Good Nikki
A Hotwife Novel

by Arnica Butler

Jack and Nikki lead busy lives as first responders: adrenaline-fueled Nikki is on the streets in a rough part of town as a paramedic, and Jack is putting in his time at the more stable "desk job" in administration. They are very much in love, but their sex life is more of an occasional dessert than a marital staple; just getting through the day is hard enough.

When Nikki comes home glowing with excitement about a new career opportunity as a paramedic on a police tactical team, Jack doesn't have much of a choice but to acquiesce: it is, after all, Nikki's turn to shine in her career.

Sure, it means Nikki will be training with elite, hard-bodied cops with big guns, rehearsing high-stakes, high-adrenaline scenarios in which these alpha soldiers protect her from the bad guys, but Jack sees the glass half-full. Their bread-and-butter sex life is taking a turn for the better, and when he meets Nikki's team commander - the no-nonsense, true alpha Tony, who seems to have Jack sized up from their first meeting - he realizes he might have a foot in the door to his darkest fantasy...

Of course, he's right. But his fantasy might be too hot to handle.

Chapter 1

He knew the look.
Nikki wasn’t any good at hiding her excitement about anything.
She was even less skilled at hiding this very particular kind of excitement. It practically vibrated beneath her skin when she was on the receiving end of a lot of attention from men.
Sure, Nikki would deny that, if he asked her about it, or suggested it, however casually, in conversation.
“Don’t be an idiot,” she would say, smiling and rolling her eyes playfully.
There was a delicious mystery there: did Nikki believe her own lies? Was Nikki actually this clueless about men, and herself? Or was Nikki just flat-out lying when she pretended that he was seeing things?
A Pandora’s box of possibilities unfurled from there: if Nikki was lying, why was she doing it? To cover up her sins? Or her guilt? Or to lay the groundwork for some possible future transgression? The possibilities were endless.
One possibility that was not part of this endless set, though, was the possibility that Nikki just didn’t know that she was as hot as she was.
That was just inconceivable.
When he met Nikki the very first time, she was decked out in her work gear and had blood splatters all over her plastic gown. Twenty-two, still pretty green, her sinewy curves all buttoned up in the shapeless navy paramedic uniform, her hair twisted up (ratcheted) into an all-business bun thing.
He could see (and so could anyone) that Nikki was one of those gals who would make PIC in no time, never show up late for work, never fuck up anything, and never tire of her job. She was determinedly un-makeupped, not like a lot of the girly-girl paramedics who had their hair in a blowout and lowered aviation glasses down their noses when they stepped out of the ambo, sizing the scene up less for hazards and more for potential mates.
Those girls were just there to find a cop or firefighter to hook up with, and they always cycled through in about three years – married off to the Officer Mulroneys of the world or packed up and sent to dispatch because they just couldn’t hack it on the mean streets.
Not Nikki.
Nikki had all her PPE on like she was about to take a final test on it, including a traffic safety vest, which not even rookies actually wore, unless a supervisor was expected and it was close to a review. If someone had written her a script for patient handoffs and she had worked all night memorizing it, it couldn’t have been any more textbook. She delivered her patient like she’d had a quiet room and forty minutes to get it all right. Her tourniquet was clearly labeled in her square, tidy handwriting. She had her chin jutted out like she didn’t have time for anyone’s shit. All business, Nikki.
He would admit that he sought her out after that call, which wasn’t something he was in the habit of doing. He’d been on the job for years by then, and he’d been down that road before and given up on it: dating a first responder - especially a paramedic - was a mug's game, especially if you, the man, were a paramedic, as opposed to a firefighter or a cop.
There was literally always a buffet of more masculine men around you - and therefore, around your lady friend - in that business. Even if you were a hot-shit version of a paramedic, which he was, it was a downer of a feeling you couldn't shake. Also, all paramedic conversations tended to gravitate to the gnarliest calls, the incessant shit-talking, the fattest people they'd ever had to load up with the help of the fire department. He didn't really need any more of that in his life. Paramedic wasn't a calling, it's just what he ended up doing after he ended up being sent down the medic stream in the military.
He was looking for a nice girl with literally any other job than first responder.
But he asked around about her after that call. Went to the bar where she was likely to be. He didn’t immediately see her when he strolled into the bar. Because with a hairdo like the one she'd had at work, and your lips pursed up and no time for jokes on the job, one expects a girl who is almost exactly the same off-duty as she was on-duty.
Maybe she would put her hair in a ponytail, and slap a little lip gloss and mascara on, and she’d be wearing a t-shirt and jeans instead of her fire-retardant, androgynous uniform. But Jack hadn’t expected much change.
He walked right past her, in fact.
When she was out, Nikki evidently ditched the bun and let her wavy, glorious, all-natural cornfield-golden hair fall down around her shoulders. That night, she had taken a lot of smoke-colored shadowing to her eyes, and piled black mascara onto her long and slutty-thick eyelashes. Her green-gray eyes smoldered from inside this haze of smutty shadow, hovering over a straight, somewhat oversized nose, that no one would ever notice anyway because of the shape of her mouth. Her lower lip was full, naturally pouty, and her upper lip was shaped like an archery bow, with an appealing, drastic slope that hinted at Slavic ancestry. She had painted these stunning lips an unexpected sultry pink. It was anybody’s guess - and still was, if you asked Jack -if she had consciously chosen a shade that looked so much like raw, wet pussy.