Instead, I pull open the door. I feel as if I’m walking underwater, everything in slow motion. I can’t think, and I can’t feel.
For a moment after I open that door, nothing happens. Or rather, Lucifer just keeps fucking her, biting his bottom lip, his eyes closed.
Ophelia is still clawing at the bikini string, and my husband is totally oblivious to the fact that she might pass out if he doesn’t let go.
A warm spring breeze fans over me as I stand there, in the doorway, neither of them noticing me.
Lucifer groans, finally bowing his head, and just as he does, the vodka bottle topples off of the table and shatters on the concrete floor of the balcony.
Neither of them seem to react, but I flinch, wrapping my arms around myself, my mouth so dry, I don’t think I could speak even if I knew what to say.
And I don’t.
Lucifer releases the string of the bikini, his hand going to her breast as he grabs her, hard enough to leave a bruise, that groan guttural and from his core. She’s panting, her breaths loud and nervous, chest rising and falling.
I see Lucifer’s fingers digging into her flesh, her nipple peeking beneath his splayed fingers.
And I think they still don’t see me.
As my stomach churns, my own fingers dig into my upper arms. I think I’m going to vomit as my husband releases into her, grabbing her breast still like it’s his fucking lifeline, the veins in his forearms straining against his skin.
But when I look up, another groan, softer this time, escaping his mouth, he’s staring right at me.
“Hey, baby girl,” he says softly, his bare chest heaving, the muscles of his six-pack flexing, the scars a reminder of all he’s done for me.
The position he’s in a reminder of all the ways we’ve fucked each other over.
“I was wondering where you were.” Then he pulls out, and Ophelia scrambles up and off the table, covering herself with her hands.
I shift my gaze from Lucifer to his “childhood friend”, and my fists clench.
“What the fuck are you doing?” she screams at me, her legs crossed, arms too.
I step through the door, my boots crunching on the glass all over the cement floor.
Lucifer rolls off a condom, pulls his pants up at my side, watching us.
“What are you doing here? You fucking whore!” Ophelia’s voice is high-pitched. Grating on my last goddamn nerve.
And when I reach down to pick up the handle of the vodka bottle, spiked glass at the ends of it from where it shattered because my husband was fucking this cunt, I know I lost my last nerve a long, long time ago.
And all this rage? This fear?
I want to take it out on someone I can make fucking bleed.
I toss the condom to the ground, with the shattered glass. But I don’t know if Sid saw it. She’s got that bottle in her hand, and she’s advancing on Ophelia like she’s going to slit her fucking throat.
I prop my elbow in one hand, my fingers over my lips as I watch her, my chest tight. I know I should feel bad, and maybe I would if my head wasn’t spinning and I wasn’t having trouble standing from everything I drank tonight, but at the same time…she fucked Jeremiah.
She didn’t want to see me.
She’s cried over him.
She’d rather be with him.
We’re on a fucking break.
Still, seeing my wife backing a woman against the balcony railing, a weapon in hand…it’s all I’ve ever wanted from her.
For her to want me like I want her. Love me like I love her. Be fucking obsessed with me like I am with her.
Ophelia is still screaming, her hands over her chest, and I bite back my smile as Lilith clenches her jaw.
And this is Lilith.
My wife from hell, coming back to me, where she fucking belongs.
“Shut the fuck up,” she snarls, whipping that glass up to O’s throat.
Ophelia’s scream dies from her lips. She darts her eyes over to me, but I just shrug, cocking a brow at her. She knew I was married. She can deal with the consequences.
“You fucked my husband.” Those words are a low, husky growl, and my dick gets hard all over again hearing it.
“You fucking left him!” Ophelia shrieks, trying to back up further, but the railing is digging into her shoulders, and there’s nowhere for her to go.