Dirty Forever (The Dirty Suburbs Book 8)

by Cassie-Ann L. Miller

  Uh-oh!

  With a soft slap to his chest, I take a step back. “Stop trying to seduce me. We need to talk first.” I try to speak in a stern voice but the smile on my face isn’t doing me any favors.

  He groans. "I can think of a dozen activities that involve my mouth that are much more fun than talking. How does a nice, slow tongue-fuck sound?" He waggles his brows.

  I barely manage to ward off a smile. What a jerk!

  Rolling my eyes, I use both hands to push him toward the couch. When did his back become so strong and muscular? He's always had a strong, lean body but suddenly, it's a wall of muscles vining under his skin. The space between my thighs tingles.

  Focus, you nympho!

  He sits on the edge of the couch and his dark gaze rakes over my body. How many years have we been together? Yet he still looks at me like I'm a new, shiny thing. Not the same girl he's watched bear a child and gain stretch marks and a scar that runs along the underside of my belly. He looks at me like I'm a catch.

  But we're grown-ups and sexual attraction alone isn't enough to mend the cracks in the foundation of a marriage.

  I train my gaze on his perfect face and try to remain level-headed. "What did you want to talk to me about?"

  "I'm coming home."

  He makes the announcement with no preamble, no caveat. Just pure and complete self-assurance. As always.

  I lean back against the couch and arch an eyebrow. "Is that so?" I fold my arms under my breasts.

  "I want to see my son every day," he growls softly. “I want to hold you in my arms every night.”

  I laugh bitterly. "Says the guy who works 14-hour days and spends his weekends with his face hidden behind his computer screen.”

  "I realize that I’ll need to make some changes. I’m prepared for that. This shit has gone on long enough. I'm tired of fighting with you, Grace. You're my wife. I want to hold you. I want to make love to you. You want an apology? Then I'm truly sorry. You want promises? I swear I'll be a better husband. Happy?"

  "Wow!" I mutter. "Please – don't smother me with your sincerity!"

  "I'm not being insincere. I'm being the bigger person."

  Now, I’m on the defensive. "So you think I'm being petty?"

  "Don't get all indignant. I’m making amends. I'm giving you what you want." Confusion knots his brows as he leans forward with his elbows on his knees. "This is what you want…isn't it?"

  I take a shallow breath. "I want a divorce," I whisper, barely getting the words past the lump in my throat.

  Daniel slumps against the couch, physically recoiling at my words. "Grace..."

  I can see that he's hurt but – gosh! – he just doesn't get it. He doesn't get me.

  I feel so alone, even though he's sitting right here. We used to be best friends. How did we get to this point?

  Burying my face in my hands, I sob. I hear movement beside me and then I feel his hands on my thighs. My body lights up from his touch and I cry harder because I wish it were enough.

  I love him so much. And I wish it were enough.

  "Grace..." His voice shakes with emotion. He's on his knees, on the floor in front of me, staring up into my face. "You don't want to divorce me...Just tell me what you want..."

  It's not that simple.

  I peek into his eyes. He looks broken in every way. He squeezes my thigh. "Talk to me, baby. I'm really trying here."

  I’m scared. I’m terrified. He’ll hurt me again. He’ll leave me. Just like my father did. A man tells you he loves you but when he realizes that you aren’t really what he expected you’d be, he leaves.

  "Do you still want me, Grace? Do you still love me?" I've never seen so much openness and vulnerability in my husband's eyes. He's always so macho, such a confident guy but right now it seems that if I even dare to say 'no', his heart would shatter to pieces right here, right in my hand.

  “I love you.” Tears burn my eyes. "And I don't want to fall out of love with you. Ever. But it’s going to take more than a slow tongue-fuck and a walk down memory lane to get things back to the way they used to be. We're strangers now."

  "What is it that you don't know about me?" His gives me an incredulous look.

  I don't know if you'll stay with me in the long run. When the reality of how broken I am settles in, I don't know if I'll be enough for you.

  But of course, I don't say that. Instead, I deflect the responsibility back on him. "I gave you a chance. When you showed up with those theater tickets, I gave you one last shot but you fucked it up. You chose work over family and proved to me yet again that I'm not that important to you."

  He cringes hard. "There's a lot you don't know about that night. I’m sorry I cancelled on you but it was a matter of life and death for someone we know. I couldn't just go to the theater, knowing that someone’s life was on the line."

  I furrow my brows at this new information. "What are you talking about?"

  "I can't give you details because of lawyer-client confidentiality but someone we know got caught up in a sex trafficking scandal and I had to help. I couldn't just turn away. I love you and I wanted to be with you that night. But I did the right thing. You see that, don't you?"

  "Daniel..." Now, I feel like the biggest asshole for holding that night against him.

  “I want to come home,” he begs.

