My Husband’s Mother Caused My Divorce (Her Marriage in Crisis #114)

1. Madison

— ? —

Madison

Ten years married, and the one language Ford and I still spoke without stumbling was this one, in the dark, where neither of us had to find the words we’d lost everywhere else.

I was curled into the corner of the couch with a novel when I heard his keys in the door. Six-thirty. Early for him. I turned the page and waited for the usual sounds. Briefcase dropped by the stairs. Footsteps toward his study. The click of the door closing behind him.

The footsteps came toward the living room instead.

I looked up. Ford stood in the doorway with his tie already loosened and his sleeves rolled to his elbows. His forearms were tan from the weekend we’d spent on Graham’s boat. I noticed that. I always noticed that, the specific physical details of him that my body catalogued without permission.

“Hey,” I said, and my voice came out softer than I intended. “You’re home early.”

He crossed the room without answering. Took the book from my hands and set it on the side table. Then he grabbed my wrist and pulled me to my feet.

“Ford, what are you…”

His mouth covered mine before I could finish.

God.

His hands gripped my hips and pulled me flush against him. I could feel how hard he was already, pressing against my stomach through his suit pants. My body responded before my brain caught up. Heat pooling low. Pulse spiking. Thighs pressing together.

This. This was what still worked.

“I couldn’t focus all day,” he said against my lips, his breath hot. “Kept thinking about you. About this.”

“About what?” I asked, but I knew. I could feel exactly what he’d been thinking about.

“About getting home to you,” he said, and he kissed me again, deeper this time, his tongue sliding against mine. “Taking this off.” His fingers found the hem of my shirt. “Being inside you.”

My shirt hit the floor. His hands moved to my bra clasp.

“Upstairs,” I managed to say between kisses. “Ford, take me upstairs.”

He pulled back just enough to look at me. His eyes were dark, hungry. The way he used to look at me all the time. The way he only looked at me now when he wanted this.

Don’t think about that.

He grabbed my hand and led me toward the stairs. I followed, my bare feet on the hardwood, my heart pounding against my ribs. We’d done this a thousand times. Ten years of walking up these stairs together. Ten years of his hand in mine, pulling me toward our bedroom.

Why did it feel different now? Why did it feel like the only time he reached for me?

We barely made it through the bedroom door. He pressed me against the wall, mouth on my neck, hands unhooking my bra and sliding it down my arms. I worked at his shirt buttons with shaking fingers.

“Let me,” he said, and he stepped back long enough to pull the shirt over his head.

I stared at his chest. The muscles I’d traced with my tongue a hundred times. The trail of dark hair disappearing into his waistband. My mouth went dry.

Fuck. Ten years and he could still do this to me. Ten years and my body still wanted him like it was the first time.

“See something you like?” he asked, and there was a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“Come here,” I said, reaching for him. “Stop making me wait.”

He came. His hands found my waist and lifted me, and I wrapped my legs around him as he carried me to the bed. My back hit the mattress.

“I love you,” he said, looking down at me. “You look so fucking hot like this. Underneath me. Wanting me.”

“I always want you,” I said, and it came out like a confession.

I do. That’s the problem. I always want you, even when you’re not here. Even when you’re sitting across from me at breakfast and a million miles away.

His mouth found my breast and I stopped thinking.

He sucked my nipple between his lips and I arched into him, my fingers digging into his shoulders. His tongue circled the sensitive peak. His teeth grazed it lightly. I moaned loud enough that it echoed off the walls.

“That’s it,” he said against my skin. “Let me hear you.”

He moved to the other breast. His hand slid down my stomach, over my hip, between my thighs. I was still wearing my underwear. He pressed his palm against me through the fabric and I gasped at the pressure.

“Already so wet,” he said, and I could hear the satisfaction in his voice. “You’re soaked, Mads.”

“Touch me,” I begged. “Please, Ford. I need you to touch me.”

He hooked his fingers into my underwear and pulled it down my legs. I kicked it off and spread my thighs for him, past shame, past pride, past anything except the ache between my legs.

“Look at you,” he said, staring down at me. “So fucking beautiful. This pretty pussy, all wet for me.”

His fingers slid through my folds and I whimpered. He spread the wetness up to my clit and circled it slowly. Too slowly.

“More,” I said, lifting my hips. “Ford, please. More.”

“Patience,” he said, and he pressed a kiss to my hip bone while his fingers kept up that maddening slow rhythm.

