Read Online Double Teamed: Sharing Jenna by Lexi Rush - Free Book Online

Chapter 1:  Tuesday
    “Luke, be honest...how did you like that?” Jenna asks, looking more interested in my answer than normal.
    “Well, I’m not usually much for casserole, but it was tasty,” I gulp the rest of the wine in my glass so fast that I feel a red moustache on my clean-shaven face. Jenna doesn’t notice.
    This is one of those times when lying is better. I wonder if she remembers when I complained about this same dish—some kind of Swedish concoction—not that long ago. The way she crinkles her nose and stares at me through her feisty blue eyes says she suspects I’m full of shit. But, she doesn’t say it. She just hums.
    That’s what’s great about marriage. Well, at least our marriage. We’ve been together ten years, married for seven and there’s still a mutual respect for one another. Sure, we fight once in a while, usually over something so stupid that we can’t even remember it. I can’t recall if we fought over my complaining about this dish or not. We have developed into the couple who adapts and usually veers clear of marital landmines.
    “Wanna watch Netflix?” she asks, then resumes her humming while pouring the rest of the wine into her glass.
    I’m miffed she doesn’t at least pour me a splash, but relieved she doesn’t pursue the casserole issue further. Unspoken marital compromise. It’s Tuesday night, I’m out of wine and I don’t think any sports are on. I say, “Sure why not.”
    Jenna grabs the remote and I cringe. This means we’ll end up watching some rom-com that puts me to sleep. Sure, I’ll argue for anything with Stallone or Schwarzenegger , but she will win the battle and the war—and then complain when I snore. I cringe as she clicks on some chick flick, but at least Jennifer Aniston is in it.
    Marital compromise.
    I make it all the way through and as the movie ends, I’m feeling frisky. I can thank miss Aniston, but mainly my wife looks sexy right now. Jenna’s long naturally curly honey hair is in two braids, flanking each shoulder. She looks like a cross between the St. Pauli Girl Oktoberfest babe and the Swiss Miss chick. Some of you are rolling your eyes, but hey, it works for me.
    Jenna is the girl-next-door who could model lingerie, if that makes any sense. She constantly criticizes her body, but she has no idea how much her curves turn me on. If she loses the five pounds she always complains about, it would probably come from her bulbous tits.
    I sing, “I love you just the way you are,” every time she winces in the mirror. The most attractive part of Jenna is she doesn’t realize how alluring she is.
    If anyone should be self-conscious, it’s me. Pretty much from our wedding day on, I’ve morphed from six-pack abs to a pony keg. Jenna doesn’t mention it but I can read her eyes. At least I can still play basketball and more than hold my own against the younger guys. Just not jump like I did in high school.
    After seven years of marriage, I have no problem popping wood—and right now,  Mr. Happy is hoping Jenna can come out and play.
    As the credits roll and some sappy song plays, I dart over to her chair (we don’t sit together anymore). I tickle her ribs and grab some side boob until she giggles. Then I lean into her so she notices my bulge.
    “I guess you liked the movie after all?”
    “Can we act like it’s Saturday night?”
    Saturday night is our designated sex night. Somehow over the years, we evolved from every-chance-we-could-get-rabbits to once-a-week-and-almost-by-appointment turtles.
    Jenna peeks at my pants and chews on her lower lip for a second, then says, “Sure why not.” Her way of mocking my response earlier, but I ignore it.
    As we amble up the stairs, I grope her like usual and she scolds me—also like usual. This is normally our Saturday mating dance, but tonight she doesn’t seem into it as much.
    We enter the designated vanilla mating room—our bedroom—the days of doing it everywhere are a distant memory.