He’s scowling at me now over Delaney’s naked shoulder, but a split second ago, when I first caught sight of him, he was scrolling on his phone. I know what he’s doing—he’s checking the markets. A woman is riding his dick, and he’s keeping an eye on his stocks. Of course. The TSE and the ASX just opened.
When I was a kid, one of my foster moms had a rule that there were no phones at the dinner table, but when her husband pissed her off by shoveling down his food and slouching off to watch TV in the garage, she’d let us get on our phones while we finished eating. The rules were suspended.
I guess when you cheat on your wife, the rules are suspended, too. You can go ahead and be rude.
For a moment, this is the thing about this whole scenario that makes the most sense to my brain—if someone let him, Adrian wouldabsolutelymonitor his portfolio while he fucked.
“Mrs. Maddox,” Tiller urges, squeezing my shoulder. “The children.”
Oh God. Yes. The children. What am I thinking? They can’t see this. We have to get out of here.
Delaney is still working herself up and down Adrian’s cock. He’s wearing a condom. You can tell when she’s up.
She’s waxed totally bare down there. Adrian likes me to trim, not wax. He says pubic hair is natural, and to him,natural is good. He’s always lecturing me about microplastics and PFCs and BPAs and phthalates.
How can I remember the name of every bad chemical now while a woman is raising and lowering herself on my husband’s dick like a merry-go-round horse? If this were a random Tuesday, I wouldn’t be able to remember a single one.
The two of them look like a magazine spread, with her red hair and his black tux and her red soles and his thick black-brown hair. Against the white sofa, the wall of glass, and all the city lights beyond, it’s all very postmodern, if I understand postmodern correctly.
Art and style are new to me. Rich people and prenups and fancy open concept apartments with views of the entire city still feel new to me, too.
We’re so high in the air up here. So exposed. There are no shades or curtains on the glass walls. Anyone high enough could see this woman fuck my husband.
Oh no, the children. I forgot again. What’s wrong with me? I cover Winnie’s eyes, even though she’s facing me. She squeals a protest.
“Delaney,” Adrian finally says sharply, gripping the redhead’s waist to stop her from jacking herself up and down.
She glances back over her shoulder, tossing her glorious copper hair. Her smokey eyes round with exaggerated surprise as her pouty red mouth forms a fake little “O.”
Oh, she heard us. She heard us, and she didn’t stop. Now, finally, she makes a move to dismount, but Adrian holds in her place.
“Stay,” he snaps at her.
“Mommy?” Pearl whispers from behind me.
What do I do? My legs don’t work. Neither do my eyes. I can’t tear them away. Delaney’s creamy skin is perfect. Herheart-shaped ass is perfect; her butt crack is a perfect pink. She looks like fan art. Like a horny teenage boy drew her.
Is Adrian in love with her?
Is this what he really wants? I thought he didn’t like the woman on top.
“Get them out of here, Schmidt,” Adrian snarls.
He means us. His family. He’s kickingusout.Delaneygets to stay. On his dick.
My brain still can’t catch up. It’s a broken escalator, and every thought I have immediately slides down into a jumbled heap.
Adrian is fucking Delaney from the office on the corporate apartment’s sofa, even though he’s in love with me. He doesn’t say it—he told me when we got together that he doesn’t do heart-to-hearts—but he shows me all the time in a hundred ways. Besides, a man like him would never marry a woman like me if he weren’t head over heels in love.
He marriedme, even though we’re so different, because I make him happy. He does things for me he’s never done for any other woman. His brothers rag the hell out of him for it. He might not talk about his feelings or show emotion, but that’s his way. He’sinfamousfor it.
He’s Adrian Maddox. He could have married anyone, but he married me, a foster kid from Baltimore with a GED, because he loves me. It’s the only way we make sense.
Why is he doing this?
I can hear the delusion, but my brain won’t stop. It’s trying to argue its way out of the reality staring us in the face.
Schmidt tries his luck, grabbing my upper arm from behind. “Come on, Mrs. Maddox,” he says.
