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CHAPTER 1
Chuff-chuff-chuff.
Briana Neeson paused, switched the wand to her left hand, and then continued scrubbing. Never mind, the white bowl gleamed. Or that the pipe cleaners she'd shoved into the jets had come out without any flakes of sediment. She'd never get the damn toilet clean again.
The bitch had sat her fat ass on the seat after screwing her husband blind.
Briana allowed herself to think the coarse words, although she'd never have said them aloud. Not even when she'd walked into her bedroom with her arms full of packages from the Galleria Dallas mall, only to drop them when she realized the sounds she'd heard while climbing up the stairs hadn't come from the television. The low, keening moans had been the woman's. The sharp grunts her husband's.
Shocked, she'd realized she hadn't recognized his sounds because he never made them when he pumped away atop her body. He'd sounded agonized.
Probably strained something, he pounded the woman's quivering butt so hard.
He'd turned when she dropped the packages, his dark, half-lidded gaze meeting hers, but he hadn't missed a stroke. His hand reached for the woman's long, blonde hair that stuck to her sweaty shoulders and wrapped around it, pulling it hard to force her back into an arch and her face toward the headboard, and kept right on pumping, until at last, his lips pulled away from his gritted teeth and he came.
Briana had stood frozen, her breaths coming in short, choppy pants and her body trembling. Part of her hadn't believed he'd done this in their bed. The other, knew it was her own damn fault.
After all, Jonathan had warned her.
Chuff-chuff-chuff.
Her hand slipped, and her chest hit the porcelain. An anesthetizing chill struck a nipple. Without realizing it, her robe had fallen open as she labored. She stroked the wand deep into the bowl and leaned toward it, purposely hitting her nipple again.
The cold caused it to contract, spiking the tip, and she discovered the sensation wasn't unpleasant. But the other nipple wasn't equally aroused. Equally...chilled.
Pulling open the opposite side of her robe, she switched the wand again, eased her knees apart for balance on the hard tile floor, and let her forward motions slam her other breast into the toilet.
Then stroking the bowl with the bristled brush, she arched her back, just like the skanky blonde her husband had screwed, and bit her lip to hold back the sounds as her arousal built.
With her nipples tightening, elongating, a rush of liquid seeped from her pussy, encouraged by the soft rasp of the terrycloth robe settling between her buttocks, draping lower to gently abrade her open sex.
She'd have to wash the robe, but not just yet. The sensations were too pleasurable. With the smell of the disinfectant swirling in the bowl, she blinked, and tears spilled down her cheeks to mingle with the soapy water.
Chuff-chuff-chuff.
Soon enough, the sensations didn't satisfy. Rising on wobbly legs, she ran scalding water from the shower's long, flexible shower head over the toilet brush, followed by a rinse of bleach to disinfect, and then sat the brush in its holder beside the toilet. She dropped her robe into the hamper, stepped over the edge of her pristine tub, and turned on the faucets, setting the temperature as hot as she could take it.
She squirted a quarter-sized dollop of liquid soap on the back brush and counted the strokes with her left hand, then the right. Another dollop on a loofah, and she scoured her left arm, then the right. Rinsing clean, she did the same for her left leg, then her right. Then at last, she placed a foot on the rim of the tub and scoured her pussy — to remove the traces of her own arousal, but lingering long enough, rubbing hard enough, that at last her body bowed.
Briana's orgasm wasn't loud or dirty, and she didn't come with sweat and smell, or even sound. Still, she couldn't help feeling just a little envious of the woman who'd scrambled into the bathroom with streaks of her husband's ejaculate striping her fleshy buttocks and thighs.
She may have been a sleazy skank, but she'd accomplished something Briana never had in seven years of marriage. The whore had made her husband tremble.
Standing in the shower with the scalding water running down her body, Briana faced the fact that she'd failed.
While Jonathan had been appreciative of her organizational skills early in their marriage, later he'd begged her to loosen up a bit at home. Leave the laundry for a day inside the hamper, let him rest his feet on the furniture...and don't rush to shower after they made love.
She heard muffled footsteps coming from the bedroom. Hours had passed since Jonathan had thrown on his clothing and herded the other woman out the front door. Briana had watched them through the kitchen window as he held the car door open for the woman, sharing a look with her that seemed filled with an easy, sensual satisfaction.
Then his gaze had risen to the window where Briana stood, and his expression changed instantly, shuttering her out. His jaw tightening, he'd walked around the car and slid inside, backing out of their driveway without hesitation and spinning his wheels in the pea-sized gravel Briana had raked to perfection the day before.
He hadn't called. Hadn't answered any of the dozen messages she'd left as she hurried around the bedroom and bathroom, nose wrinkled, donning plastic gloves to strip away soiled sheets and tossing the woman's underwear into a plastic bag that she carried immediately to the outdoor bin.
With her heart tripping in her chest, she hurried to wrap a towel around her body, and then glanced into the mirror. She paused to run a comb through her damp hair before easing open the bathroom door.
A suitcase lay on the bare mattress.
Briana hesitated at the door and scanned the room.
Jonathan stepped out of his walk-in closet carrying an armload of his clothes. Upon spotting her, he strode quickly forward and dumped the clothes into the case.
"What are you doing?" she asked and then inwardly winced at how ridiculous that sounded. Of course, he was leaving. Didn't everyone leave her?
Dressed in khaki trousers and an open-necked, long-sleeved shirt, she noted the crease on the edge of his collar and bit her tongue to hold back the urge to tell him about it. He didn't look in the mood to listen to her fuss.
His expression was hard and cold. The set of his square jaw a clue he wasn't in the mood to talk. He'd made up his mind.
"I'll try harder," she whispered, her hand clutching the edge of her towel. She needed something to squeeze because her heart felt ready to explode.
He gathered up the clothes spilling over the sides of the case, not bothering to fold them, and looked over his shoulder, spearing her with a hot glare. "You don't get it, Bri. You drive me crazy. You couldn't wait to tear the sheets off the bed, could you?"
"Why wouldn't I? Her scent was all over them."
His upper lip curved into a snarl. "But the wet spot bothered you most, didn't it?"
It had. The longer she'd stared at it, the bigger and yellower it grew. "We can talk about this," she said in a rush. "You don't have to go."
Jonathan snorted. "I've talked until I don't have a thing left to say to you. I don't love you, baby. Haven't for a long time."
The words hurt, but he couldn't leave. She just needed one more chance to prove she could change. "But you need me. You told me that."
He turned his head away and zipped the case shut. "I can afford an assistant to take over the scheduling. I can afford an anal bitch I don't have to sleep with."
"I'll see a therapist."
A deep breath expanded his well-muscled chest. "Do what you need to do to get well, but it's not going to make a difference for us." He picked the case off the bed and sat it upright on the floor, before sending her another glare that cut right through her. "I'm through."
He meant it this time. She could tell by the way his jaw firmed. His gaze held no emotion. "Are you going to her?"
"Carrie?" He shrugged. "She's just a girl who was willing."
He hadn't even cared about the bitch he fucked in her bed. "Why did you bring her here?"
Jonathan lifted a hand and raked it through his neatly cut brown hair. "I didn't know how else to tell you. I've used words, but you talked right over me, never once acknowledging you understood. I've made appointments with therapists and marriage counselors, but you found one excuse after another not to go. You weren't willing to change."
"I don't need them. We don't need them. I'll just try harder."
"Fuck, Bri," he bit out. "Try any goddamn harder, and I swear I'll cut my own throat." He turned away, hefted the large case easily, and strode toward the door. Without looking back, he paused. "My attorney will be in touch." © 2009 by Delilah Devlin
