by Devon Scott
Also by Devon Scott
Unfaithful
Obsessed
DEVON SCOTT
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by Devon Scott
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Epilogue
A READING GROUP GUIDE
Discussion Questions
UNFAITHFUL
Copyright Page
For my father
Acknowledgments
Relationships fascinate me. It’s the drama, especially what goes on behind closed doors, that I like to explore. I hope you will enjoy the ride I take you on while giving you something to consider.
I would like to thank the many book club members and readers who have reached out to me regarding my debut novel, Unfaithful. Thank you for your support and feedback. I very much appreciate it.
To Shantel: Thank you for your love, support, and assistance in the writing of this book. You continue to inspire me, and I am blessed to have you in my life.
Until next time . . .
Prologue
The man leans in toward the gleaming widescreen display. His eyes burn and head throbs. Fingers to his temples, he attempts to quell the pain. He reaches for the Tylenol, pops the childproof top, and sprays his palm with pills, spilling a few onto the floor. Ignoring those, he swallows eight, chasing them with bottled water before returning his attention to the screen before him.
The image should soothe. But it does not.
He sits in his office, surrounded by expensive equipment, an array of whirling hard drives, silicon, and brushed aluminum. The only light emanates from three high-definition monitors connected to an encrypted network of desktops and servers, and more importantly, to the world beyond via highspeed broadband.
Fingers on the chattering keyboard as he types, enlarging the view.
A nude woman, splayed before the camera. Hands on the bed, pushing her hips upward. Her sex in plain view, ripened, and moist, he can tell even from here. The man leans closer until his eyelashes touch the warm LCD, the pounding in his head a staccato rhyme.
What a piece.
Legs the color of mocha chocolate.
Smooth, like only he can imagine.
Full breasts, dark, erect inviting nipples.
A smile that dazzles with its brilliance.
That’s what gets him the most.
Her smile. The way she plays to the camera. Teases it with her seductive ways.
Fucking bitch. Kennedy. The wife. Just speaking her name makes him seethe with anger.
Click. Next photo.
Same gorgeous woman. This time with a companion.
Thin framed, killer bod. Butterscotch complexion. He feels himself stiffen. Weave halfway down her back. Remembering the way he used to pull it as he thrust behind her.
Next photo.
Bodies pressed against each other as their lips make contact. Eyes shut and expression say it all—this is rapture. He’s dizzy with fury. It’s like bile that drips painfully within his chest, destroying everything in its acidic path.
He’s sitting in one of those expensive leather chairs executives own. He leans back now, hide creaking as he releases himself from the confines of his jeans and boxers. Sitting back down, he experiences a sliver of freedom. The roar in his head has yet to subside. It’s like a raging river that rushes along, the whoosh from waters sluicing against rocky outcrops. His member hardens, eyes scanning the pixels as if he can hear their breathing. Their heartbeats.
Click.
Butterscotch atop sexy Mocha. Her legs are almost closed. But not quite. He can see her labia peeking out from between her legs, and he can’t help but stare breathlessly. He begins to stroke himself, fighting the rush in his head that threatens to blind him. Skin dry, almost chafed, he pumps himself slowly, feeling the blood engorging, like a balloon inflating.
Click.
Mocha and Butterscotch’s stares are captured by the camera. Their dual smiles radiating outward, sickening him with their fucking glee. He spits in his hand, then clasps it around his dick, stroking purposefully. The rage is a river. He can feel it taking over. Building . . . expanding, a turbulent vortex. The thump in his head is like house music. Only one thing can stop it.
Click.
Dude comes into view. Fucking Michael. The husband.
Atop Butterscotch, sinewy brown back muscles shine. Dude reaches for her ankles. The tat on her ankle, the spot of red ink visible between fingers—the spider, clearly seen.
Black widow.
Ass to the camera, the man can’t tell if he’s inside of her yet. Mocha kissing Butterscotch’s nipples while rubbing her own clit. Next shot leaves no doubt.
The pain is blinding. Dude’s buried to the hilt. He’s entombed. Their eyes are locked, and her expression says it all—this is rapture.
The rage wells up at the couple whose sexual zeal is on display before him. This man and woman, whom he has never met, but promises to get to know like that back of his fucking hand.
Michael and Kennedy. Husband and wife.
The perfect couple. Not a care in the world. At least not yet.
They think they can swoop in and fuck with someone’s life? Pluck the very thing that is most precious from his fingertips?
No. He will not let that happen.
The migraine pulses at his temples and his engorged member. He increases his stroking and his pumping, fingers working the mouse a
s he flicks back and forth between photos, feeling the pressure build.
