This was always the best part. Those few glorious seconds after I shot my load when I didn’t have to think about anything. Particularly what a lying bitch my soon to be ex-wife was. A lying, unfaithful, kick-a-man-in-the nuts bitch.
The lying ex-wife in question sighed beneath me, turning on her back and squeezing her legs around my waist, refusing to let me go. She’d swallow me whole if I weren’t careful. Lord knows she’d tried her hardest for the past ten years. And had almost succeeded.
Thank Christ, I had woken the hell up and kicked her traitorous ass to the curb.
Yet, here I was, cock deep in her succubus pussy like the dumbass I was trying so hard not to be anymore.
Sex with Chelsea was easy. Too easy. Old habits die hard, I guess. Our compatibility in the bedroom had never been our problem. It was everything else that was a goddamn mess.
Thirty minutes of excellent fucking couldn’t erase over a decade of deceit and manipulation, no matter how spectacular her skills were. Staring down at the woman I had stupidly shackled myself to when I was too young to make informed decisions, my dick softened, and I immediately pulled out, wishing I could fast forward through the next ten awkward minutes.
Chelsea—my soon to be ex-wife—arched her back, her magnificent breasts on proud display. I loved her tits—as well I should, considering how much I paid for them. She spread out in the middle of what used to be our shared king-sized bed, angling her body in a way that accentuated her very best parts. She was gorgeous, and she knew it. Which was part of the reason I should have known all along we’d never work out.
Yet here we were, post-coital, six months after I caught her in bed with Dave, the contractor I had hired to build the new extension on our 6,200 square foot house. And I was damn sure he wasn’t the only one she’d spread her legs for.
Cuckold wasn’t a good color on me.
Chelsea got off on admiration the way some people got off on drugs, or porn, or alcohol. She was addicted to making people want her. And it wasn’t hard; she was a man’s wet dream with lips that were full and perfect, particularly wrapped around a cock, and an hourglass frame that was all soft sensual curves and slim lines.
But she was a selfish woman, and when I had wanted to start a family, she had promised to go off her birth control and really try for a baby. I thought she had finally matured, that she was becoming the woman I had convinced myself she could be.
I was a complete moron.
Because of course, she lied. It was second nature to a woman like Chelsea. As natural as breathing. She had no intention of getting pregnant. It would have ruined her carefully crafted figure, after all. Instead of going off the pill, she had gotten the Depo-Provero shot, ensuring we couldn’t become parents, and she had played the disappointment card convincingly every month when she took another test that came up negative. I’d console her as the tears dripped artfully down her cheeks. I’d hold her as she sobbed in my arms, thinking that maybe having a son or daughter wasn’t meant to be.
All the while, she was sleeping with most of the men in the neighborhood—excluding old Mr. Winston, who at eighty-six could barely walk. Though I honestly wouldn’t have put it past Chelsea to give it the good ol’ college try.
The worst part was that I hadn’t been particularly surprised. I had been angry, sure, but any hurt I would have felt faded along with any semblance of genuine affection I had for her. Deep down, I had always known what sort of woman I had married. Even when she played the part of dutiful wife and loving partner, I had seen through the facade. I had just gotten entirely too adept at ignoring my better judgment because a huge part of me had held onto the dream of two point four kids and the white picket fence all the while she spent my money and made me look like the world’s most idiotic husband.
It was my own fault for being so stubbornly blind to her many faults. I should have known better—hell, I did know better—but I had been told my entire life that I only saw the best in people. It was one of my more annoying traits. But that ship had sailed when it came to Chelsea. There wasn’t much good about the woman I had sworn to love for better or for worse.
I climbed off the bed and pulled on the pair of pajama bottoms I had thrown on the floor that morning. I hadn’t planned to screw my manipulative wife when I woke up. I was irritated with myself for how easily I fell back into self-destructive patterns where she was concerned.
She had shown up just as I was leaving for work, saying she wanted to talk with tears in her eyes and her full lower lip jutting out in a miserable pout.
I shouldn’t have let her in. I should have told her to call instead of simply showing up at my doorstep.
I had to stop listening to my dick. He was the biggest dumbass on the planet.
“You need to leave, Chels. I’m late for work, and I have a meeting in thirty minutes.” I couldn’t look at her, mostly because after the sex haze had dissipated, the sight of her turned my stomach.
Chelsea got up on her knees, crawling across the bed until she was in front of me. She slithered her hand into my pants, gripping me tightly. I was mortified by the automatic twinge that signified the beginning of a hard-on. “Don’t be like that, baby. Call in sick, come back to bed. I can make it worth your while.” She kissed my chest, sliding her tongue downward before taking the hem of my pants between her teeth and giving them a tug.
I gripped her upper arms and pulled her upright, gently pushing her away from me. She landed on her bottom, her eyes widening in surprise. She wasn’t used to being denied anything. “You need to go, Chelsea. This was a mistake that definitely won’t happen again. Call it a lapse in judgment. If you want to get your rocks off, go call Eddie, or Miles, or whatever other poor, pitiful schmuck you’ve seduced into your bed this week.”
I turned away from her and headed to the walk-in closet, pulling a new shirt and trousers off hangers now that the ones I had been wearing were in a crumpled heap on the floor.
Of course, she didn’t leave. That would require her to do something thoughtful for someone else, which was simply not coded into her DNA.
I heard her follow me into the closet and tensed when she snaked her arms around my waist, pressing the length of her naked body against me. “Adam, don’t be like this. I said I was sorry. What more do you want?”
I moved deftly out of her embrace, recoiling at the touch of her skin on mine. I turned to face her, glaring into her large, blue eyes that were the result of contacts, not genetics. Everything about her was carefully manufactured. From her thin, straight nose, to her sculpted chin. She had hacked and tucked so much that it was hard to remember what she had looked like before.
“I’d like to go back in time and stop myself from ever leaving the Homecoming dance with you in the first place,” I spat at her hatefully, meaning every single word.
A normal person would have been hurt by my deliberate low blow. Not Chelsea. It slid off her like water off a duck’s back. She was never bothered by the emotions or feelings of other people. She was the kind that got by on looks alone. I was infinitely disappointed in myself at how easily I fell into her void, how I thought having mind-blowing sex was all it took to create a lasting relationship. It was a classic example of teenage decision-making at its worst.
Inexperienced lust was a very dangerous thing.
“Don’t be so testy, Adam. I know you miss me.” She rubbed me through the thin material of my pajamas, cupping my balls. Stroking me with expert fingers. And damned if a part of me didn’t want to give in. To bend her over and bury myself deep inside her, I was a guy after all. And my healthy sex drive was proving cumbersome at the moment.