Married on Mondays Page 4

  For a moment, he thought about his wife. Winton wasn’t bored with Foxy. He hadn’t sexed her in so long the desire to penetrate his wife was gone but his reason wasn’t. Foxy was stunning. Any man would be proud to have such a great-looking wife. Part of the reason for his divided attention was sitting across from him; the other part, his latest mistress, was waiting for him to get off from work and come to her place. Maybe he was prewired like most men who enjoyed fresh pussy.

  “Accidentally?” she said, first smiling, then frowning at him.

  Winton wanted to grab Nova’s breasts, bury his face in her cleavage. His tongue stiffened longing for a lick of her clit, her shaft. Did she taste like vanilla rock candy, sticky honey, or coconut milk? Were her vaginal juices thick like homogenized milk, whipped cream, slick like olive oil, slushy like applesauce, or watery? Was she hot like fi-ya or lukewarm? Was she tight or loose? Praying he was smarter than his dick and glad his erection had subsided, Winton said, “Let’s continue this conversation over breakfast at a restaurant.”

  Without trying, beautiful women had a way of making men do foolish things. Winton Brown was many things, but he was no woman’s fool.

  CHAPTER 7

  Foxy

  The second she slipped the key into his lock, opened his front door, she was at home away from her home. Foxy locked the door behind her. The first time she hadn’t secured the lock, Dallas complained, “Always lock my door, woman. I shoot first and ask questions later. Never know what ignoramus is bold enough to invade my house.”

  Breaking and entering on Shoreline Drive was less than 2 percent, but Dallas believed the low rate placed all of them at a higher risk. She understood his point. People who were comfortable or oblivious to their surroundings made easier targets.

  That day when she hadn’t locked his door, she’d had a lot on her mind. That day was the first time she’d used his key since she’d given back his engagement ring. She had no intention of using the key after she’d gotten married until Winton had pissed her off. She’d found another woman’s red lace thong deep inside the inner pocket of her husband’s suit jacket.

  Foxy decided to leave the thong there and not confront Winton. That morning, three years ago, marked her reunion with Dallas. Dallas wasn’t better or worse than Winton; they were different.

  Dallas insisted she keep the key to his home. He gave her the attention and time she deserved to get from her husband. She was welcomed anytime and never had to call first. Dallas made her feel like a woman in and out of bed. The problem was, Dallas was a lot like her father, Mason Montgomery. With each of her engagements to Dallas came a baby by some woman she had no idea he was fucking. Foxy had accepted his ring. She refused to accept his children.

  She tried convincing herself that Dallas’s children and their moms wouldn’t put a strain on her relationship with him. To some extent that was true. Dallas never asked her to do anything for or with his children. Told her, “You have an open invitation to join me when I have my girls.” But Foxy couldn’t imagine sharing her husband with four females who at some point would take priority over her. Maybe that was the real reason she didn’t want a child. Having a child meant Foxy would have to put the child’s needs before her own.

  That day when Foxy showed up at Dallas’s place, he consoled her. Comforted her. Reminded her, “I should’ve been your husband in your wedding photos. Not the man you introduced as your cousin. You should’ve married me.” He told her she was where she belonged. With him. That he didn’t understand why she kept running away from him when she was the only woman he wanted to marry. Nothing Dallas had said that day made her want to divorce Winton. Her cheating husband made her cheat too.

  Foxy had to be equally yoked and equally stroked. Her position was non-negotiable. There was no reason for a debate or confrontation with Winton. She’d serviced enough married and single men to know that men knew the truth, but they’d never admit: pussy overruled dick. He’d made his decision to fuck around and so had she. But fucking around was getting old; thirty-one was knocking on her door, and she was finally ready to have a baby. She didn’t want to be sixty years old sitting at a high school graduation.

  “In here!” Dallas yelled from the kitchen. “Breakfast will be ready in a minute.”

  Entering the kitchen, Foxy bit her bottom lip, then smiled at Dallas. She removed her red skirt, handed it to him. “Morning, baby. I’ll finish this,” she said, taking the eggbeater from him. She stood at the counter scrambling eggs in her purple thong and cream stilettos.