He pushed two fingers inside me and I cried out. He curled them up, finding that spot, and my vision went white at the edges. His thumb pressed circles on my clit while he fucked me with his hand.

“You’re so tight,” he said, watching his fingers disappear inside me. “So wet and tight and perfect.”

“Don’t stop,” I panted. “Please don’t stop.”

He didn’t stop. He added a third finger and picked up the pace, his hand working me relentlessly. I grabbed the sheets. My thighs started shaking. The pressure was building, that coil tightening low in my belly.

“I can feel you getting close,” he said. “Your pussy’s squeezing my fingers so tight. You’re going to come for me, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I gasped. “Yes, Ford, I’m going to…”

“Then come,” he said, and he pressed hard on my clit and curled his fingers and I shattered.

The orgasm crashed through me in waves. I screamed his name, my back arching off the bed, my whole body clenching around his fingers. He worked me through it, drawing it out, until I was gasping and pushing weakly at his wrist.

“Too much,” I managed to say. “God, Ford. Too much.”

“Not enough,” he said, and he pulled his fingers out and brought them to his mouth. He sucked them clean, his eyes locked on mine. “You taste so good, Mads. I could eat you for hours.”

“Later,” I said, reaching for his belt. “Right now I need you inside me.”

He stood up and stripped off his pants and boxers. His cock sprang free, thick and hard and already leaking at the tip. I wrapped my hand around him and stroked, base to tip, the way I knew he liked.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his head falling back. “Your hands, Madison. Goddamn.”

“I want you in my mouth,” I said, looking up at him. “Can I?”

“Next time,” he said, and he climbed back over me, positioning himself at my entrance. “Right now I need to be inside you. I’ve been thinking about this all day.”

He pushed in with one long stroke and I forgot how to breathe.

Full. So full. The stretch of him, the thickness, the way he hit that spot deep inside. My legs wrapped around his waist. My heels dug into his lower back. I pulled him deeper.

“God, Mads,” he groaned against my neck. “You feel incredible. Ten years and you still feel like the first time.”

He started to move. Slow at first, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in. I rocked my hips up to meet each thrust. We found our rhythm, the one we’d perfected over a decade. Bodies moving together. Breath syncing.

“Harder,” I said, raking my nails down his back.

He gave me what I asked for. His hips snapped against mine, driving deep enough that the headboard knocked against the wall. I loved that sound. Evidence. Proof that at least this part of us was still alive.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, bracing himself on his forearms to look down at me. “You know that? Watching you come apart underneath me. There’s nothing better than this.”

Is there? Is there nothing better?

I shoved the thought away. Focused on his body. The sweat beading on his chest. The strain in his arms. The way his jaw clenched when he was getting close.

“Touch yourself,” he said, his rhythm getting faster. “I want to feel you come on my cock.”

I slid my hand between us and rubbed my clit. The double sensation made me cry out. His cock filling me, my fingers working that bundle of nerves. The second orgasm built faster than the first.

“I’m close,” I gasped. “Ford, I’m so close.”

“Me too,” he gritted out. “Come with me, Mads. Right now.”

I fell apart. The orgasm slammed through me and I felt him follow, his hips stuttering, his groan low and long against my neck. He spilled inside me and I held him through it, held him while his body shook, held him while we both came down.

For thirty perfect seconds, I had him.

His weight pressed me into the mattress. His heart pounded against mine. His breath came ragged against my ear. I wrapped my arms around him and closed my eyes and pretended this was enough. That a man who wanted my body still wanted me.

Then his weight lifted.

No. Please. Stay with me.

I almost said those words aloud.

The nightstand drawer slid open. I heard it before I saw it. That familiar scrape of wood. The rustle of him reaching for something.

Blue light washed across the ceiling.

I kept my eyes closed for another moment. Gave him one more chance to put it down. To turn back to me. To say one soft thing that acknowledged what we’d just shared.

“Big day tomorrow,” he said. “The Whitmore contracts need to close by noon.”

I opened my eyes. He was propped on one elbow, scrolling through his phone. The screen lit up his features in that cold blue glow. His brow was furrowed. His attention was already somewhere else.

He scrolled. Read something. Typed a quick response.

“You should get some sleep,” he said, still looking at the screen.

“Okay,” I said, because what else was there to say?

He finally pulled out of me. Set the phone on the nightstand. Rolled onto his side, facing away.

“Night, Mads,” he said, already half-asleep.

“Goodnight,” I whispered to his back.