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Our marriage has turned into one monotonous episode. It’s all about work. And granted, I love my job and am just as driven as she is, but I just want more of her.
We argue all the time. Careless words have been thrown around such as ‘sex maniac.’ Yeah, that’s what she calls me.
I never cared for her stubbornness, nor her obsessive need to have everything clean and orderly. Like who fucking cares if my socks are in rows of white and black? Socks are socks. I still remember our first argument over it. The night ended with me using one of the socks and shoving it in her mouth to shut her up. Fuck, she looked sexy, though, and even better when she was lying on her back, and I was fucking her, legs spread in the air.
Focus.
Stop. Thinking. About. Her. Naked.
Four years together, and she still hasn’t changed.
I loathe the way she answers every question like a pompous know-it-all bitch. She easily goes out of her way to prove me wrong. What irks me most is the way she parades around the office with her nose stuck up in the air. Miss I’m-Too-Good-For-All-You-Juveniles-So-I’m-Going-To-Act-Like-A-Fucking-Grandma. You would think she would leave that persona at the office. I wish. Last night she rejected my need to be inside her because the final episode of The Bachelor was on, and she wanted to know who won.
Excuse me, the show is about some dude trying to get copious amounts of pussy by pretending he’s really looking for the one. Never mind the fact that the ladies in the office are forever wasting precious company time by arguing who should have stayed or gone. Presley is the worst offender among them.
I still remember the days in the office when she would parade that ring on her finger like some damn accomplishment, and it drove me fucking crazy.
Then it happened—the day that ring no longer taunted me because I was the one who put it on her finger.
Women everywhere told me that this would be the best time of my life. That life doesn’t truly start until you say, ‘I do.’ But men had other things to say—get used to jerking off because you’re going to get less sex than you did when you were single. I thought it was a joke. Like seriously, I’m in bed every night with the most beautiful woman who happens to be my wife. I can have her whenever I want to.
Screw jerking off, right?
Wrong.
Presley Cooper is a cold, hard bitch.
She knows it, I know it, and I’m not afraid to tell her to her face. It’s one of the reasons she stormed out of my office only moments ago, red-faced.
And it left me as a hard as a fucking rock.
It’s exactly the challenge I need.
And I don’t intend to play nice.
It
isn’t payback, and it isn’t vindictive.
It will be clean, harmless fun.
Fuck that—it’ll be dirty fun.
There is only one way to get her attention, just one way for her to finally notice I exist. I have to make her life in the office a living hell, again. Push all the right fucking buttons.
According to her, if it walks like a jerk and talks like a jerk, then I am a jerk.
But I understand the meaning of ‘jerk’ a little differently. I’m going to be a selfish, manipulative, insensitive asshole luring her in by playing Mr. Nice Guy only to give her a false sense of hope and leave her cursing the day I was born.
Game on, honey.
Two
Presley
There are moments in your life when you try to have it all together. You keep pushing through the nagging feeling which slowly eats away at you each day. You ignore it, drink more coffee, and pray you’ll wake up with this new outlook on life with the stamina of a wild stallion.
Yet deep inside, you know it’s all pointing to that ugly moment when you fall apart. The moment you realize you’re failing everywhere.
