Page 24 of Perdition
“He doesn’t want me anymore, Cheri,” she sobbed, “he thinks he’s stuck with me. I heard him with Sarah in his office. She was cooing and whispering and telling him that he was a catch, and that he had options! And he said she was too young and beautiful to settle down, that she shouldn’t settle too soon or she’d be stuck. And then—” she sucked in a breath that stuttered in her chest— “she said, ‘Like you,’ and…he agreed! Heagreed, Cheri! He feels stuck with me! Twenty years with the same used up, old pussy, a body that’s more stretch marks thanskin, saggy tits, wrinkles, and a post-baby belly that jiggles when I walk too fast!”
Cheri growled. “That motherfucker,” she snarled past clenched teeth. “If anyone is stuck, it’s you—single mom for years when he was overseas, the moral and emotional support of a goddamn petulant and moody as fuck MC president, business owner boss bitch, and a holy, hot damn cougar. You should have left his ass behind once the kids left—clean break. It isn’t like he’s even home anymore, right? You changed the locks, babe, don’t let his profligate ass back in.”
Em couldn’t help but sniffle a laugh at that.
Right. A cougar.
Probably one with a missing eye and a hindleg limp.
“You’re gorgeous, Emily!” Em rolled her eyes, but Cheri kept going. “You are! You aren’t fat, my love, you’re curvy. You have hips, tits, and ass—and more and moreactualmen withactualballs are coming forward to say that they love curves on their women. Something thick and soft to hold on to while the pound into them. Hell, there are actual social media accounts dedicated to hot dudes and thick chicks. Like a whole Insta trope.”
Huh. She’d have to add that to her algorithm, one that, until now, was mostly romance novel cover models, K-pop hotties, gardening influencers, Denzel Washington, and a few of her favorite rock bands from the 90s. Sure, she could have included sexy bikers in her timeline scrolling list, but why look at them on her phone when she could just walk in on her sexy as hell husband in the shower and get all the sexy biker she could ever want?
Except…that hadn’t happened in so long, she couldn’t even remember it. And sex? Well, she hadn’t gotten a good dicking from her husband since right after the kids left for college.
When the hell had her marriage become a celibate one? Her husband was an alpha, testosterone fueled biker badass…so why wasn’t he banging her against every flat surface like he used to? Even when the kids had been underfoot, they’d still found time to hide in a closet or the bathroom, and fuck so fast and hard, her knees gave out. When the twins got old enough to know what their parents were doing, Em had learned to bite down the noise, to get her pussy obliterated with as little noise as possible—which was nearly impossible most of the time, because Mads was a freaking sex god. Nine-inch dick, hips that thrust with power and precision, and a mouth and fingers that were lethal when applied to soft tissues—nipples, pussy, and clit.
But sexual soft tissue damage was like a fond memory long since gone off to die.
Maybe Mads is over having the same old…same old, she thought, hating it.
Sarah was young, like early twenties. No wrinkles, tight body, no real-life responsibilities that could drain her life force and kill her libido—she was a newborn filly compared to Em’s old gray mare, ready for the glue factory.
Finally, Em replied, “But I’m old?—”
Cheri snorted, backhanding Em’s chest.
“Ow!” she snapped, rubbing the sore spot on her boob.
“You aren’t old, ya dumb bitch! You’re only thirty-six! There are women out there right now, older than you, who’re still riding young bucks and having the time of their lives. I mean, come on! Look at me! We’re the same fucking age, Em, and the last dick I rode I picked up from O’Malley’s where he’d been sipping his first beer.”
Em’s mouth dropped open, not from shock but rather audacity.
“Wow, Cheri, you have no brain to cooch filter! That’s almost the same age as War!”
Cheri shrugged. “Bet he’s gettin’ some from those sexy, older college professors of his?—”
Em gasped, then cringed, her lips curling in disgust.
“That boy looks just like his dad, so it wouldn’t surprise me if his As and Bs are from a little tab A into slot B action with Professor Pencil Skirt.”
Em recoiled. “That’s my son you’re talking about, you nasty bitch!”
Cheri chuckled. “Got your mind off your self-hating, death spiral, didn’t it?”
Once again, Em’s mouth dropped open as her words failed.
Damn the woman, she was right.
Flopping back against the couch, Em wiped at the tears that were now only slowly slipping down her face.
“Look, Em, why don’t you sip some wine, collect your thoughts, and we’ll actually do the deep stuff in the morning once you’ve had time to let things simmer.”
Wine and procrastination?
Sounded like a great idea!
Notsuch a great idea!