Legs the color of mocha chocolate.
Smooth, like only he can imagine.
Full breasts, dark, erect inviting nipples.
Dude’s cock deep within black widow.
Entombed, rapturously.
He explodes, a blend of pain and pleasure rippling outward.
Warm semen on cool dry skin.
In an instant the rush subsides. The rage ebbs.
The pounding is still there, but it’s sinking like wet quicksand. His breathing slows, and soon all he can hear is the silence of his house.
Sap dripping between fingers, the man experiences intense sadness.
Then a stab of extreme pain.
Michael and Kennedy robbed him of his most precious jewel.
Staring at Black Widow’s eyes that are locked onto Dude’s as he filled her, the man’s fury returns.
Fucking robbers.
Michael and Kennedy will pay.
They won’t know what hit ’em.
That’s for sure.
Chapter 1
Zack comes into the bedroom holding a stack of Xbox 360 games. Kennedy stands in front of the bed, packing. She’s got one suitcase already full, and is placing a pair of boots into a designer bag. She glances down at him with a smirk.
“What are you doing with those?” she asks, noting that the stack is almost to his nose.
“You said I could bring my games to Jeremy’s,” her son replies, obsidian eyes wide.
Kennedy has to smile as she remembers that a seven-year-old takes everything you say literally.
“I didn’t say all of them, Zack!”
“These aren’t all of them! I left four downstairs, Mommy.” Zack pouts, as he’s fond of doing. Kennedy goes over to him and kisses his cheek, stroking his hair. Sometimes the maturity level of her son makes her pause.
“How about you pick five of your favorites? Don’t forget Jeremy has plenty of Xbox games too.”
“Ahhhh, Mom!”
Zack storms out, passing his father, who’s standing in the doorway, watching the exchange with amusement.
“Mom never lets me do what I want!” he exclaims to his dad, who just nods wretchedly.
Kennedy turns to Michael, whose arms are folded across his chest. He watches his son go down the stairs before returning his attention to the bedroom.
“He’s your son, that’s for sure,” she remarks. Michael grins.
Kennedy returns to her packing. She is tall—close to 5’ 9” and weight proportionate to her height. She wears her hair in a ponytail, slightly below her shoulders. A pair of tight-fitting Levi’s, Michael’s favorite, hugs her curves like a winding country road. Her jeans are tucked into caramel colored knee-high boots, and a light sweater tops her ensemble. Kennedy reaches for her toiletry bag and another pair of boots, these tall and black, fitting them into the designer bag. Michael shakes his head.
“You know we’re only going for away for a weekend.”
“A girl can never bring enough clothes.”
“If you say so.” Michael moves behind his wife, placing his hands on her hips. He moves in until no space separates them, wrapping an arm around her chest, feeling the flesh as he nuzzles against her neck.
“Sexy-ass,” he whispers in her ear.
Kennedy grins while pushing against him. “Don’t start nothing you can’t finish,” she says.
Michael cups her breasts in both hands, feeling their weight. He kisses her neck and chin. “Think I won’t?”
Kennedy turns and kisses him once on the lips. Then again, opening her mouth, tasting him this time. “I know you will, big daddy. Now let me finish.” Kennedy pushes him away, grinning as she witnesses him pouting. “You are your son’s father, that’s for sure.”
“You’re lucky our son is downstairs, that’s all I can say.”
“I know, baby.”
“We’re gonna finish this later. Wait until we get to the hotel.”
“I can’t wait.”
“Gonna tear it up.”
“I know you will, big daddy.”
“Gonna eat it good, too.”
“I’ll feed you myself!”
Michael grins. Kennedy stares at her husband for a moment: tall, good-looking, in shape, short hair, trimmed mustache and goatee. Dark jeans, button-down striped shirt, sleeves halfway rolled up his forearms. She resists the urge to kiss him again. Don’t start, she tells herself silently.
Michael retreats to the main level. Ten minutes go by before she comes downstairs, lugging her bags. Michael meets her at the bottom of the landing and takes them from her, placing the bags by the door. She peeks into the family room, spying Zack on the floor in front of the plasma, watching something on Nickelodeon. He’s wearing his TMNT backpack, ready to go. She goes into the dining room, grabbing her laptop from the table as Michael glides behind her, shaking his head.
“Oh no you don’t,” he says, prying the computer from her fingers.
She follows him quickly into the den. “Baby, I just need to—”
“Stop,” he says, spinning around, finger to his lips. “This weekend is a getaway. Get-a-way. No laptops. Those are the rules.” He puts the laptop down on the desk and powers down the desktop computer and monitor.
