I never thought my husband would cheat on me.
I was sure of it.
I was wrong.
Luke: Are you going to be home for dinner?
Grace: Should be.
Luke: I’ll pick something up.
Grace: No red meat!
Luke: I know. Love you!
Grace: Love you, too.
“I’m hopping in the shower. I gotta head out for a bit.”
“Where are you going?”
“I told you, I have a thing.”
I frown. I don’t remember him mentioning an event. “Is it something you need me for?”
“Nope. Just a meeting. I won’t be long, but don’t wait up.”
I never do. As I’ve moved into my thirties, I’ve decided I like going to sleep early and waking up early to get a workout in before I start my day.
Luke, on the other hand, is a confirmed night owl.
When we were first married, we’d stay up late together, until I got sleepy, and then he’d tuck me into bed and read beside me while I fell asleep. I don’t remember the last time he did that, but really, if he did, I’d just get annoyed, because then I wouldn’t be able to read something dirty and get myself off.
A quick, efficient orgasm is better than any sleeping pill ever invented. And while I love sex with Luke, there is no such thing as a quick orgasm with him. And lately, sometimes there’s no orgasm at all.
When the stars align, though, sex is fantastic. It still takes a while, though. Luke has a rule—I always come first, and preferably twice. You’d think this would be a great rule. It’s the stuff of internet memes. But it’s actually more pressure than I want, and he won’t be dissuaded of it. Just fucking use my body as a receptacle for your come is not something my husband will ever understand.
Nor is it something I could ever say with a straight face. Not without bursting into flames. This is on my mind as he moves towards the en suite bathroom adjacent to our bedroom. I catch his hand and tug him close, wanting his bulk against me. He kisses me softly and brushes past instead. No bulk. No hot kiss.
I sigh at his retreating back, but he doesn’t notice.
He disappears into the bathroom, and I turn around again, catching sight of his phone on the bed. “Hey, baby, you forgot your—”
But the shower’s already on.
The screen lights up. There’s a text message notification on the screen.
Spitfire. Who the hell would be in his phone book as Spitfire? My pulse starts to pound as I stare at the screen. The locked screen.
He has a thing tonight?
And a text message from someone named Spitfire?
Fingers shaking, I tap the home button. The password screen slides into view. Fucking hell, I don’t know what it is.
On a whim, I try his bank card pin code. That’s what I use, and we’re so alike…
From a distance, I feel myself smiling, but it feels wrong, because I know what I’m about to find.
Somehow, deep down inside, I know exactly what Spitfire is. I don’t know who she is, but I know she’s my husband’s lover.
And I know my heart is about to break.
My back is tight, and the hot water isn’t helping. I should cancel drinks with Caitlyn tonight.
I won’t, though.
Rolling my neck, I scrub soap over my chest and down my belly.
I need to go back to the fucking gym.
I need to stop eating McDonald’s.
I need to do a lot of fucking things, but I won’t, and I don’t.
Dark, ugly thoughts crowd the back of my mind, and I turn the temperature of the shower down. Cold, sharp drops hit my skin.
That’s good. Sharp, intense.
A lot like Caitlyn.
My dick twitches, and I will it to work tonight. Hold her down, fuck her mouth until she gags. Yeah, that would feel amazing.
I turn the shower off and reach for the towel I put on the hook just outside the walk-in shower.
It’s not there.
“Grace,” I holler out, ignoring the way my stomach twists.
I’ve gotten good at shoving that weird twinge away.
She doesn’t respond, so I walk around the corner, water sluicing off me. Maybe I left it on the—
But I didn’t.
My towel is in Grace’s hand. She’s perched on the vanity, a little bird, clutching the towel. And my phone.
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