Excerpts from Better Judgment
        by Gwen Masters

For three days, I wondered what I would do.  One moment I wanted to see him, the next moment I didn’t.  One moment I considered a Dear John letter, and the next instant, I was going all wet and creamy with the thoughts of him between my thighs.  Did one night have to dictate the rest of my path?  Was it possible to have a one-night stand and never worry again whether or not it would ruin his marriage?  Was it possible for a wife never to know?  Maybe, I decided, if it ended right there, with that one night.  But I sure as hell couldn’t get him out of my mind. 

During those long days, I let the answering machine pick up when he called.  And he called often.  I sat in the darkness as it rang four times, then my own voice came over the line.  Then his, telling me where he was, when he would be onstage, and assuring me that I could call anytime.  Anytime at all.  I listened to his voice and wondered if he had just gotten off the phone with his wife, telling her the same things, and reminding her that he loved her.  Sometimes he seemed quiet, and other times he seemed happier, and I wondered which one she had wrought in him.  I had no right to wonder, and no right to jealousy. 

What did I have?  Memories.  I had the nights he sat with me on the hood of his car and pointed out constellations, painstakingly describing clusters and not really caring as much about the heavens as we did about feeling the presence of each other.  I had the dinners where I learned the little things about him that made him the man he was.  I had the dreams that seemed too childishly optimistic to tell anyone else.  I had the confessions and the consternations that poured forth when the guilt set in.  And I had the laughter and the joy of being with a man to whom freedom was a new and addicting drug. 

But most of all, I had the secrets.  I had the long conversations when he told me things no one else knew.  I had the nights when it was just the two of us against the world, or at least against the approaching of daylight and responsibility.  I had the relationship that no one else was privy to, the passion that was fueled by secrecy.  There is nothing sexier than a secret.  The knowledge of sharing something with only one other person creates an intimate bond that is more powerful than any clinical aphrodisiac.  In the erogenous zone of the mind, subterfuge is the ultimate pleasure.

I knew what I was doing. At least, I thought I did.  I contemplated long and hard during those nights when I watched the little red light on the machine flash.  On the third day, he left directions on my machine, telling me how to find the cabin and when he would be there.  He told me that he hoped to see me.  That he wanted me.  And that he needed me there, if for nothing else than to talk about the things that were happening between us. 

            I knew better.  I knew if I went to that cabin in the middle of nowhere, that I would lie with him and become that mistress other women whispered about behind their hands.  The most disturbing part was that amongst all the emotions I did feel, I couldn’t find much shame. It was the lack of guilt that kept me awake at night.  What kind of woman was I?


“You make me feel young,” he said quietly.  “You make me feel like I can do anything I want to do.  You believe in me.  It’s unquestioning.  How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Believe so strongly.  Without question.”

I thought about that for the space of twenty heartbeats.  “I’m not sure, myself.  It’s a gut reaction.  A knowledge deep down inside me that says belief is okay, and acceptance is even better.”

“You accept me.”

“Yes.  Completely.”

“Even though you know I can hurt you so badly?”

It was the first time either of us had acknowledged the possibility out loud.  I slowly stopped rocking and leaned forward, letting the quilt fall again to the floor.  I lowered my head to my hands.  The thimble was cool and hard against my temple.  Slow and even breaths seemed suddenly very important. I briefly hated him.   


“You will hurt me, Ayza.  There isn’t a question about that.”

Something inside me cracked like fine glass on marble when I said it aloud.  The desperation I tried so often to fight welled up. 

The certainty was the hardest part.  That damned feeling of dread in the middle of the night when he slept beside her instead of me.  The knowing that the pain would break over me like a wave at any time it deemed fit, and damned if I was ready for it or not.  It was the certainty that I had taken my life out of my own hands and put it in his.  Sometimes I wondered when he would grow weary of holding it, when his hand would slip or his mind would wander just enough.  And then it would fall like a fine crystal vase to that cold and ungenerous floor.  He would try to catch it, realizing his mistake almost before it happened, but he would be unable to rectify the wrong. 

What would he be left with?  Maybe only shards that threaten to draw blood, should he venture too close or ply his heroic rescue a little too eagerly.  And perhaps with time, he could gather the largest parts and puzzle them together with imagination and apology, and make my heart something that appears to be whole again.  Yet there would always be tiniest bits of glass left unfound.  It would never be the same, for those diamonds of imperfection would always elude him.  One false move, and I was a broken woman at the hands of a man who would always be sorry, yet incapable of restitution.

It is the possible curse of all who love, yet the certainty of the woman who loves a married man.  And that was the moment of clarity, there in the little cabin just outside of Memphis.

            I was falling in love with Ayza. 


I licked my lips and quickly got his attention.  I spread my fingers on my belly and slid my hand down, dipping my fingers just inside the waistband of my jeans.  He missed a single note.  I had to grin at my own audacity.  I knew I was flirting with the possibility of someone noticing the way he looked at me, so inappropriate and cunning, but that didn’t stop me from getting him all hot and bothered up on that stage.