  I just sob more, struggling to get the words out. "We...we need...help..."

  He falls back onto his haunches and pulls on his hair. "God, Grace. We tried couple’s counseling. It just made us fight more."

  I shake my head. "Not traditional therapy. Isla's having a yoga retreat for couples—"

  "Isla? You want to bring your friends into our marriage?"

  Folding my arms, I look away. "Forget it. Forget I said anything."

  With a finger on my jaw, he returns my focus to him. "We don't need some outsider's opinion on our marriage. We can figure it out ourselves."

  I scoff. "Yeah – we've been doing a great job so far."

  His hands slide over my knees, flirting with the edge of my dress. “I have a different type of therapy for you,” he says with a playful tone to his voice. He presses his lips to my thigh and instinctively, I shiver.

  “Daniel…” I warn.

  He kisses me there again and this time, my eyes flutter. “It’s called the fuck-you-till-we-forget-all-our-problems treatment.” His eyes take on that seductive glint that muddles all my thoughts and silences all my arguments.

  “You’re so annoying,” I say with a laugh but as his kisses inch higher, there’s absolutely nothing annoying about that.

  He pushes my dress all the way back and I feel the dampness pooling at my core. “Mmm…” he groans and his tongue traces the outline of my panties.

  Lifting my hips off the couch, I move the lacy fabric down my legs. Daniel gladly helps me get that bothersome scrap of cloth out of the way. And when his tongue swipes over my sensitive mound, all of my arguments fizzle away.

  Sliding my finger through his silky hair, I groan and circle on his tongue. He devours me slowly, taking his time. He sucks my clit into his mouth and I abandon myself completely against the couch, begging him, telling him to take all of it. It feels so good. He’s so tender and patient, like there’s nothing else in the world he’d rather be doing.

  I could do this for hours, for days. Maybe he’s right. Maybe if we keep doing this, then our problems won’t matter anymore.

  Putting my feet up on the edge of the couch, I spread myself wide for him and he takes full advantage of the unrestricted access. When he spears his tongue into me and flicks his thumb over my clit, my temperature spikes through the roof. “I’m coming,” I whisper and clamp my legs around the sides of his head.

  I hit the peak, biting my lip to keep from screaming. The orgasm rocks me from the inside out.

  He moves up next to me on the couch and holds me as my pulse slows and my breathing regulates. I burrow against him, wrapping my arms around his torso. He pl
aces kisses in my hair. My body aches to return the favor.

  Sometimes in life, a girl meets a guy who makes her want to do everything. Even the taboo things she swore she’d never try. Daniel is that guy for me. I want to make every part of my body available to him in every way. I want his cock in my mouth, dripping his sweet cream onto my tongue. And then, I want to ride it until I’m coming and he’s shooting his seed inside of me. Then, I want it piercing the orifice between my butt cheeks, filling me in that blissfully painful way. I want to do everything.

  My hand slides to his waistband and I unbutton his fly. “You’re so fucking hard…” I mumble as my fingers close around his shaft.

  I hear the smirk in his voice. “So what are you gonna do about it?” he challenges.

  I look up at him and grin as I sink to my knees in front of him. I draw my tongue along the head of his shaft and savor the tangy sweetness of his precum. Then, I lock my lips around the spongy tip, sucking tenderly.

  And hmm – all of a sudden, he doesn’t look so damn cocky anymore.

  His breathing hitches and his eyes widen when I take him to the hilt. I feel an irrational sense of power when he begins thrusting uncontrollably and saying my name. Bracing his thighs with my hands, I roll my tongue along the taut skin and the pulsing veins. I'm completely and utterly devoted to his pleasure. He slides his hand into my hair and his nails grate my scalp.

  "I want you to swallow, Grace. When I come on your tongue, you're going to swallow."

  The vibration of my low moan is what detonates his orgasm. Bursts of his cum spurt into my mouth. He looks down at me with dark, eager eyes as I drink it down, swallowing like a thirsty slut stranded in the desert.

  I climb into his lap, straddling him. He presses his forehead to mine and whispers, “That was so fucking hot…” He takes my face in his palms and tenderly guides my mouth over his. I moan and let my lips open for him. He fucks my mouth with his tongue, making sounds that let me know just how much he wants me.

  Mmm…this is gonna be good…

  I slide my fingers under the hem of his t-shirt. Kissing him, I run my hands up over the planes of his chest.

  Something feels...different.

  "Daniel?"

  "Mmm?" His eyes are closed and he looks like his drowning in bliss right now.

  "What happened to your chest hair?"

  His eyes blink open and he gives me a sheepish look. "I groomed it,” he says awkwardly.

  My brow jerks up questioningly.

  “I felt like something had to change. For the sake of our relationship."

  "You thought that manscaping was the solution to our problems?"

