Nia Chambers

It’s Friday night, I’m at a dive bar, and I’m looking for my next Prince Charming.

Okay, I take it back, that would be the old Nia. I’m not looking for the perfect man. I’m not looking for the man that will sweep me off my feet and make my heart giggle.

I’m looking for the most attractive, most devious, foul-languaged man imaginable. A man to make my heart pound a million miles an hour. A man that says, “Marriage ain’t in my agenda, but your vagina is!”

Or…something like that, I guess.

Either way, I feel it in my gut that tonight will be the night.

Well, probably because I planned that tonight would be the night. Because I can’t do anything without preparation. But that’s beside the point.

This was planned, even though spontaneity was intended to be the key. When my husband asked me recently what the most off-the-wall fantasy of mine would be and I answered, “I don’t know. I don’t have one” with absolute honesty, that was apparently not a good enough answer. Instead, Ian took a peek at the most recent romance book on our nightstand, read the synopsis, and said, “Yep, we can do that.”

It just so happens that that book was about a married woman roleplaying with her husband in a bar, pretending they don’t know each other. I don’t normally read kinky books like that, but of course I was that day. Just my luck.

So here I am. Looking for the dirty, nasty man that will whisper rough-throated explicit words into my ear. My husband.

The issue is that I can’t find the man I’m looking for. Not through the crowds of humming people, laughing bar patrons, and the wild younger crowd gyrating on the dance floor. Not with the sound of alt rock pounding through the speakers. Not through the haze of smoke and the hoppy smell of beer that invades the air just as much.

Geez, I’m a mom with twins at home.

What the heck am I doing here?

Ah, right. My husband is a maniac. I almost forgot.

I tilt my body against the bartop, consciously pushing my breasts closer together, as if it’s a mating call for him. I swear Ian could spot these puppies a million miles away.

Instead, I get the bartender asking if I want another drink. He seems more annoyed than turned on by my display, though. I don’t blame him. Here’s just here to get a job done in peace, all the while we’re acting out our fantasy.

“Oh, no thanks,” I respond with a small wave. “I’m just looking for someone.”

“You’ll find ‘em with tits like those,” he says with a lop-sided grin and a wink that seems kind rather than cruel. Like if Santa were in a biker club.

Okay, so maybe this guy isn’t too bad.

“Thank…you…” I edge out because I’ve never been one to accept compliments well, even after years of Ian telling me how hot I am as if it’s his job.

“Well, you know, not that I judge,” the bar Santa continues, “But you’re still wearing your wedding ring. Might have better luck without.”

“Oh, I’m not–” I start, but then I hear the man I’m looking for.

The man I came here to see.

“Come here often?” he asks.

I want to roll my eyes at the words. Genuinely. I do. It’s an old pickup line that would have had me throwing my drink in his face in my early thirties. But now? This is the voice of the man that didn’t give up on me when I was in my drink throwing phase. This is the man that said I love you so quickly in our relationship because that’s just who he is: A man who sees what he wants and claims it. This is also the man that pretends to be a monster to make our children laugh, that bakes waffles for my birthday, and the man that goes down on me most weekend mornings right before screwing me senseless.

This is the man I came here for.

Bartender Santa curls his lips in as if biting back words–quite judgy for a man who claims not to be–and walks away. Once again, not that I blame him.

I twist on the spot and come face to face with those familiar ice blue eyes.

“You’re flirtin’ with someone else?” Ian asks.

I giggle. “What’s with the accent?”

He chuckles in response, low and raspy and not him at all. Ah, ever the drama king. Staying in character, I see.

“Little lady, this is how I talk,” he says.

I should laugh again, and I do, but it’s only because his dedication to this whole event is actually working a little bit. It’s the rough voice he’s put on. The accent that is much too similar to someone in Sons of Anarchy. A man who wears leather pants or something. And for some reason, I’m getting a bit nervous.

“You know, I have a husband at home,” I say.

His thick black eyebrows rise then fall quickly.

“Lucky guy.”

I shrug, biting my lip and taking the plunge into character acting the best I can.

I say, “Clearly not lucky enough if I’m here with you.”

He tongues the inside of his cheek.

Aha! Didn’t expect me to play, did you, baby?

“Clearly not. And, woman, I couldn’t help myself. Saw you across the bar and thought, ‘That’s the best damn titties I’ve ever seen.’ I wasn’t about to pass these up.”

Knew it.

“What confidence to think you could sway a married woman,” I say.

“I think I’m warranted to have some confidence, sweetheart.”

He presses into me and I gasp. Even through his jeans, I can feel how hard he is. Not that this is surprising. He’s a foot taller than me and his large hand, now reaching up to graze along the edge of my collarbone, spans most of my neck. And you know the saying about tall men with big hands…well, let’s just say the rumors aren’t untrue.

I tilt my head to the side.

“You scoundrel,” I breathe out.

“The worst of the worst.”

