One Night in Cleveland: The Making of a Hotwife (Book 1)

By Ben Boswell

It's a snowy night in Cleveland. Kate Morris, blonde, beautiful, and married meets a handsome stranger in a bar. Their chemistry is undeniable. Their first night together is magical. But what happens when she returns home to her husband?

This is the first of a two book series examining how lust, betrayal, commitment, and fantasy bind together the lives of three people: Kate, her husband Mike, and her lover Adam.

Each of the two volumes of One Night in Cleveland is approximately 50k words in length.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ben Boswell
• Release date: Apr 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005517564

Ben Boswell

I am your typical family man with a wife and kids and an overactive imagination. I am longtime reader and author of erotic fiction.I write in genres that I find exciting and arousing. Most of my stories are in the naughty wife, wife-watching genre, though occasionally I venture into other subject matter.Reader feedback is what keeps me going. Please leave reviews wherever you purchased my books, and if you want to discuss my stories further, please feel free to contact me at [e-mail] or visit my blog at benboswell.com. You can follow me on Twitter @BenBoswellAut.

Book preview

One Night in Cleveland: Book 1

Ben Boswell

One Night in Cleveland: The Making of a Hotwife (Book 1). All Right Reserved © 2022 by Ben Boswell

Cover image © iStockPhoto. Used under license. Cover designed by Kenny Wright

First digital edition electronically published by Ben Boswell, April 2022

With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without explicit written permission of the copyright holder.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events, or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

Foreword

This book took me a long time to complete. I had the story largely written by the end of 2020, but it took over year of edits, discouragement, false-starts, and long periods of inactivity to get it done.

The problem was that I couldn’t quite figure out what I really wanted this book to be. There were times when I thought I could clean it up, fade to black instead of including the explicit scenes in the hope of making this more of a mainstream book – something that might allow me to move into more of a Romance rather than Erotica lane. The story is, essentially, meant to be a slightly less rosy take on one of my earlier books – Annual Leave. I think readers will notice the similarity in set-up. It has, I think, more emotional heft. As you’ll see, this is not always an easy book. Unlike much erotica, this isn’t all just happy fucking and sucking (although there is plenty of that as well). There is also betrayal, self-doubt, and honestly some genuinely shitty behavior going on. And so, you know, I thought, maybe this would be a transitional book toward becoming a more mainstream author.

But it never quite worked out that way. Hard to explain exactly why. A big part of it is that, ultimately, I didn’t have the confidence to put it out without the erotica elements. I like to think that I write some pretty hot sex scenes. That is clearly what most of my readers most enjoy of my books. That is, however, a bit of a crutch. You write yourself into some sort of weird plot cul-de-sac, throw in some hot sex and you distract the reader. Or your characters aren’t behaving in a way that feels genuine emotionally, well, then have them fuck their brains out and explain away their actions as a consequence of losing their minds sexually. And as I read the book over, with and without the hardcore scenes, I was never able to convince myself that the story worked without the bedroom gymnastics.

Another part of it, though, is that I like the sex. It is hot. It is fun. It’s fun to write. Exciting to read. It’s my thing in a sense. So why not just stick to erotica and fuck trying to be mainstream? But that’s a hard thing to fully embrace, at least for me. Being Ben Boswell is a surprisingly big part of my life. And it’s weird for something that is so significant to me to be, well, so hidden. My wife knows what I do and write, but basically no one else knows I am Ben Boswell. Which is weird, right?

So, anyway, I struggled, and this book became a victim of the weird debates that plague my internal monologue. I do like this book a lot, though, despite the emotional churn it provoked in me. There is some of my very best writing here. And yeah, the sex is hot. I hope you’ll agree.

A lot of people provided feedback over the nearly two years this book was in the works. Kenny Wright was, again and always, my best sounding board. I don’t say this enough, but if not for Kenny I’d have never become Ben Boswell, and my writing would not be half as good. Other folks provided great feedback as well. Mike, Gary, Andrew… It’s been a while, so I may be forgetting someone. As always, I’m delighted by reader feedback. You can email me at [e-mail]. Or follow my Twitter @BenBoswellAut. Or read my short stories on Medium at https://medium.com/@ben.boswell.author. Or if you really love my work and would like to support me further, consider joining my Patreon page: https://www.patreon.com/BenBoswell.

Ben Boswell, April 2022

Chapter One

Kate Morris stared into her glass of Pinot Grigio and nursed her grievances. Tonight, she had many.

