. “Okay, first, we’re going to practice gripping the poles. No spins yet.” She directs the last statement at Ben, who has the good sense to look sheepish. “Face the pole, everyone. Now reach your hands up above your head and put them on the pole. One on top of the other. Good. Now, take the knee of your right leg and press the inside of it to the pole.” She and Chelsea walk back and forth checking our form. “Perfect. Now, wrap your shin around the pole to grip it.”

Chelsea stops at Brandon and squats down. “No, not quite.”

“You know shins are basically bone, right? They don’t bend like that,” he grumbles.

I laugh, and he whips his head around to look at me, his eyes shining. I smile back, then nod to Chelsea on the ground next to him. “Better pay attention,” I caution.

He turns back just as she grips his ankle and wraps it the way she wants it around the pole. “Like that,” she says.

He inhales sharply through his teeth, and I chuckle again. Down the line, Daniel is having similar issues. He hops on his standing leg a few times to fight falling over.

“You didn’t have dance lessons in your fancy private schools?” Mac taunts. I have to say, I thought she was demure and sweet when we were here last for their wedding, but the lady has some bite, and I like it.

Jenny snorts, and Ben lifts himself up on the pole, using the momentum to spin himself around.

“No spinning yet,” Brittani and Chelsea say in unison. Ben groans like a petulant teenager.

“Okay,” Brittani continues over the music. “Now, you’re going to practice pulling yourself up and down on the pole. Just get a feel for it.” She grabs a pole and sets herself up to demonstrate. “Push off the floor with your back leg, then pull yourself up with your arms until your chest touches the pole, then back down. Do that a few times on each leg.”

We do, though some of us have more success than others. Brandon tries, to his credit, but after a while, he stops and shakes his hands out, wiping them on his sweatpants. He takes the opportunity to watch me, and that gleam is back in his eyes. He’s starting to look almost feral, watching me raise and lower myself on the pole.

I plant both feet firmly on the ground and put my hands on my hips, which makes his hazel eyes flame even more as they land where my hands rest. “You okay?” I ask quietly.

His eyes meet mine again. “No,” he says simply.

I meant to provoke him today. That was the whole point—to make him uncomfortable like he did to me by moving us out here, leaving me in the dust every night again, and making promises he obviously can’t keep. What I meant was for him to be embarrassed at swinging himself around a pole. I didn’t mean to be watching his semi-hard dick, barely hidden by his sexy-as-hell gray sweatpants.

Realizing I need to own the result of my too-elaborate prank, I straighten my shoulders. Unfortunately, that has the effect of pushing my breasts out, a movement Brandon does not miss. His Adam’s apple bobs.

His gaze lingers on me for a second more, then a new song comes on, and he snaps out of it. He turns back to his pole and situates himself, then starts raising and lowering himself in time with the music.

I’m no saint. Any warm-blooded woman watching her husband pull himself up and down against a metal pole is going to start thinking about sex. I’m not an exception to this rule. But it’s been so long. Which, yes, is somewhat my doing, though I like to think that if he had been home before I had fallen asleep more often these past few weeks, I wouldn’t have held out.

But, fuck. My husband is hot right now, all rippling muscles and sensual motions. I want to tear him out of here this very moment, and I only have myself to blame for the warmth building in my core.

Luckily, the desire becomes somewhat easier to ignore as we transition to doing some spins, much to Ben’s delight. Watching Brandon flop around the pole is much less sexy than watching him practically make love to the thing in the warm-ups. I manage to get a few good spins by the end of class, and I know Brandon catches some of them by the way he’s looking at me as we all gather our things to leave.

As we say our goodbyes, the other two couples are practically drooling over each other, so it seems they had a similar experience. I suppose I can see this as a service to our new friend group; I got all of them laid tonight, that’s for sure.

Our kids aren’t used to having babysitters, so we drive straight home. By some miracle, they’re both in bed and Maria is dozing on the couch when we arrive. I say a half-hearted good night, then make my way quickly up to our bedroom to shower and change.

Brandon enters the room just as I’m peeling my sweaty sports bra over my head. My back is to him, but I quickly grab a shirt and hold it in front of me. Not like he hasn’t seen it all before, but after having his eyes on me throughout a ninety-minute sexy dance class, I’m feeling slightly modest.

“Do you, uh, need the shower?” I ask over my shoulder.

“I’m pretty sticky.” I hear a drawer open and close as he takes a new shirt out and lays it on the bed. “You can go first. If you want.” His voice sounds strained.

I nod, but don’t move. There is a dampness starting to build between my thighs that I’m certain is not sweat. I face him, and his eyes immediately dance to where I’m holding the shirt in front of me and back to my face. He’s shirtless, standing there in only gray sweatpants, his ink on full display. I’m just about to cross the room and tear those fucking pants off of him when he speaks.

“At least four of us are getting laid tonight, if their body language was any indication,” he jokes, though it’s laced with bitterness.

That’s enough to snap me out of whatever foolish thing I was just about to do. “Are you going to try to guilt me into fucking you?” I try to keep my voice down so as not to wake the kids, but there’s no mistaking the anger in it.

He runs a hand through his hair. “No, Cat—”

“Do not call me that,” I hiss. “Do not. You keep calling me that, but it doesn’t mean what it used to.”