  Dallas’s green eyes glistened. He tucked his tongue behind his upper lip, slapped her ass with her skirt, then shook his head. “Beyoncé, Maxwell, or you want me to surprise you? Think about it. I’ll be in the bedroom.”

  Definitely no surprises again this Saturday. She watched him. His sunken spine separated his back. Firm shoulders narrowed to his slender waist. His hard ass with dimples on each side sat high as he swaggered. He glanced over his shoulder, winked. His lips curved to one side. She jerked. He smiled, nodded upward, blew her pussy a kiss. She raked the eggs on a platter. Tossed a few sausages and croissants on top.

  As she entered the bedroom, he was stretched atop the comforter naked with his dick resting on his stomach. Six foot five inches of muscle lay before her. His brown curly pubic hairs trailed from his navel to his nuts. The hairs on his chest spread shoulder to shoulder. After all the years she’d known him, Dallas still excited her each time she saw him. Should her marital obligations rank above her womanly needs?

  Foxy sat the platter on the nightstand, crawled in bed, then lay next to Dallas.

  He caressed her left breast. Kissed her hand. “Tell me how much you love me.”

  “I love you so much that my husband has found a way to have my so-called cousin’s DUI charges dropped.”

  Dallas rolled on top of her. Smothered her with kisses. In a hearty voice he said, “Ha, ha! That’s my girl. And that’s why you should be my wife. There’s nothing you haven’t done for me when I’ve asked. Nothing.”

  That was true and the same was true for her. Dallas and her dad were the two men that would do anything for her, no questions asked. She wasn’t sure about Winton. Although she still wanted it, she realized she no longer needed her husband’s support. With the stroke of a pen, she could take half of Winton’s possessions. If her husband continued ignoring her, she might have to file for divorce to get his attention. She could spend his money to get his money.

  Her husband, like many men, defined himself by his net worth, capital gains, material possessions, and trophy wife. Not by the love of his mother or his wife.

  Foxy shimmied out of her thong, spread her thighs to let Dallas’s dick fall against her shaft and clit, then closed her legs. Soft or hard his dick made her pussy wet. “I love you so much it hurts.” She squeezed her thighs, tilted her pussy toward his nuts.

  Dallas shoved his tongue into her mouth. His hands roamed over her shoulders, biceps, then down to her waist. “If I ever find that genie in a bottle, my only wish would be to make you my wife. One day you’ll be all mine.” He sat up, unbuttoned her blouse. With a snap of his thumb and middle finger, he unfastened, then removed her bra while kicking off her shoes with his toes.

  Foxy removed the clip from her ponytail, fluffed her hair wild the way he liked her to, lay her head against the mattress. Looking in his eyes, she demanded, “Stick your dick inside me right now.” She didn’t have to ask twice.

  Dallas held his dick, slid the head down her shaft, over her clit, and into her wet pussy. Bracing himself on his knees, he sat on top of her and began thrusting his dick in and out her pussy, each time stroking deeper, repeatedly hitting the bottom.

  Foxy pressed her thighs together and moaned, “Dallas, why do you fuck me so good, baby?”

  “Because I always want you to cum, but I never want you to leave. Guess I have to work harder,” he said, pulling out.

  Her eyes rolled upward. Her body trembled. “Shit!” she
screamed, releasing her marital frustrations. “This feels too good. Put him back in.”

  He slid his dick all the way back in. Dallas paused with his dick deep inside her until her pussy stopped quivering. He pulled out, stroked his dick. His cum shot in spurts, clung to her breasts, neck, and lips. He massaged his sperm into her mouth, then kissed her.

  Quietly, Foxy made her way to the shower. DéJà would be upset with her again today for being late for work.

  He followed her to the bathroom. Stepped in the shower with her.

  “This makes no sense. We’re perfect for one another. Why won’t you divorce him?” Dallas asked. “I’ve got money too.”