The big one was that she was stuck in Cleveland, fucking Cleveland, a place she’d fled at seventeen and never returned to... until now. Worse, it was snowing, and she didn’t have a hotel room. That would probably resolve itself, but not without a trip in the weather, if she could find a cab, and the hassle of hauling her luggage to another hotel, which was another nightmare because United had split open her suitcase (now being held together with duct tape) and torn off the handle and trashed the wheels, so it now had to be carried around like an oversized baby.

Of course, she wouldn’t have had to find a room if her flight hadn’t been canceled. And her flight wouldn’t have been canceled if she hadn’t had to rebook for a later flight after she had to cancel her earlier reservation when Mike bailed on her, making up some sort of work-related excuse that had sounded like bullshit at the time and only smelled worse since.

"Maybe you’ll hook up with an old boyfriend, she said, mimicking his voice under her breath. Idiot."

All of which would have been, perhaps, a small price to pay had the weekend in Cleveland for her fucking twentieth high school reunion been any fun, but it wasn’t. It wasn’t fun because she was going stag, thanks to fucking Mike. And it wasn’t fun because although one might think that twenty years would erase all ill-feelings and replace them with sweet nostalgia, the truth was that it had just allowed those feelings to curdle and rot.

I didn’t like those people in high school, why would I think I’d like them now? she muttered to herself.

Had Mike been there, it might have been fun. Look at that one. She was a total bitch in school, now she’s as big as a whale. Ha! He was so snooty, now he manages a car wash. But instead, she spent the weekend making excuses for him and fending off suspicions that he might be made up, a predicament she should have expected thanks to the whole Eduardo incident junior year, which she’d managed to suppress, but which had apparently continued to keep her classmates in stitches for the last two decades.

Assholes, she grumbled.

And then there was the endless series of emails all weekend. Work crises that were not really crises, but simply rank incompetence among her team. And home crises that were not really crises, but simply rank incompetence from Mike. Seriously, was it that hard to remember that Becky’s dance class was at 11:30am and Jeremy’s Tae Kwon Do was at 1:00pm? Who gets those confused? And how does, It’s all good, I took them out to Five Guys fix it exactly? Fucking Mike.

Infuriating, she snarled into her wine glass.

Um, are you okay?

Kate turned to her left. She rolled her eyes. This she didn’t need. He was a good-looking guy, mid-30s, with a bit of the Jon Hamm vibe going on, in the sense that he was darkly handsome and looked vaguely dim-witted. Also, given the hour and his empty rocks glass, he was probably drunk and on the make.

What? she replied in a tone that she hoped signaled both disinterest and general contempt.

It didn’t work. He was too dull for nuance.

I asked if you’re okay. You seem, um, agitated.

I’m not.

You’re arguing with your wine glass.

Do I know you? she asked in a tone she hoped would convey that she didn’t in fact know him and had no intention of knowing him.

It was like water off a duck’s back. Worse, in fact. He brightened.

Not yet. I’m Adam. He held out his hand.

She stared at it.

This is where you shake my hand and tell me your name, he suggested.

She tilted her head and frowned, but she didn’t see a graceful way to refuse to answer. Kate. She didn’t shake his hand. He looked at his and smiled before placing it back down on the bar.

So, he said after a pause, are you stuck here with the snow?

Are you?

He grinned. He actually had a nice smile. As a matter of fact, I’m not! I just got in for a convention.

Oh God, she groaned.

What?

She shook her head. This can’t be good. In her mind she was going through the possibilities. Was he a LARPer? Some sort of obsessive collector? Okay, so what is it?

Guess.

No.

Oh, come on, Gloomy Greta, what convention am I here for?

She rolled her eyes. Jeez, I don’t know. Sports collectibles?

He nodded, impressed. No, but close. Miniatures.

Miniatures?

Historical battles.

She snorted. You play with toy soldiers?

And tanks and planes. And sometimes fantasy armies. Ever heard of Warhammer?

No, she replied, though she had a vague recollection of Mike buying some sort of board game with tanks and planes for Jeremy. How are miniatures and sports collectibles close?

I don’t know. Just seems like a lot of overlap. Comics too.

Well, sounds like a lovely nerd gathering for you.

He laughed. I knew it.

What?

I knew you’d be a hater, he said lightly.

And why is that?

