Best Served Cold

  Best Served Cold

  An Erotic Short Story by Dee Valentine

  c. 2012 Dee Valentine

  All rights reserved.

  "Who is she?"

  The grainy photo Ellie held in her hand, shot through a sheer lace curtain with a telephoto lens, was indisputable evidence of Ethan's cheating. Even through the window curtain, her husband's bare ass gleamed white as he leaned over the kitchen table and the comely young woman with whom he was so enthusiastically rutting.

  She had gone into this marriage with great expectations, but eleven years of marriage to Ethan Sterling had crushed them all. It had started out as a love match, but his coldness, his authoritarian ways, and his incessant lying had rung love's death knell a long time ago. Now, this. Ellie stared at the photo, repulsed by it, yet unable to tear her eyes away. Like a motorist passing a fatal traffic accident, she was compelled to witness these last, gasping breaths of her once-happy marriage.

  Harry Callahan, the private investigator she'd hired to monitor her husband's activities, said, "Her name is Alyssa James. She's a secretary at his law firm. She's twenty-three years old."

  The corners of Ellie's mouth turned up in a wry smile. "Of course she is."

  The kindness in Callahan's melted-chocolate eyes was hard to take. It felt too much like rubbing salt into the wound. "I'm sorry," he said.

  "Thank you," she said. "May I take the photos?"

  "They're yours. You paid for them."

  She tucked them into her shoulder bag, stood and shook his hand. His grip was firm and confident and surprisingly intimate. "Sometimes," he said, those dark eyes studying hers with an odd intensity that caused a tiny fluttering in her stomach, "I really hate my job."

  Outside his office, on the street, a brisk March wind bit into her tender skin. Ellie drew on her leather gloves. The early winter twilight had changed the look of the city. It was nearing dinnertime, and rush-hour traffic ebbed and flowed as street lights winked on around her. This was a part of town where she'd never spent any time. She'd found Callahan in the yellow pages, and had taken a taxi out here to meet him at his office. Glancing around, she noted the shabbiness that she'd missed earlier because she was too intent on her mission to pay attention to the view through the cab's window. From where she stood on the sidewalk, near the mouth of an alley filled with overflowing and aromatic Dumpsters, she could see a half-dozen neon Budweiser signs displayed in dirty windows up and down the claustrophobic little street.

  Inside her coat pocket, her cell phone chirped. Ellie pulled it out and checked the display. It was a text message from Ethan. Working late tonight. Don't hold dinner.

  Working late. Hah! She finally knew the truth about all those late nights when he'd claimed to be working. She knew what he was really doing. Or, more precisely, who he was doing. Not so long ago, she'd been the young, starry-eyed inamorata totally bedazzled by the handsome and charming Ethan Sterling, Esq. Those three letters after his name had made him seem classy. Desirable. But it hadn't taken Ellie long to figure out that the only kind of class Ethan Sterling understood was the classes he took in law school.

  A half-dozen scumbag lawyer jokes rattled around inside her head, but she refused to acknowledge them. Instead, she did something totally out of character: she slung her leather purse strap over her shoulder, took a deep breath, and marched into the nearest bar.

  As the door banged shut behind her, several men looked up, gave her a lengthy perusal, then returned to whatever they'd been doing.

  It had been years since she'd been inside a place like this. Since before she and Ethan were married. He preferred the country club, but Ellie had been raised in a working-class family, and during her college years, she'd spent many a night with her friends, closing down bars like this one. Of course, that was then, and this was now. Now, she was the wife of a prominent attorney, and her very presence in this place was mildly scandalous. For a moment, she allowed herself to wallow in that scandal. Ethan would have a cow if he ever caught her here. All the more reason to stay. After all, it wasn't as though he'd be home for dinner anytime soon.

  The air held a yeasty smell, the remnant of decades of beer glasses that had been filled from the taps. Dark wooden booths lined one wall, and on the opposite wall, a row of red leatherette stools bellied up to the bar. Over the bar, a television was playing the evening news with the volume muted and the captions on. Somewhere in the back of the room, the silence was split by the crack of cue against ball.

