Prologue
Inebriated, I loved her.
Sober, I loved her then, too.
In love with all the shadowy cobwebs in her amber eyes, the color of the sun through autumn leaves; I was enamored by this creature, this lapse in my judgment, this
married woman
who had no business being fucked raw by my cock.
And I loved that too.
Fucking her.
She was
his
wife, that asshole, the one who I always used small words around to humble myself. It was rather fitting, considering he only seemed to understand the small words, anyway. A face like a warthog, mustache like the tusks of a decrepit,
disgusting
creature, and beady eyes, small and soulless.
I first fucked his wife because I hated him.
Then I fell in love with her and hated myself.
Chapter One
With ivory combs, my mother would brush her golden tresses, staring at my father with disdain through the mirror of her vanity table, her eyebrows arcing with each passing second as he fumbled with his bowtie. I'd sit on the bed, my toy soldiers and dinosaurs in hand, pretending to be interested in playing, but what I really wanted to do was watch her insult him.
The way she always did.
"Charles, you foolish idiot," she said, and I smiled because those two words meant the same thing. She was doubling his stupidity. "Come here, I'll do it."
My father had the decency to look embarrassed. "Don't speak to me like that in front of my son."
This was where I learned to love witnessing women humiliate their husbands. The power she held, wielding it like dark magic, striking him right in the heart. I had always hoped that it would break him.
But my father was resilient, and he knew my mother well. He knew she would laugh, which she did.
"You insufferable bitch," he muttered. "I'll do it myself."
Mother only raised an eyebrow and got to her feet. Like seawater that drowned a fisherman, I felt all the fear and all the excitement of witnessing a chaotic disaster. Pandemonium. A word I'd learn in the fifth grade, but would understand from a younger age thanks to Dear Mother.
"Ben," she said, glancing at me, her blue eyes piercing me from across the room. "Run along, sweetheart."
I got to my feet and exited the room slowly, hoping to catch the beginning of the end of a marriage. If I was being honest, I knew it had ended the moment I'd caught Mother fucking her boss's son, a barely-legal fresh-faced Army private with limbs like an action figure.
Thanks for your service to our country, you bastard.
The funny thing is, Father knew about the Army private. He knew, but like a coward, he was too afraid to confront Mother. She was a great and terrible beauty, with influence in their social crowd, throwing her grand parties and making friends in high places. Should Father leave her, he'd just the same leave the entire life he'd built.
"You stupid fucking imbecile," Mother said to my father as I closed their door behind me. I was only seven, but I understood by her tone that she'd slap me across the face if I ever repeated those words. I saved them for the future, for the days when I could be grown and out of her beloved home.
She loved that house, the white picket fence and swollen hydrangeas, freshly-cut grass, greener than every other yard in the upper-middle-class neighborhood we lived in. Her pool with the waterfall, the three-car garage that had her black Mercedes Benz G-class Wagon, her cute little white Audi coupe, and Father's Subaru SUV, which she detested. She loved her antiques from estate sales, and she loved her decor, which she had redone every season.
That house was her pride, and I was her joy.
"My darling Benjie," she'd call me. "Do well in school. Mommy will get you anything you could ever wish for."
She kept her promise. Anything I wanted? Mine. All Mine.
And I never did learn to share.
That day was the day my father had enough.
He
hadn't learned how to share either and had finally grown tired of it.
"I want a divorce."
I think both Mother and I felt that rush of delight, like satisfaction was brimming in our hands, ready to overflow.
Yes,
he
was leaving her. She left it up to him.
But she was the spider that spun the web, and he was the stupid bug that had been lured into her trap.
Chapter Two
I buttoned my shirt, stiff from the bleach and blindingly bright. My tie, my blazer, my briefs and slacks came next, and by the end of it all, I looked exactly the man my mother had raised me to be. I have never been ashamed of telling the truth so I will tell you this: I'm the biggest bastard you will ever meet. I inherited Mother's sharp looks and Father's dark hair, and with my mother's long torso, I was tall also. Most of all, I inherited my mother's personality, and just like her, people loved to be around me.
"You're fucking delicious," my last conquest had said. "Too handsome for your own good, aren't you?"
I'd slapped her ass and fucked her senseless.
That nameless conquest was nothing to me, a beautiful redhead I'd met at the club who'd thrown herself at me. That normally disgusted me, but I was horny, and I wanted some pussy. I got what I wanted and sent her on her way early the next morning, watching from the window, coffee in hand as she made the walk of shame up my driveway to her Uber. I smirked, snorted, then laughed.
