Married on Mondays Read online

Foxy carried the food to the kitchen where she seasoned the meat and chopped the potatoes. She showered, brushed her teeth. Gathered her hair in a ponytail, put on a canary yellow gown and red three-inch slip-on heels.

  She’d finished cooking by six. Heard her husband’s car in the garage.

  “Hey, gorgeous. Smells good in here,” he said, bypassing her. No more kisses when he walked in. No hugs. No slaps on her juicy booty.

  She set the table, prepared their plates, put extra servings of potatoes and dessert closest to his seat at the table. Her husband entered the dining room. He’d traded his suit and tie for the clothes he’d sleep in, a pair of gray baggy sweats and a wife beater.

  His behind was barely in the seat before he beamed. “Got a new client today, gorgeous. You’ll never guess who?” His grin was wide.

  All he ever talked about was work, work, work. But this smile was different.

  “Yeah, who?”

  “Nova,” he said like he was on a first-name basis with whoever she was.

  “Nova, who?”

  He nodded. “Scotia, baby. Nova Scotia.” His lips curved upward like a kid who’d just gotten his first cell phone.

  “That’s nice.” His enthusiasm for another woman had ruined more than her appetite.

  Was there anything about her that excited him that way? The remainder of dinner was quiet. Squirming in his seat, her husband hardly kept still. She excused herself from the table, brushed her teeth. She went to bed early. He crawled in beside her at midnight. No touches, no kisses, no hugs.

  Her husband turned his back, hugged his pillow, and squirmed himself to sleep.

  CHAPTER 1

  Foxy

  Sandwiched in a love triangle—her husband on one side, her ex-fiancé on the other—Foxy was able to sustain her marriage. Her husband should thank her ex-fiancé for sexing her senseless. Her ex-fiancé would soon be indebted to her husband. Neither man satisfied all her needs, but together, her two men were the perfect blend.

  She didn’t marry for money. Had a separate bank account. She didn’t marry for love. Nowadays, love didn’t last long enough. Had her heart broken twice by the same man. Wasn’t going to be his fool again. She didn’t marry for mind-blowing sex. She knew how to pleasure herself before she surrendered her virginity at the tender age of sixteen. She didn’t marry to gain social recognition. Her self-esteem was so high no man could scorn her. She didn’t marry to validate her womanhood. She was a woman solely in charge of her life.

  Tuesday morning she opened her eyes, glanced at her husband’s side of the bed. As usual, he wasn’t there. His getting out of bed before her shouldn’t bother her but it did. No more making love, morning quickies, or light kisses on her lips before he got out the bed. The burgundy sheet on his side was neatly tucked underneath the mattress.

  She placed her feet on the ginger-colored carpet, sat on the side of the bed, unlocked her G1, then texted her lover, “Hi baby. Be there after 6.” She locked, then placed her G1 on the nightstand, and sat on the floor. Her morning ritual—crunches, hip thrusts, squats, and pushups—proceeded, stretching her legs, arms, and torso. Bypassing the sixty-five-inch flat screen television she used to watch pornography on with her husband, she entered her bathroom.

  After she married him, moved into his house, she learned her husband’s habits. He didn’t like sharing his things or his space. His bathroom was on the opposite side of their master bedroom. His study was his. The kitchen, family and living room were hers. The dining room was shared one day a week. Neither of them would return to the table until Monday. To her, marriage meant the property under their roof—including her husband—was legally hers and she had the right to dispose of whatever she chose.

  Her “I can have it all” attitude was ingrained by her father the four years she lived with him. Moving from her mother’s two-bedroom condo in Boise into the largest mansion in Crème City to live with her dad and attend high school with her two sisters changed her life forever.

  Thanks to her dad, she had the opportunity to live with her sister from Baton Rouge and her sister from Boston. Three girls, the same age, with three different moms, from three different environments, experiencing puberty under one roof while being raised by their dad were the hardest yet most rewarding years of her life. Their father taught them to stick together and to never marry anyone who had little to give or nothing to lose.

  Disgusted with her husband’s selfish, egotistical behavior, she stared in the mirror. She lathered cold cream on her forehead. Her piercing hazel eyes narrowed. Divorcing her husband wasn’t an option she wanted to exercise, but one she’d considered numerous times.

  Give my fine-ass rich husband to some other woman? I don’t think so.

  She bit her bottom lip, cursed, “Damn you! Why do you act like I’m your servant? Selfish-ass bastard! I hate you!” Love made her hate him. Hate made her love him. A live-in maid could easily fulfill her wifely duties. A better question was “Why had he asked to marry her?”

  Her random outbursts were occurring more frequently. She prayed she wasn’t on the verge of a nervous breakdown. She wasn’t crazy. Just terribly frustrated. Headed for self-destruction if she didn’t make a change in her life.

  She kept staring at her reflection. The high arches of her thin brows were waxed to perfection, not a single hair was out of place. Thick layers of chestnut hair caressed her honey golden shoulders with more affection than her husband’s hands. Her nose—not wide enough open as her mother would say—complimented her round, firm cheeks.

  She smeared cream above and below her soft lips, wondering what her life would be like if she hadn’t married him, if she’d remained single. Would she be happy? Content? Lonely? Would she have risked having her heart broken a third time by her ex-fiancé?

  She brushed her teeth, rinsed her face with cold water, then went to the study where she knew she’d find her husband sitting in his favorite, worn bourbon-tinted leather chair surrounded by his wall-to-wall law library.

  “Morning, baby,” she said, softly kissing his lips. Calling him baby was a habit not worth breaking. There were no sentiments in her greeting.

  Looking up at her, he smiled, then whispered, “Hey, gorgeous. What was all that noise? Were you yelling at someone on the phone?”

  Did it matter? He hadn’t bothered to check on her. “Oh, nothing, just dropped something on my foot,” she lied. She removed his black-framed glasses, folded, then placed them on the end table beside his chair. Exhaling, she looked down at her husband, then asked, “Baby, do you still love me?”

  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.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Foxy

  Shaking 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 conti
nued, “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 be
come 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.

  CHAPTER 3

  Foxy

  Her 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.