  Business was spotty; at dinnertime, only a quarter of the seats were taken. Ellie slid onto a stool at the bar, set down her purse, and took off her coat as the bartender approached. He was cute. Young. And bored. He flashed her a wide, dazzling grin, and said, "Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she has to walk into mine."

  "Impressive. You don't look old enough to know that movie."

  "I'm old enough to know a lot of things." He leaned on both forearms over the bar. "So what's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?"

  "Drinking. Give me a Scotch, neat." She opened her purse, pulled out the photos, and slapped them down on the bar. The cute young bartender returned with her drink, set it down, and picked up the photos. Shuffled through them.

  "Yikes," he said. "Your husband?"

  She raised her glass. "He's fucking his twenty-three-year-old secretary. Cheers. I'm now a cliché."

  "I'd be drinking, too. That has to hurt."

  "I'm way past hurt. That train left the station years ago. Pissed off, yes. Insulted? Definitely. Do I want to kill him? Absolutely. With my bare hands. But do I give a shit about him? Not really. Not since about 2007."

  He pulled a glass from the rack over his head, picked up a clean cloth, and began polishing it. "You do know what they say about revenge?" He held up the glass to check it for spots. "That it's a dish best served cold? You look like somebody who'd be really good at revenge." He hung the glass back in the rack. "I get off work in—" He checked his watch. "—an hour and twenty minutes. I'd be more than happy to offer my services."

  She took a slug of Scotch and eyed him over the rim of her glass. With that killer smile and those big blue eyes, he was absolutely adorable. And barely legal. Beneath her silk blouse, her long-neglected nipples came to sudden and unexpected life, puckering and yearning in his direction. "Sweetie," she said with genuine regret, "I'd be more than happy to take you up on your offer if you were a day older than twenty-five. But I'm thirty-something, and you're just a baby."

  "I'm twenty-three," he said. "And very mature for my age."

  Drink still in hand, she propped an elbow on the bar, rested her chin on her palm, and studied him intently. "I can see that. But I'm still nearly old enough to be your mother. And you're the same age as my husband's slutty secretary, and I refuse to lower myself to his level. So while I appreciate the offer, I'm afraid I'll have to pass."

  "The loss," he said with a gallantry far beyond his years, "is all mine."

  "Aren't you a darling?" she said, and set down her empty glass. "Hit me again."

  She watched as those big, strong hands refilled her glass, her traitorous nipples continuing to swell, until she feared they would burst through the soft satin of her bra. Ellie wondered if he could see them, those hard little peaks pressing against her shirt. She couldn't imagine how he could miss seeing them. The idea excited her. It had been a long time since she'd been excited.

  She picked up her glass and stared into the amber liquid. "Do you have a name, my young friend?"

  He gave her a knowing grin. "Elwood."

  She raised an eyebrow. "Elwood? As in Elwood Blues?"

  "As in Elwood Senior. My dad."

  "Ah. Well, I'm Ellie. How cute is that? Elwood and Ellie? We sound like the Bobbsey Twins."

  His eyebrows drew together in puzzlement. "Who?"

  "Never mind." Ellie smiled at him. He really was adorable, if far too young to be of any use to her. At his age, youthful enthusiasm would supersede finesse. If she planned to take a page from Ethan's book, she needed a man with a little age on him. One who knew exactly what he was doing, and could get the job done properly.

  Of their own volition, her thoughts wandered to Harry Callahan, he of the charming demeanor and the melted-chocolate eyes. Now there was a man of a certain age who could probably give as good as he got. Good-looking in a fortyish way. Really good-looking. She wondered if he was married. He hadn't been wearing a ring. Not that she'd been checking. She'd merely noticed the absence of a ring when he handed her the photos of her no-good, philandering, son-of-a-bitch of a husband.

  Somehow, her glass had magically emptied itself again. She didn't remember finishing it. Ellie plunked it down on the bar. "Elwood!" she shouted. "Another drink."

  The kid returned from the far end of the bar. Studying her face, he said, "You're not driving, are you?"

