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Chapter 1
Adam
Present Day
I was about to cum—and cum hard.
I closed my eyes and thrust faster, my hips pumping in overtime.
My mind was blissfully blank. I could only focus on the feeling of pressure in my cock and the soft, satin feel of her skin. I gripped her thighs, spreading them wider so I could hit just the right spot. Her deep, rough moan let me know I was doing the job right.
I grinned, feeling high on it. If I was good at anything, it was fucking.
I flipped her over onto her stomach, her ass in the air as I pounded into her. I wrapped my hand into her long, blonde hair, giving it a yank as my dick spasmed. We both yelled our release, our bodies slick with sweat.
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.