  “I don’t know, Grace. I thought it would help.”

  “You can’t be serious.” I laugh.

  He shrugs, visibly becoming upset. "I can't read you these days. I don't know what you want."

  "You know I like your chest hair."

  "But it's my chest hair!"

  I climb out of his lap and stand in front of him. "You are incredible, you know that? Incredible!"

  "Jesus! Are we really fighting about my chest hair, right now?"

  So now, we’re bickering, not even listening to each other, our arguments crashing recklessly into each other.

  "—Never take my feelings into consideration. That's so typical of you—"

  "—Can't believe you're trying to dictate the length of my fucking chest hair—"

  “—Think I’m a dictator, huh?”

  “—Shoe seems to fit—“

  "—Always have to ‘lawyer’ your way out of everything—"

  "—‘Lawyer’ is not a verb. You can't conjugate ‘lawyer’—"

  "—You’re so fucking arrogant. You think you’re so fucking smart. What the fuck does ‘conjugate’ mean anyway?"

  "—How do you not know what ‘conjugate’ means?"

  "—Never make decisions together. Like a couple—"

  He bolts up to his feet and throws his arms up in frustration. "I give up, Grace. Okay? I fucking give up!"

  The room falls silent and my heart falls apart in my chest. Oh, god — it’s over. He’s done. I somehow manage to hold myself together externally instead of breaking down into tears.

  "Then leave."

  “Fine!"

  "Fine!"

  A ball of distress rises into my throat as he marches out the front door, slamming it behind him. I yank the living room curtain open and watch him. My stomach quivers but I hold fast to my steely expression as he sinks into the driver’s seat of his car. The lights inside of the cabin blink on. I glare at him out of the living room window. He sits behind the wheel glaring right back at me.

  See – I was right. This isn’t going to work. We’re far too fucked up. I was dumb to think that we could still save our marriage.

  How many times am I going to do this to myself? Allowing myself to get my hopes up, only to have him dash them, only to have a simple conversation devolve into yet another one of our trademark blowouts. My husband won't ever change. I've got to come to grips with that. I’ve got to proceed with the divorce.

  He picks up his phone and punches angrily at the screen. The knot in my throat grows tighter. Is he calling another woman? Brittany Le Whore, maybe? I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care…Fuck – I care.

  But it's my phone that starts ringing. The shrill sound of the landline echoes through the house.

  I snatch it out of its cradle and bring it to my ear.

  "You're right, okay?" he barks.

  My brows arch as I peer at him through the window. "About the chest hair?"

  "No," he says impatiently with an unpleasant grimace. "About the couples retreat. I'll go to the couples retreat."

  I feel a slow smile slipping across my lips. "Okay."

  He disconnects the call and tosses the phone into the cup holder. Our gazes hold for a moment longer, a tingle running down my back. Then he throws his car into reverse and peels out of the driveway.

  Chapter 23

  Daniel

  Prescott glimpses down at the screen of his tablet and frowns. “We can’t use this case as precedent. It was overturned by the Supreme Court six months ago.”

  “Are you serious? How did I miss that?” I flop back against my chair and massage my temples.

  I glance up at the clock on the wall just as its hands inch past 11:30 a.m. I’ve been here since 4:00. Couldn’t sleep. Thinking about my fucked up marriage kept me awake.

  But I’m used to the sleep deprivation. I’m a lawyer, after all.

  This profession is draining. The Shinewell vs. Town of Reyfield case is only the most recent file to take over my life. And it probably won’t be the last. I’m not sure that the fat pay check makes it all worth it. Especially when I think about nights like last night and the look on Grace’s face as I jumped into my car.

  "We don't have enough jurisprudence to support our arguments." Prescott’s glare rips through me.

  I slam my fist onto the conference table. “Then, we’ll have to find some more.”

  A set of quick knocks draws our attention in the direction of the door. Sanaya, my new assistant (who happens to be Prescott’s old assistant), pokes her head into the room. She has a stack of papers tucked under her arm and she’s wearing designer stilts that look like they should probably come with an insurance policy and mandatory user training.

  Prescott grows even angrier. "You two figure it out. I'm gonna go call my pregnant wife." He edges by her and storms out of the room.

  Sanaya chuckles. “Y’know, he’s still bitter that you stole me from him.”

  I shrug. When my original administrative assistant retired a few weeks ago, I went in search of the best that our office had to offer. I quickly realized that Sanaya was it. One little problem – she was Prescott’s secretary. So I gave her an offer she couldn’t refuse. A 20 percent pay hike and a new, splinter-free desk. Now, she works for me.

  If I were Prescott, I’d be pissed too. The girl is
on the ball. But he’s gonna have to deal with it. I have seniority over him. Plus, my life is pretty shitty in every way right now so I get sympathy points.