  "No, but I may drink until I'm shitfaced. I haven't been shitfaced in years. I can just read the headlines now: Prominent Attorney's Wife Arrested for Drunken Walking."

  "So your husband's a lawyer? That explains it. They're all assholes."

  As she drank her third Scotch, she considered Elwood's revenge theory. Turned it over and over inside her head. In eleven years of marriage, she'd never cheated on her husband. Had never even considered it. But circumstances had changed. His tryst with the nubile Alyssa had been Ethan's version of tossing down the gauntlet. The next move was up to her. And revenge, that dish that was so tasty when served cold, grew more appealing with each sip o
f Scotch.

  She finished the drink and slid limply from the bar stool. Elwood came running, helped her with her coat, and offered to call her a cab. "You're a doll," she said, standing on wobbly toes and kissing his cheek. "But I have to see a man about a horse."

  Outside, that brutal March wind slapped her in the face hard enough to bring her to instant sobriety. And sensibility. What was she thinking? Harry Callahan had undoubtedly gone home shortly after she left his establishment. It was frigid, windy, and dark, and she was in an unfamiliar, seedy neighborhood on the wrong side of town. Alone, on foot, and under the influence. Did she have a death wish? She needed to march back inside and take Elwood up on his offer of a taxi. Go home, climb into a hot bubble bath, and spend some time contemplating her navel, and the future—if, indeed, there was any future—of her marriage.

  Then she glanced in the direction of his office, and saw a single light still burning. For an instant, she hesitated, thinking about those eleven years of marriage. Eleven years of fidelity. Eleven years of—oh, hell, who was she kidding? She wasn't naïve enough to believe that Alyssa was Ethan's first. Surely it was time for a little goose and gander reciprocity.

  Callahan's front door was locked. She banged on it with a little more force than necessary, watched him get up from his desk and walk through the reception area, squinting to see who was knocking. He unlocked the door, swung it open.

  "Mrs. Sterling," he said in surprise.

  "Mr. Callahan," she said. "Are you married?"

  He raised an eyebrow. "No. Did you forget something?"

  "No. Engaged?"

  Amusement began to light those melted-chocolate eyes. "Not that I recall."

  "Otherwise attached to any significant other?"

  "Negative."

  "Perfect." She swept past him and headed straight for his private office, at the rear of the building. "Lock that door back up, please. How do you feel about revenge?"

  He followed a few paces behind her. "Revenge?"

  "Yes. You see, Mr. Callahan, after I left your office tonight, I stopped into that little bar across the street, and I met the sweetest young man there. He actually tried to pick me up, but I like my men a little more seasoned, if you know what I mean. Anyway, Elwood—that's his name—has this theory about revenge. You know how they say it's a dish best served cold? It just so happens that my feelings toward my husband have cooled considerably over the past, oh, five or six years. And I happen to find you extremely attractive. As a tool for revenge, I think you'd be outstanding."

  "Mrs. Sterling? Have you been drinking?"

  She leaned her ass against his desk and fluttered her eyelashes. "Why should it matter, Mr. Callahan? Are you a Mormon?"

  The amusement spread from his eyes to his mouth. "Not as far as I know," he said.

  She peeled off the coat and tossed it onto a chair. Stepped out of her shoes. "And our investigator/client relationship means that whatever happens in this office stays in this office, unless I decide to make it, ah…public?"

  He was studying her legs beneath the dress. "As long as nothing illegal goes on, then yes. What happens here, stays here."

  "And are you interested in fucking me, Mr. Callahan?"

  His gaze shot to her face, and she saw that she'd shocked him. He cleared his throat and said, "Why, Mrs. Sterling, are you using me for nefarious purposes?"

  "I'm using you, Mr. Callahan, for sex. Revenge sex. I hope you won't mind."

  "To be truthful, I've already spent more than a little time considering that possibility, and I'd actually hoped you might reach this conclusion."

  "Then perhaps you should close that office door."

  He closed the door and said, "I can see your hard little nipples, pressing against your shirt."

  "If you play your cards right, Mr. Callahan, you'll get to see a lot more of them."

