Married on Mondays (3 page)

He frowned. His eyes narrowed. He patted his thigh. “Sit. Talk to me. Why would you ask me something like that out of the
blue?”

Exhaling, this time through her mouth, she wanted to remove his hand from her ass. His touch irritated her. He no longer excited
her. “Guess I’m tired of . . .” Her eyes scrolled toward the crystal chandelier that hung high above their heads. She thought
about the fatal ending in
The War of the Roses
and understood how couples could kill one another physically or emotionally. Agitated by his nonchalant attitude, she paused
thinking,
Tired of spending more time with my ex-man than with my husband.

He touched her chin, tilted her face, then stared into her eyes. “Tired of what, baby?”

She cringed, gripped his wrist, moved his hand to her lap atop the hem of her yellow gown. “Haaa… barely seeing you, that’s
what. You work hard on everything except our marriage.”

S
haking her left leg as she’d done whenever she was nervous, she asked her husband, “How did we get here? Don’t you remember
the way we were? For a whole year after we got married, every day was our honeymoon.”

He used to bring her roses, buy her jewelry, take her dancing, hold her hand in public. There was a time he wouldn’t keep
his hands off her. She closed her eyes and could hear the way he used to proudly introduce her. He’d say, “This is
my
wife.”

Opening her eyes, she continued, “Something changed you. You started spending more time at the office, less time at home,
less time with me. Then you took up golfing on weekends, and now… I barely see you. It’s like you’d rather be anyplace where
I’m not.”

She swallowed the remaining words not worth mentioning. If she were so gorgeous, as he’d often say, why couldn’t she have
all her needs met by him?
Girl, don’t cry. Please, don’t let him see you cry again.
Her emotions ejected a waterfall of tears over her eyelids and down her face, soaking her gown. Maybe if her husband were
home more, she’d be home more.

Kissing her tears, her husband answered, “You are my everything. Don’t you know how much I love you?” He tucked her hair behind
her ear, cupped her face again, as he stared into her eyes.

He knew all the right words to say to avoid arguing. She looked away from his empty words. Her eyes rested in the corners.
Love without action didn’t mean much. She yearned to grab his hands, fling them against his chest, pound on his broad shoulders,
scream in his face… but she didn’t. Like a good wife, she held it in, placed his needs ahead of hers.

“I keep telling you I feel like I’m married to myself. All I want is my husband back. A few days a week is all I’m asking.
Hell, one more day a week would be a good start. You’re the only partner at the firm who works after midnight five days a
week.”

He kissed her lips. “That’s why I’m better than them. That’s why they come to me for my opinion. Clearly, they need me more
than I need them.”

She interpreted his words with her thoughts.
Yeah, I bet you feel the same way about me.

“And don’t compare me to them,” he said. “You have no idea what goes on at the office. Just because they go home every night
doesn’t mean they’re faithful. Hey, listen. If it’ll make you happy, I’ll do better. I promise.”

She hadn’t mentioned anything about being faithful. Why had he? Was he cheating too? “Better or your best?”

“Fair question,” he said. “Both. But I told you I have this new client,” he lamented as though she shouldn’t be pressuring
him for more time than the one night a week he dined with her.

Excuses already.
“Yeah, I know. International supermodel Nova fucking Scotia. If the deranged bitch hadn’t ran over her boyfriend with her
brand-new sports car she wouldn’t need you to represent her ass. And you make sure you stay away from those triple XL collagen-injected
lips that she’s always plastering all over every man’s damn face.”

She wasn’t the type of wife who felt her husband wanted to fuck every woman with a big ass, shapely legs, nice breasts, and
juicy lips, but Nova had to have starred in every man’s wet dream, including her husband’s.

As if he were a raging bull preparing for attack, a puff of air shot from his nostrils. He leaned back. His lips tightened,
then curved to one side. “Calm down, sweetie, calm down. I only have eyes for you, baby,” he said, patting her thigh.

Wow. It wasn’t his eyes she was concerned about. If he could’ve looked in a mirror, he would’ve seen what she saw. His body
language was the opposite of what he’d said. He petted her like she had four legs. Maybe she should run over her husband with
her car. Bad idea. Then he’d be a bigger burden, and she’d have to take care of him. She wasn’t stupid.
What man wouldn’t want Nova’s juicy lips performing fellatio on him?

“Take care of this for me, baby,” he said, massaging his erection.

Oh. Now he wanted her to suck his dick. Probably while he’d fantasize about Nova giving him head. Whatever. She’d learned
the mechanics of giving a great blow job had nothing to do with love.

She knelt before her husband to begin her next morning
ritual. Gazing up at his irresistible dark brown-sugar masculine body, her heart ached. Was his love and affection that important
to her? Or was his covert rejection driving her mad? How could she despise and desperately need him at the same time?

Her husband held one end of the thick, knotted rope; she held firm to the other. She was losing this round of tug-of-war with
him. Later her heart would tug for another man.

Her husband’s sultry, almond-shaped eyes slowly closed. His slanted cheeks narrowed toward full kissable lips, large perfect
teeth, and a well-trimmed mustache. His face was as mesmerizing as his wide, strong shoulders and bulging biceps. No matter
how hectic his day was, her husband dedicated one hour to exercise, and his herculean physique proudly showcased the results.
She refused to give him up and risk having him date Nova. Surely Nova’s boyfriend wasn’t stupid enough to take her back.

