“Good. Then you can fake everything else. Shower your man with adoration, and you leave no room for another woman to take your place. Men are like children. They constantly need positive reinforcement. And if they don’t get that, they settle for negative reinforcement.”
“You mean, they cheat?” Lacey interjects, her ice blue eyes narrowed into slits. She purses her doctor-enhanced lips, making them look like two giant wads of bubble gum.
“Correct. Not because the woman is more beautiful or younger, but more so for the fact that she makes him feel like fucking Superman. Invincible. All-powerful. They want to believe the fantasy.”
Lacey stands so that every eye is drawn to her, and places a hand on her narrow hip. “So if it has nothing to do with age or beauty, why are they fooling around with these Pop-Tarts fresh outta high school?”
A few ladies murmur in agreement. Maryanne Carrington even throws in an approving “Mmmm hmmm.”
“Honestly? Intelligence. Those girls are easily impressed, thus easy to bed. A bottle of champagne, a limo and it’s pretty much a done deal. They don’t want someone they have to work to seduce. That’s what they have you for.”
“So they want an easy lay?”
“Precisely,” I nod.
“But that doesn’t make sense,” Lacey refutes, shaking her head in disbelief. “We’re their wives. Of course they could come to us for sex whenever they want!”
“Really?” I cross the threshold of my lectern and stride over to where she stands flustered and unconvinced. I invade her space, stepping in closer than what would be deemed comfortable. But that’s exactly what I need from her: I need her uncomfortable enough to be honest. I need her to see where her fault lies so she has no reason to distrust me. I need her to need me.
I graze her jaw with the tips of my fingers, stroking the skin from her chin to her ear. She moves into my touch, soaking up my warmth as if she is cold and starving. And in so many ways, she is. Starving for attention, affection. Cold from being left alone and unloved.
These are feelings I understand. Feelings that I’ve exploited to make me a very rich man.
“Lacey,” I breathe, low and raspy. “You see him for what he is. You see past the money and the cars and the adoring fans. You see him bare and naked. And that scares him. So instead of facing his cowardice, he fucks little dumb twits to make him feel like more of a man. But you don’t want that, do you?”
I watch the movements of her slender neck as she swallows before answering. “No. No, of course not.”
“So you know what you have to do, don’t you? You have to be his little dumb twit. You have to be his whore, his groupie. You have to make him feel like he’s on top of the world when he’s with you.”
“So you want her to dumb herself down?”
I look up, and my hand instantly drops to my side, releasing Lacey from my trance. Allison stands, eyes narrowed and lips pursed. Even with aggravation clearly etched in her face, an uninvited sensation snakes up my thighs at the sight of her. I grind my teeth, biting down the unbidden feelings.
“In ways, yes,” I answer, stepping away from Lacey. I almost feel shameful, as if I shouldn’t be touching this other woman. “The wife drives the ship. She is the puppet master. But in order to maintain a happy home, you must let the man believe that he calls the shots.”
“Is it not enough that we bear their name and let them dictate our future?” Allison scoffs. “Now we have to pretend to be idiots just so our husbands don’t feel intimidated?”
I want to tell her how right she is to feel indignant, but that would be a total contradiction to what I know and believe. “More or less.”
“That’s bullshit. You and I both know it. Tell me, Justice Drake, do dumb girls turn you on? Do you like giggling schoolgirls hanging onto your every word? Does stupidity get you hot?” She’s challenging me, hoping to make me eat my own words. I stare back at her, unshaken and totally in control.
Well…almost. Less the tightness in the front of my slacks.
Without breaking eye contact, I step back to stand behind the lectern to hide my semi-erection. “No, Allison. They don’t. But as you pointed out last week, I’m not a part of your world. I’m an outsider, remember?”
I peg her with a mocking glare, daring her to refute my claim, yet hating the way she’s somehow made me feel the need to prove myself. Who the hell is she to me? She’s a client—another stiff, lonely housewife. A Prada-clad paycheck—nothing more, nothing less.
Allison doesn’t answer me. Just remains standing, silently smoldering, those animated eyes flickering with disdain. I take pleasure in her reaction, craving more. I want to keep pushing until she finally pushes back.