The Hotwife Dare: Another Man Next Friday?

Megan

It’s Friday night in La Jolla, and we’re sipping champagne in the lavish limo on the way to the Gaslamp’s charity gala.

Once or twice a quarter, Ryan’s company throws a huge shindig downtown, and this time he’s been nominated for a tech innovator of the year award.

As CEO of his own data analysis startup, he’s got a lot to celebrate this month—especially since they just landed a fat round of venture capital.

We’re booked for the costliest hotel in the city, we’ve got a seaside suite for the after-party, and it’s all on the company dime.

I’m more interested in the fact that we’ll have a couple days to break out the wet bar, crab cakes, and jacuzzi, but I’m a supportive wife, so I’ll smile and wave alongside my man.

Ryan sits across from me in a tailored suit, hands laced behind his head, loafers sparkling white. He’s thirty-six, still as hot as he was when we got together a decade ago, and the light brown scruff and laid-back hipster vibe fit perfectly with his cool-headed attitude.

My husband is the most chill, easygoing guy I’ve ever met—what he lacks in hulking size and aggressiveness, he makes up for in substance and innovation.

The man’s got the brain of a rocket scientist, and he holds down this family with admirable savoir-faire.

But my eyes are on him for another reason. He’s grinning at me, and I can tell you exactly why. The fashion crimes that constitute a black tie invite never really fazed me either. I personally love the chance to dress up, and I can see the look of hot pride in my husband’s eyes as I take phone calls with my legs crossed in a short, emerald dress. There’s something satisfying about being the hottest wife at the party when you’re in your prime.

I may be thirty-three, but my strict Pilates regimen means I still have creamy skin, tight curves, plump round boobs, and an ass that won’t quit.

A successful career as a fitness instructor and yoga teacher means I have the body of a sporadic Maxim cover girl. Add my lush pout and wild brown hair to the mix, and the red carpet is just more soft turf under my sky-high stilettos.

My girl gang will be there, and I’m Snapchatting them a selfie right now— Tequila all night, bitches!—when our limo driver’s voice crackles over the intercom.

“About fifteen until we land at the Gaslamp, you beautiful people.”

As I mentioned, Ryan and I do this pretty often. Four or five big events a year, minimum. Every time, for as long as I can remember, we wind up with the same driver. Smooth-talking, seventy-something, ever-smiling Owen.

He was born and bred in the Chicago suburbs, baby boomer in a state of permanent retirement, thinning red hair, burly and thick through the torso thanks to heavy labor in his youth. He’s been driving limos for twenty years and he’s a great dude.

He became very, very comfortable with my husband and me over the years. Which is probably why he doesn’t blink at my accidental flirtations—especially after a night of drinking.

With a yawn, I tap out a message to my fitness crew. Who’s hitting up the beach tomorrow?

The door opens. We’re here. I put the phone in my clutch and slide to the edge of the seat, one leg extended to take a step out of the car.

If it weren’t for Owen’s ability to react quickly, we’d be back at the hotel with a bloodied face and a bruised ego.

He catches me by the waist, rescuing our evening from impending doom. He cradles us both, and I can’t help but notice one of his hands gripping a tit.

My skirt has hiked up, showing off a generous slice of my spanked ass. By the time I get my heels under me, he’s holding my dress, using it to anchor me.

“Y-You’re good to go now, Megan, darling,” he says, and I move with lightning quickness.

It’s Owen’s big Bronx grin, combined with his flushed demeanor, that breaks my stride toward the club’s entrance.

I run around the back of the limo, only to find out I’m too late.

“You okay?” Ryan asks, following my path with worried eyes. He scans me for bruises, but I’m fine.

Most everyone has their attention on the venue or their significant other, but a pair of socialite couples lingering in the portico take notice.

I nod, face blazing, and take my husband’s arm. I turn toward Owen one more time. “Thank you so much!”

“No problem, honey, glad to catch you!” he grins with his cherry teeth. He smirks as we walk away. “Nice save on the wardrobe malfunction, too.”

He’s joined by a pair of VIP hotel valets at the curb, cheering and calling, “Nice catch, Owen!” High fives abound.

The scene inside is just as I expected. After mingling for a while, I’m racking up some serious Bill Withers points for my husband’s best friend, Tony, and I’m excited to see the results.

Tony is a lightweight Cane’s man for life, but I think he likes me enough to try the new vegan option on the menu, too.

We have almost completed our cocktail hour rounds—giving Michael, my Mr. Clean Boss of the Year nominee and a beautiful friend, and his wife peppy greetings. The next round of awards should be announced