I let my fingers trail down.  In the midst of the crowd, I touched myself through the denim.  He chuckled in the middle of the lyric, and many in the crowd looked in my direction to see what had amused him so.  I simply lifted my hand and fanned myself, then caught my long hair up in a ponytail behind my head.  Standing so, my breasts pushed against the fabric of my blouse.  With my free hand, I flipped open a button, revealing more of my cleavage. 

“Lordy, but it’s hot in here, ain’t it?” I drawled, and many women agreed with sly smiles at the man on the stage.  We all knew exactly what he was looking at. 

Then I turned and walked away.  I made my way to the back of the stage and disappeared into the side door.  His eyes were on me the entire time.  I couldn’t see them.  I could feel them.

And I waited. 

The band came off the stage, smiling at me, some of them speaking.  They all considered me a friend and occasional confidant. They headed for the back doors, for the passage that would lead them to the buses, where they would talk with the fans that would surely be lined up and waiting for autographs.  Those fans would be eagerly awaiting the one man I planned on detaining.  I grinned at the thought.  They could just wait. 

Then Ayza was there.  Lost in my thoughts of him, I didn’t realize he had stepped through the door until I felt his hand in my hair, pulling my head back.  He pressed his body against me.  His erection was more than evident as his tongue slid up my throat to my ear. 

“You are such a fucking tease.”

“Back here,” I whispered, pulling him deep into the shadows.  It was a maintenance closet.  Closing the door cut all the light.  We were surrounded by darkness so complete, it was almost frightening.  Almost.  I was with Ayza.

The floor was cool and hard under my knees as I knelt before him.  His hand tangled deep into my hair.  I slid down the zipper with deliberate slowness.  The sound was echoed by his low laughter.  “You know what I want,” he whispered. 

Indeed, I wanted it more than he did.  My tongue made him groan.  He thrust toward me and I savored the sweet taste of him.  I wasn’t slow or gentle.  Rather I was demanding and rough, letting my teeth rake against him. 

“You like making all the women want you, don’t you?” I taunted him with a low growl.  “You like making them go home all wet and thinking about what it would be like to do this, don’t you?”  He didn’t have time to answer before I sucked hard, making him catch his breath.  I began a fast rhythm and let my tongue work in counterpoint.  I licked at the essence that dripped into my mouth.  He whimpered. 

“I’m going to come very soon,” he warned. 

“You like it when I swallow it, don’t you?” I asked, then dove down on his erection one more time, taking him almost all the way into my mouth with one stroke.  His groan was deep and long. 

“Yes, please....” The excitement of the stage and the feeling of my mouth were both driving him crazy.  He bucked his hips into me.  I let my nails slide up the inside of his thighs.  He shivered at the sensation. 

“Please, what?”  I taunted. 

“Please, make me come.”

I slid up and down, back and forth quickly.  His hands tightened in my hair.  I knew he was close.  My own body throbbed in time with the motion of my mouth.  I wanted to taste more.  Right now. 

I slipped my mouth as far down as I could go.  I suddenly thought about how it would feel to have him inside me, and the craving began as a deep spiraling ache in my belly. 

“Oh, God,” he gasped, the sound muffled against his shoulder.  His body tensed.  Faster…then faster, and we moaned in unison as his essence flooded my tongue.  I sampled him as if he were fine wine, enjoying every harsh breath that tore from him as he emptied his body into my mouth.  Only when he reluctantly pulled away did I let the flavors of him slide down my throat with a satisfied sigh. 

For long moments there was no sound, save our tortured breathing.  Then he chuckled.  One little sound thrusting against his chest, then I was laughing too, both of us trying to make ourselves look presentable again.

“You’re so damn naughty,” he chided lovingly.

“Hey, I considered sucking you off in front of the crowd, so be thankful I have at least some sense of decorum.”

“Everyone is going to know what we did in here.”

“But they can’t prove it, can they?”

“Guess what?”  His voice pitched low with teasing.

“What?”  I whispered back.

“When that bus rolls out, we’re going to fuck so hard the driver will have trouble staying in his lane.”

I giggled with anticipation just before he kissed me, his tongue smooth and sweet.    His chest pressed hard against mine as he took a deep breath.  “Time to face your adoring public,” I whispered against his lips.  He smiled. 

“I want to spend hours, just kissing you.  Then just as long, making love to you.” 

“Soon,” I promised.  I could feel the ache of my sex, throbbing and moist.

            The light from the hallway made us both blink hard.  Then he kissed me once more before pushing the door open and easing out.  I was left in darkness.  I leaned against the door and smiled, still tasting the heat of him within me.  I walked on jelly legs towards the old tour bus, anxious for it to roll out onto that long interstate.   


Want more?
Look for the Second Edition of Better Judgment,
Coming soon to your favorite bookstore!

Would you prefer an Ebook? Order it at Lulu.com