“Baddest man in the west?”

“How’d you guess?”

“And what’s your name?”

“Calamity Joe.”

I bark out a laugh. I can’t help myself. “Oh, come on, Ian.”

“Shh,” he says in his normal, wonderful Ian-y voice. The boy next door voice that’s kind and gentle and likely does not wear leather ever. He’s grinning. It’s his smile, the smile that radiates through to my soul. “You’re ruining the illusion.”

He bends down, trailing his nose along the conch of my ear and, even now, over ten years later, I’m swooning under his warm breath, loving the feel of his lips running along any part of me.

I laugh. “Ian, we don’t have to do this. It was one book.”

“Yes, but I want to keep things spicy. Plus, it was your idea to be kinkier.”

“What!” I say through more laughter, pressing my hands to his chest. “This was totally your idea.”

“Okay, this was, sure,” he says with an equal laugh before lowering his voice again, adopting the gently swaying words like a cowboy in the West. “But you’re weirdly lovin’ it, sweetheart.”

“Is it weird to love my husband’s voice?”

“Nah, you’re lovin’ this accent more.”

It’s thick and heavy, raspy like its got the bite of a lifelong smoker. He’s been watching too much Deadwood.

“It’s alright,” I say. Though, I can’t deny the pool of warmth spreading down my stomach to between my thighs.

“Tell me you don’t love a cowboy,” he says, almost a whisper.

“I love my husband,” I say with a snort. A noise I only make in front of him because he doesn’t mind when I’m a dork. “Oh, did you fix the kitchen table, by the way?”

“Yeah, I can wood glue the leg back,” he says, “But, no marriage talk”–a voice change–“You wan’ me to do things with wood, right?”

“Fine,” I sigh, breathing him in, the warm fresh scent of cinnamon and spice, like a comforting blanket laying over me. “If you wanna play, let’s play.”

“Yes,” he says in a purr, a tone that rumbles over me, stiffening my spine.

My thighs clench closer together.

Holy–

I continue with a shaky breath, “Okay, cowboy, what would you do to me if you had the chance?”

“Well, darlin’, I’d take you into that bathroom over there.”

I peer over his shoulder at the wooden walls and creaky floors leading to the two separate bathroom stalls.

“Men or women’s restroom?” I ask because planning is key.

He laughs, and I can tell the response is more Ian than Calamity Joe.

“The men’s. Door unlocked. Because if someone walks in, I want them to know you belong to me.” His hand snakes around my hip, pulling me closer. “I’d bend you over that sink, have your hands grab the mirror’s edge, and trail my thumb down to that already wet pussy.”

“Ian,” I breathe. Not that I’m not accustomed to his language. He has a foul mouth in the bedroom, but we are in public for Christ’s sake.

“You like it when I’m slow too,” he continues. “When I take my time. You like the sound of my belt. The anticipation.”

He’s not wrong. And my body knows it. My nipples harden against his shirt.

Wait, is he wearing flannel? When did he go out and buy flannel?

Goodness gracious, Ian.

“You still with me, sweetheart?” he rumbles into my ear.

The warm breath brings me back, sends me whirling back into the fantasy, and I nod.

“Good,” he says. “I’d play with you a bit. Get you even more worked up. Not like you’d need it. Not like you’d be thinking of anything but wantin’ me inside you in that moment. So, I’m a good man, and I’d oblige. I’d flip that little skirt up, pull aside that tiny pink thong I know you’re wearin’, and dive in. I can tell you’re a noisy woman, but I’d let you moan. I’d let the whole bar know I’m givin’ my woman exactly what she wants. And even though you can’t take all of me, you’re a good girl and you want to please your cowboy so I know you’d try to.”

I can barely breathe.

“Would you be a good girl, Nia?” Ian asks. His accent is gone. I just nod in response. “Good. Because I want to make sure I hear you when you hit that height of pleasure.”

“Yes,” I say, the words barely coming out.

“I want to hear you say that Calamity–”

“IAN!”

The sounds of bar come rushing back in, the bathroom fantasy lost in the oblivion, and Ian is laughing, his hand on my lower back as he holds me tighter against him, winding his nose into my neck, kissing a line across it, continuing to have his gentle, exciting chuckles run across my chest like little embers.

And, god, do I love him.

I can’t help but pull apart and look up at him. The strong jaw, the curl of his black locks now slightly peppered with gray, and the smile filled with years of never-ending laughter–a smile that I know is reflecting back at him because how can I not smile in his presence?

But, as his smile lowers, I feel that twinge in my gut again.

I look over his shoulder and shrug.

“But seriously, do you…do you wanna? You know?” I nod my head toward the bathroom doors.

His eyebrows rise to the top of his hairline.

“Nia Chambers,” he says, looking this way and that. “Naughty woman.”

“Shh, it’s Calamity Jill to you.”

He smiles, slow and steady, before answering in the thickest accent so far.

“Yes ma’am.”