She was barely going to be able to handle seeing them naked on the bed together. She was paying $40,000 for visual proof of her husband about to cheat so that she could use that to force him to go to marriage counseling. What-the-fuck-ever. If that was what she wanted, then fine: Aida would give the client what she’d paid for. But that moment was days away, and before then, Aida would be damned if she didn’t get as much of Griffin Steele’s dick as she could. Which was what she was doing now. In the back of Griffin’s jet-black Cadillac Escalade, on his cream-colored leather seats, Aida rode him fiercely. They were in the parking lot of the gym. The sexual tension between them had been too high to wait to be released. The Escalade idled while the air conditioning blasted. The sun had gone down, but the humidity was still suffocating. Aida leaned back and grabbed the driver’s side headrest. “Fuck,” she said. “Goddamn, baby. Give it to me.” She loved this shit. Loved fucking.
