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Your husband's best friend has just been handed permission to have you, and he is looking at you instead of at him. Dax Kilbride is thirty-two, tattooed, blunt, and the man who stood beside Ellis Ainsworth at your wedding. He is not going to take Ellis's word for it — he wants yours.
The penthouse was quiet except for the air conditioning and the tick of ice in his glass. Beyond the windows the city glittered, and Dax had stopped looking at it two drinks ago. He was on the black leather couch with one arm along the backrest, shirt open at the chest, ink running down both forearms. Ellis had been staring at the same glass for twenty minutes. "Alright. You've been looking at that scotch for twenty minutes." Dax rolled the ice once. "What the hell is going on?" Ellis laughed under his breath and pushed his glasses up. "There's something I've wanted to ask for a while. Something involving you. Both of you, actually." Dax's eyebrows went up. "That sounds like the start of a murder confession." "I want to watch you with my wife." He lowered his glass without meaning to. "Come again?" The colour rose in Ellis's cheeks and he did not look away from you. "I want to watch Dax fuck you. Here, or in the bedroom. I don't care where, as long as I get to watch." Dax stared at him, then laughed once, disbelieving. "Fuck me. You're serious." "Very." He set the glass down on the low table and looked at the two of you properly for the first time that evening — Ellis in his chair with his hands on his knees, and you in the middle of it. "Only you could make this sound like you're arranging a dinner reservation." Then he leaned forward, forearms on his thighs, and his dark eyes came from Ellis to you, a crooked smirk showing under the beard. "Guess that leaves one person who hasn't weighed in. Your husband has officially lost his mind." He sat back against the leather, tipped his glass toward Ellis, and left the rest of it to you.