Hot blonde chick. Probably a cheerleader. All into jocks and guys with motorcycles. Looking down on the nerds.

He was so transparent, but even still the description tickled her. Oh, poor baby, she clucked. Did the prom queen turn you down for a date?

He screwed up his face and faked a sob. Oh, God, my secret shame!

She chuckled despite herself.

Buy you another? he said, with what she had to admit was impeccable timing, her glass was recently empty, and she was coming off a laugh. Maybe he wasn’t as goofy as she had thought.

I’m married, she noted.

Married people don’t drink?

Married people don’t accept drinks from strangers.

He nodded sagely. Okay then, you get the round.

Before she could respond he called over the bartender. Old Fashioned for me and another glass for Kate. He paused before adding dramatically, On her tab, please.

The bartender eyed her quizzically. She laughed and nodded. Sure, why not?

Adam smiled. Look at this, what a great night. Snow outside. A couple of days of Bolt Action gaming. And a beautiful woman buying me drinks. This might be heaven.

Kate laughed again. In Cleveland, playing board games with a bunch of sweaty nerds, and mooching booze off a married woman. Very impressive.

You’re a glass half-empty kind of girl, he noted.

Their drinks arrived and she took a deep swallow of her wine. Now I am.

He sipped his. So, you seem in a better mood. Why were you so grumpy?

You don’t want to know.

I do.

You don’t. You’re just saying you do because you think you’re going to make time with me.

Make time? What is this, 1957?

What? People don’t say that anymore?

Not since James Dean went to Porsche heaven, but don’t let me stop you.

Kate sighed. She did want to talk to someone, and since Mike wasn’t here….

High school reunion.

Tenth?

She giggled and then chided herself silently for being so easy. Twentieth… and save the bullshit shocked act. I know I don’t look 27.

He grinned and held up his hands. Guilty. Still, you know you look good for someone going to her twentieth. I bet you were one of the hottest women in the room.

She smiled despite herself. But it was true. Most of her classmates had put on a fair number of pounds, which they all seemed to want to write off as baby weight, as if Kate hadn’t spit out two kids of her own.

It wasn’t like that.

What do you mean?

She shrugged.

Oh, I get it, you were expecting them all to be fawning over you?

Jeez, that makes me sound awful.

But, yeah, right?

No. I mean, not exactly. I mean…. I wasn’t a cheerleader back in high school. I was a band geek, braces, acne, and also skipped a grade.

Ah ha! Now, I get the nerd hate. You’re one of us! Nothing worse than a self-hating nerd.

Um, excuse me, but playing a musical instrument and having bad skin is not the same as sitting around playing with toy army men.

Recreating famous military encounters.

She pumped her hand up and down. Jerking off.

He laughed. You sure you weren’t a mean girl?

No, and it turns out… if you weren’t one of the Populars back then, you’re not going to be one now.

I’m sure that all of those mean girls’ husbands were checking you out.

She enjoyed the flattery, but it was enough. You need to stop that. I told you I’m married.

I can’t help myself. You know what they say about band girls.

"You know American Pie wasn’t a documentary, right?"

Speak for yourself. I’ll always have a soft spot in my heart for my first apple tart.

She chuckled. You’re nuts.

He shrugged. Okay, so lousy reunion. Doesn’t explain why you’re sitting in a hotel bar by yourself muttering into your wine glass like a crazy person.

Because I’m an idiot. I went to the airport. My flight was delayed, then canceled. Now I’m rebooked for a 7:45am flight tomorrow. I took a cab back here because this is where I’d stayed the last two nights, only to find they were booked up now. The front desk is trying to find me a room somewhere else, but last time I checked, the city seemed to be shutting down.

No place to stay, huh? He raised an eyebrow.

Don’t, she warned.

I wouldn’t dream of it.

Uh huh, she replied skeptically.

He shook his now empty glass. She rolled her eyes. Nah uh, you get this round.

He gestured to the bartender and then smiled gloatingly.

Bravo. You managed to buy me a drink.

He luxuriated in his victory for a moment, and then asked, So, who was ‘infuriating’? That’s the one that got me. Such a blend of annoyance and disappointment in your voice.

Kate eyed him carefully. What do you do? I mean, when you’re not playing with army men?

He clucked. You know, in Europe asking that is considered quite gauche.

Last I checked, Cleveland was still in the good ol’ U.S. of A.

Yes, but my point is, what does it matter what I do?

"I