  “Not again today,” she replied. “It’s not about the money. Maybe we’re perfect because we’re not married. Marriage is temporary. Infidelity lasts forever.”

  Foxy couldn’t tell Dallas the truth. The only attorney more prestigious than Winton was the attorney general. Dallas was stable, successful, and handsome. If he didn’t have those two oops kids, maybe she would’ve married him; who knew. If she had married Dallas, she may have cheated on Dallas with Winton. Dallas was well-known in his field as one of the top head-hunters for CEOs. But his profession was subpar in comparison to her husband’s.

  She told him, “What we have is better than being married. We’re inseparable. You love me. I love you. But you drive me bananas.”

  “Don’t say that word. You know what happens to me when you say bananas.”

  His dick stood at attention. Maybe it was the way Dallas loved and made love to her that was causing her outburst and not Winton’s rejection. She wanted her husband to be like Dallas but she didn’t want Dallas to be her husband.

  “You make it seem as though I’m the only one that has your heart, then a baby pops out of some woman’s pussy and it has your DNA. Let’s just keep things the way they are. It works, you know.”

  How many other kids did he have that neither one of them knew about?

  “Works for whom? Not me. I want to wake up with you. Not have you stop by in the morning on your way to work and drop in to cook us dinner, then leave before midnight.”

  Foxy countered, “I do more for you than I do for my own husband,” then stepped out of the shower.

  “If you love him so much, then why fuck me every day? Do you fuck him every day too?”

  “Told you. That’s not your business,” she said, making her way into the bedroom. She put on her clothes, kissed him. “Beyoncé. I’ll be here when you get home. Bye.”

  No man was going to have her answer questions he wasn’t willing to answer, then use her confessions against her. Dallas never told her whom or how many women he’d fucked, but the babies made it obvious he was fucking other women without protection even when he was engaged to her. That meant he’d cheat on her just like her husband was cheating on her.

  Now that she was married, Dallas had a right to be nonexclusive. Foxy didn’t ask probing questions nor was she going to answer any. Some things were better left untold.

  Foxy drove ten miles along South Shoreline Drive to the most prominent side, the west side, where the sunset was breathtaking every day. Shoreline Drive was one huge horseshoe—west, south, and east—that stretched forty miles along Crème City’s waterfront. The north side was the only side with a three-hundred-foot pier that stretched out over Lovers’ Lake. At night, Winton’s office building was lit like a Christmas tree. Wherever she was with Dallas, she could look toward the sky and see the tip of her husband’s pyramid.

  Seventy-five percent of the residents lived in the overpopulated metropolitan heart of the city. Blocks of luxury high-rise condominiums had views of the adjacent condos. The scenic view, serene water and beautiful landscaped front lawns on one side of the street, tall trees and mansions on the other, gave her time to rethink her life as she drove by both of her sisters’ homes.

  Foxy parked her car at 6969 West Shoreline Drive. As she prepared for another day of work at Crème, Foxy accepted her reality… men and women were created equal, but women were responsible for balancing their end of the seesaw.

  CHAPTER 8

  Foxy

  The day went by fast. Servicing customers helped Foxy escape the woes of her bittersweet love triangle. While some women were trying to find a husband, if the law allowed, she could have two.

  This Tuesday was busier than normal. The day after Memorial Day, kids should’ve been back to school and working folks back to their jobs. From opening until closing it seemed like the entire 6.9 million residents of Crème City had patronized their shop. Bustling for cinnamon buns, cream puffs, and chocolate-dipped macaroons, Foxy had to hand out numbers to establish order. Customers and kids socialized in the parking lot like they were at a tailgate party, waiting to hear their number. The daily three fantasies had become more popular than the state lottery, and DéJà had sold all three before Foxy had made it to work by eight.

  “Foxy, come here,” DéJà said, ushering the last group of patrons out the door.

  “I already know what you’re going to say. I’ve got to get in earlier.”

  Operating a family-owned business meant Foxy was her own boss, but not according to her tyrant sister DéJà, who had deemed herself in charge of Foxy, Victoria, and the day-to-day operations of Crème.