Foxy massaged the curly hairs on her husband’s chest mounds, then teased the few strands surrounding his hard nipples. The
lightest touch of her husband’s hairy chest, abs, thighs, legs, or arms layered chill bumps over her body and made her pussy
pucker with pleasure, craving to have her breasts scrub against his hairs. She enjoyed touching him. If his affection weren’t
contrived, she’d welcome her husband’s touch.

His affection had changed. He used to embrace her with his eyes, massage her with his breath, love her with his heart. Not
anymore. His touch had become cold, robotic. His words flat as though ordering off a fast-food menu. Love, like life, was
what she’d made it. Over time, her reality of being a happily married woman had become an unfulfilled fantasy.

She kissed his chest, his abs, his navel; buried her face in the richness of his pubic hairs; then inhaled. Lowering the elastic
waistband over his dick, she wrapped her hand around his incredibly long shaft. His shaft was too thick for one hand to circle.
She rotated both palms to cover all sides. Sliding her hands to the base of his shaft, slowly, ever so slowly, she suctioned
his head into her wet mouth until her jaws caved in. She refused to release his shaft until his dick was too stiff to bend.

Although they spent less than six hours a day together—including the four hours she slept beside him—she never wanted her
husband to justify soliciting sexual gratification from another woman, especially not that Nova
Scot-ti-a
woman. For years he’d revealed his crush on her.

“Baby, you are so damn good,” he moaned as though it were her first time giving him head. He pulled her neck toward him, thrusting
his dick down her throat, then grunted, “That’s my girl. Take all of this dick.”

Months after their marriage, twelve to be exact,
your
dick had become
this
dick. Maybe if she’d addressed his subtle changes early in the marriage, their relationship wouldn’t have failed. To her,
going through the motions was the same as failing.

Four years of marriage and she’d never missed a morning sucking her husband’s dick unless he was out of town, which was most
weekends. She believed her newfound wifely duties were to keep her husband not happy, but satisfied. Keep as much peace as
possible in their home by doing the thing that mattered most to him. His morning blow job was his way of starting each day
stress free.

Since he was the one neglecting her, it was okay for her to have an affair. But his biggest mistake would be letting her catch
another woman riding or sucking his dick. He’d asked her to marry him. That meant he was ready to commit to her. She tried
convincing herself that marrying him would make her faithful. Help her to change her promiscuous ways. Make her forget about
her ex who sexed her senseless. She wondered what would happen if he ever caught her sucking another man’s dick the way she
devoured his. How well did she know her husband? Getting caught might be her biggest mistake.

Taking her father’s advice, just in case her marriage ended, she’d kept her maiden name on all her legal documents except
her marriage license. Foxy Montgomery married Winton Brown for the same reasons her sisters Victoria and DéJà Montgomery married
their spouses—for the two things money couldn’t buy, prestige and respect.

“I’m cumming, baby,” he said, grabbing a fistful of her hair.

Cum squirted against her tonsils, dripped down her throat. She’d rather swallow his sperm than to have her husband ejaculate
inside her. She kissed his head, then asked, “You good?”

Thanks to her dad’s advice, she’d have a baby when she was ready to become a full-time mother, not to keep or please a man,
even if that man was her husband. She didn’t want to be a married woman who’d end up a single mom like her mom was.

Winton smiled, then nodded. He knew she’d get him off again if he wanted. “I’m good. Real good. Thank you, gorgeous,” he said,
meticulously tucking his dick inside his boxers.

Her clients had more gratitude than her husband. The only thing missing from Winton’s
thank you
was the two thousand dollars she charged her clients for the same type of blow job.

H
er husband was priceless in many ways, but not when it came to sexually pleasing her. He’d never dug into the
buried treasures of her G-spot. The place that made her squirt like a fountain remained a mystery to her husband. Best not
to teach her husband the plethora of tricks she shared with her ex-man and her clients, or she’d arm him with tools he could
use to please other women. Other women could wreak havoc in her marriage if they became hopelessly devoted to her husband
the way she was. As long as her husband was partner in the number one law firm in the nation, Foxy was no fool—she’d settle
for getting her pussy licked elsewhere.

She’d continue to maintain her husband’s trust if she kept him away from her real occupation. It would serve neither of them
well if he discovered she was more than a waitress at her family’s pastry shop. Sexing clients after hours was a career, not
a job. Along with her sisters, Foxy was an owner of Crème, a neighborhood bakery that prepared pastries and fulfilled adult
sexual desires by asking one question:
What is your fantasy?

Hurrying into the bedroom, she showered, then dressed for work. The uniform—a tapered, short-sleeved red button-up blouse,
a matching A-line skirt, and Crème’s signature cream slip-on stilettos with 14-karat gold heels—would soon be in a closet
next to another man’s clothes. A man she’d known before she’d vowed to remain faithful. A man she’d promised to marry but
couldn’t. Couldn’t let him break her heart a third time. No sense in her entering a marriage with preexisting trust concerns.
She knew him too well, and although she catered to him five days a week, he strove to occupy the one day a week she shared
with her husband and the Sundays she spent with her sisters.