“But I have to finish this brief—”
“Stop.” Michael holds up his hand. “You are not the only attorney in this house. Nevertheless, there will be no briefs or work of any kind this weekend. Understand?”
“Are we ready to go yet?” Zack is behind them, glancing curiously at his digital watch before eyeing his parents.
Michael smirks. “As a matter of fact, we are. Go get in the car.”
“Cool! I’m calling Jeremy.” Zack digs into the lower pockets of his cargo pants and pulls out a cell phone. It’s one of those designed especially for kids, featuring a chaperone feature that lets adults see where their children are. He flips it open expertly, speed-dialing Jeremy as he saunters away. Michael shakes his head before returning his attention to his wife, who has managed to place the laptop behind her back.
“You are not slick,” Michael says. “Don’t make me kick your ass. Now, put the laptop down so no one gets hurt.”
Kennedy sighs heavily while grabbing her leather jacket and heading for the door.
Chapter 2
“I call shotgun!” Zack squeals.
“Boy, if you don’t get in your car seat,” Kennedy exclaims.
They stand outside their stone, three-level, one-garage townhouse located on Taylor Street in Northeast D.C. The street is tree-lined and quiet. All of the rowhouses, as they’re called in the District, are stone, some the color of dark mud, others the reddish brown hue of autumn or the dull gray of slate. All are well-kept, with small, manicured bushes and shrubs. Michael and Kennedy bought this home shortly after they were married seven years ago. They were looking for something they could stretch out in and raise a family. The location is decent, as far as the city goes—quiet, Metro-accessible, a short drive from the private school that Zack attends and the downtown association where Kennedy works as a lawyer. Michael, who is also an attorney but works instead for a government agency, can make the short drive downtown as well or take Metro.
Their luggage—Michael’s garment bag, Kennedy’s two suitcases, and Zack’s gym bag and his backpack—is sequestered in the back of Michael’s Range Rover. Kennedy’s BMW is tucked in the garage. Michael jumps in the front seat and starts the engine as Kennedy supervises Zack buckling in. Once everyone is set, they take off.
The drive to Jeremy’s home, north of Children’s Hospital and Catholic University, takes about ten minutes. Michael double-parks on the narrow street. Then Kennedy gets Zack to the sidewalk. He quickly hugs her and races up the steps to the door, ringing the bell as his father gets out, leaving the engine running.
“Hey, can I get a hug or something?” he yells to his seven-year-old son.
“Oh,
yeah. Sure, Dad.” Zack races down, backpack bobbing against his thin shoulders. Arms reach up around his father’s neck and hug him. “Buy me something in New York, PLEASE?”
“Is that all I’m good for? Lord!” Michael grins as Zack heads back up the stairs.
Jeremy yanks open the door and the two boys high-five each other before dashing inside. Jeremy’s mom, Lori, comes outside, a good-looking thirty-something woman of color, dressed comfortably in sweats and running shoes. She waves at Michael as Kennedy climbs the steps. They meet halfway.
“Hey, girl,” Kennedy says, embracing Lori. “Thank you so much for taking Zack this weekend.”
“You know it’s not a problem,” Lori says. “We’re going to have a great time. I’m taking the boys to the movies tonight, and we’ve got plenty of things to keep them occupied all weekend.”
“That’s great. Zack’s been talking about this sleepover all week.”
“Jeremy, too. You guys have fun. Don’t worry about a thing—I’ve got your number if we need to reach you,” Lori says before dropping her voice down a notch. “Wish I was going away with my husband. You need to have enough fun for both of us, you hear me?” She winks at Kennedy. Kennedy grins back.
The ride to Union Station takes less than fifteen minutes. Michael parks on the upper level, and together they lug their bags into the Amtrak station. They have a three PM reservation on the Acela Express and a half hour to spare before the train departs. Check-in is a breeze. They retrieve their boarding passes from an automated kiosk and grab a Caramel Frappuccino and a Danish from the Starbucks across from the waiting area. They take adjoining seats close to their gate and collectively breathe a sigh of relief.
“The vacation begins,” Kennedy says, placing a hand on Michael’s lap and leaning in until their foreheads touch.
“Love you, baby,” Michael responds, taking her head in his hands as he kisses her lips gingerly. Kennedy, for a moment, loses herself in the closeness of her husband, loving the feeling as she always does of her tongue on his. She opens her mouth wider, inviting him in, then pulls back, suddenly aware of her surroundings.
“Love you more,” Kennedy remarks back in breathless anticipation of things to come.