  Locking the door, DéJà said, “That too, but that’s not what I have to say. I heard Winton got Dallas’s DUI charges dropped today. You’d better be glad Winton doesn’t know you were in the car on a date with Dallas when he got the citation.”

  That night the cops ruined what could’ve been a perfect evening. They were headed to Lovers’ Lake for a stroll along the pier when Dallas’s cell phone rang. He reached for his phone, swerved into the adjacent lane. Before he answered the call, a siren blared, lights swirled, and the high beams from the patrol car blinded them. Fortunately she hadn’t consumed any alcohol at the jazz club. On the way to his house, Dallas had asked, “Can you ask Winton to take care of this for me, cuz?”

  The downside to DéJà and Victoria’s spouses being partners in the Brown, Cooper, and Dawson law firm with Winton was that sometimes her sisters knew about her situations before she did. Foxy presumed her husband was too busy with Nova to call and let her or Dallas know the good news, but she had no doubt Winton would prevail. Winton’s getting a DUI dismissed was a matter of having his legal assistant complete the paperwork for his review, having lunch with a judge friend, then filing the necessary documents. Her husband had never lost a case and a DUI surely wouldn’t be his first.

  “You’ve been hanging on to that all day?” Foxy asked. “Why didn’t you mention it to me when I got in this morning?”

  “Your idea of morning is our afternoon. Victoria and I get here at five a.m. The morning pastries are done by the time you arrive.” DéJà stumped by Foxy, removed the cash drawer from the register. “I assumed you knew but y’all were probably too busy fucking to hear your phones. Acer texted me this afternoon, and you know I don’t talk business in front of our customers.” DéJà stared in her face, then said, “But it’s time, sis. You know what I mean.” Then changed the conversation, “Girl, it was a madhouse up in here. We must’ve sold over a thousand pastries to customers. Plus the three fantasy specials to our clients.”

  Customers were those who bought pastries. And for tax and legal purposes, clients were those who paid for catering services. Every day after closing Foxy and her sisters each serviced one client from four o’clock to five, occasionally until six.

  Comparing the six thousand dollars they earned on the client-based side of the business with the five dollars per pastry they earned on the customer-based side, servicing clients always yielded more revenue for Crème in a shorter period of time. But the pastries made all of their revenue appear legit.

  Not responding to DéJà’s comment, Foxy answered, “Of course, my husband got Dallas’s charges dropped, Winton is the best,” then walked behind the counter, around DéJà, through the kitchen, into t
heir office, and sat at her desk.

  Their business wasn’t a brothel or whorehouse. They didn’t have esteem issues from fucking numerous clients. Their fulfillment of adult fantasies ranged from talking dirty, to spanking, to flogging, to teaching clients how to reach higher orgasmic states or how to prolong their ejaculations. If more people had healthy sex more often, the world would be a better place. There were a few occasions where they had intercourse or oral copulation with their clients. As with any business, they reserved the right to refuse service, and the use of dental dams and condoms was mandatory.

  DéJà and her sister Victoria entered the office, sat at their desks.

  DéJà hissed, “Acer and I, we are the best. You know this.”

  “What?” Foxy shook her head. “Don’t get me started.”

  DéJà hated when anyone perceived they were better than she or her husband. There was no need to challenge her. DéJà definitely had the final word of every conversation.

  The ivory circular revolving desk was sectioned into three triangles that merged into one large circle, allowing them to face one another while conducting business or trade stations without changing seats. In this case, the seating arrangement forced Foxy to face her accusers.

  Victoria chimed in, “What you do with Dallas and your husband is up to you—”

  Foxy interrupted her “I’m so neutral and the voice of reason about everything” sister and said, “But.”

  “No buts. Not this time,” Victoria retorted. “Let’s just pray Winton never finds out the truth about his pro bono services for cousin Dallas, who, remind you, is in some of your wedding photos. You’re playing with fire. Don’t be surprised if your husband beats you when he finds out you’ve made a fool of him.”