Did I mention that I'm an asshole too?
I was humbled only by one thing, and I met that thing at an office Christmas party.
My boss, Douglas the Rambler, rambled on and on about how best to enjoy the wine selection and its pairings. I was bored, irritated, and almost offended that he thought to waste my time with his drivel. I didn't care for Douglas, nor did I care for anything that came out of his mouth.
Well, I didn't mind when "promotion" did, but that was it. That's where I drew the line.
That was, until he introduced her—the very thing that humbled me.
"This is my wife, Inaya," Douglas said, and I looked up from checking my phone, losing my breath instantly. Such sadness in those amber eyes that it felt as if she'd hooked me by the ankle and tugged me into it; that anguish washed over me, suffocating me. Just looking at her, I already couldn't breathe.
That evening gown accentuating those hourglass curves, those long legs, feet fitted tightly into high heels, sleek black hair rippling down her back, and impeccable makeup—something even I could admire. An oval-shaped caramel-colored face, cheeks like Chrissy Teigen's, adorable dimples, and luscious painted red lips; she impressed me. Her beauty was beyond comparison, and she was a broken thing. I could tell from one look alone that something had shattered that lovely creature.
She was perfect.
"I've heard so much about you," I lied, taking her hand and shaking it. She was ice-cold, and it made me sad. I wanted to take off my blazer and offer it to her, but she wasn't a single woman at the office party; she was married—and to my boss.
"I'm sorry, you are—" she began to say, but Douglas cut her off.
"This is Benjamin Luft, our best junior executive," Douglas said, grinning, quite pleased with himself. Did he enjoy knowing things she didn't? Some of her sadness made sense.
"Ben," I corrected, but I did not smile. I was looking at Inaya, and she was looking at the floor. A pitiful being, one I couldn't wait to get my hands on, to brighten up like the Christmas tree, blinking and radiant—because right now? Right now she had no light in her. None at all.
For the rest of the party, I waited, chatting with my coworkers, but always keeping track of her in my peripheral vision. Finally, she wandered off to the balcony, and I knew that some force in the universe had given me the opportunity to have her alone.
She was leaning against the railing, her head down, looking at the ground seven stories down. In her hand was a cigarette.
"Bum me one?" I said, taking off my blazer. She looked stunned as I draped it over her shoulders.
"Th-Thanks," she said, putting her cigarette in her mouth and digging through her clutch to locate her pack. She found one and passed it to me, along with a lighter.
"Fuck," I said, enjoying the drag and checking for her reaction. How did she feel about cursing?
Evidently, she felt nothing. It didn't seem to bother her.
I passed her back the lighter, and joined her by the railing, looking down.
"What were you looking at?" I asked.
"Oh, nothing," she said, taking another drag of her cigarette. "The ground, I guess."
"Why?"
"I wondered what I'd look like splattered all over it," she said, and this time she looked at me, anticipating my reaction. I barked out a laugh.
"You don't have the guts," I said.
"You don't know me," she replied.
"I know that you're still alive. There must be something you're still living for."
She looked away. "This isn't fucking
Titanic
," she said. "Don't save me."
And she shrugged off my blazer, gripped the railing with both hands, and began to throw a leg over it.
"Shit!" I hissed, grabbing her around the waist and pulling. We fell back.
"I told you—"
"Life's short enough as it is," I said softly. "Don't give it the satisfaction of making it shorter."
She was looking into my eyes, and I could see an ocean of sadness in her, as if she was drowning in it. We stared at one another until it had been too long—until it was obvious what we were going to do next.
I kissed her. She tasted like vanilla and spice, so good that it should have been criminal. When she didn't protest, I took her face in my hands and deepened the kiss, and that beautiful disaster in my arms began to kiss me back. She threw her arms around my neck, her tongue boldly sliding against mine, our mouths hot and wet.
What I'd expected was a delirious need to take her, to own her the way I'd owned every other conquest, but there had been something about her amber eyes, as if they'd seen everything there was to see and somehow none of it had been satisfying. Those eyes had seen far too much.
"You're beautiful," I told her, pulling back. I knew that she needed to hear it.
Her eyes were already brimming with tears. How long had it been since a man had given this poor woman a compliment?
"Thank you," she whispered.
"Still want to kill yourself?" I asked her.
"Not tonight."
I helped her get to her feet, and we dusted ourselves off.
"Listen, I know what it's like," I lied. "If you ever need someone to talk to..."
"I've got a therapist," she said. "Thank you."
"You're welcome," I said. "Your therapist is doing a shit job, and you should get a new one."