  "Under the circumstances," he said, "I think it wouldn't be inappropriate for you to call me Harry."

  "Harry," she said, unbuttoning the top button of her blouse, "I'm a thirty-eight-year-old neglected housewife. Extremely neglected." While he watched, she undid the second button. The third. "My husband, who promised to cherish me until death, is fucking a twenty-three-year-old bimbo." She undid the fourth and last button, dropped the blouse to the floor and reached behind her to release the clasp to her bra. "What I need, Harry, is to be fucked. Fucked good and hard. Do you have any idea how long it's been since I was fucked good and hard?"

  He coughed into his hand and said, "No."

  She unclasped the bra, dropped it to the floor, watched as his face flushed a lovely shade of pink. "Neither do I, Harry. That's how long it's been."

  "May I mention that you have world-class breasts?"

  "Thank you. They're all mine. Would you like to touch them? I'd really like it if you touched them."

  Gaze still glued to her breasts, he slowly, methodically, tugged his shirt tails from his pants, unbuttoned his shirt, and dropped it on the floor. He had the body of a twenty-year-old. Hard, sculpted, muscular. Smooth, except for a light dusting of hair on his forearms. She was suddenly very wet between her legs. "Well," she said, almost purring. "Hello."

  He moved toward her, and she forgot to breathe. Stopped in front of her and just stood there, swaying slightly, as if he were tuned in to some radio frequency she couldn't hear. She waited impatiently, wanting his hands on her breasts, wanting the cock that bulged behind his zipper driving into her, again and again and again.

  She closed her eyes in sweet anticipation, waiting for his hands to touch her aching breasts. Instead, he spun her around, wrapped those lovely arms around her from behind, and pulled her up hard against him, her naked back against his naked chest, his swollen cock digging into her ass. Raised his hands and finally cupped her breasts. "Oh," she breathed, "oh, yes," and he lifted them, kneaded them, gently tugged on her nipples. She threw her head back against his shoulder, her long, auburn curls crushed between them, and moaned. In another lifetime, a hundred years ago, it had been Ethan doing this to her, but that had been so long ago that she could barely remember; and it didn't matter any longer because it was Harry Callahan whose hands squeezed and stroked and tortured her until she cried out in pleasure, nearly orgasmic just from the feel of his hands on breasts that hadn't been touched in such a very long time.

  "Ellie," he began. "May I call you Ellie?"

  "It only seems fair, since you told me to call you Harry."

  "Ellie, I think it would be poetic justice if we cuckolded your husband by fucking each other the same way he was fucking his secretary. What do you think of that idea?"

  "I think it's an excellent idea, Harry."

  He bent her over the massive mahogany desk. Its surface was cool and smooth against her bare breasts. He lifted her skirt and ran the palms of both hands over her exposed flesh. "You have a spectacularly lovely ass, Ellie."

  "Thank you, Harry. You can't know how many years it's been since anybody told me that."

  "That cretin you're married to deserves to be cuckolded." He peeled down her virginal white cotton panties and they dropped to the floor. "I can't imagine why a man like that would neglect a woman like you."

  "But you can make that all better, Harry. Heal the wound and wound the heel, all in one fell swoop."

  "Which is exactly what I plan to do."

  Behind her, she heard the rasp of a zipper, and a rustling sound as he adjusted his clothing. And then she felt the heat of a huge, thick cock pressing against her ass. "Oh, my," she said. "You are a big one."

  "All the better to service you with, my dear." He took that huge cock of his in one hand, slid it between her thighs, rubbed it against her moist cleft.

  "Oh," she said.

  With two fingers, he spread her pussy open, slid the tip of his cock along that wet, glistening opening. She twitched and bucked, breathless, unable to contain her excitement as the head of that rock-hard, silken shaft brushed against her clit.

  "More," she demanded.

  "You're very, very wet," he said as he continued to tease her with just the head of that big, beautiful cock, rubbing it against her, sliding it back and forth until she nearly went mad.

  "Deeper," she ordered.

  "Like this?" He slid it into her, just a little bit, just enough to wring a sob from her throat.