Lips of an Angel

"That doesn't mean--"

"It's not like what you're thinking," she interrupted. "I'm not perfect either."

"That doesn't mean you deserve to be hit, Mallory!"

"I know that," she snapped. "I know that very well, and I don't need you to lecture me when you don't even know what my marriage is like and--"

"You're right, I don't know what your marriage is like," I said. "But I know what mine is like, and I know it might not be perfect and my wife might be crazy and piss me the fuck off more often than not, but if she doesn't deserve to be hit, then neither do you."

Her mouth dropped open, anger flashing and then fading in her eyes, only to be replaced with concern.

"Wait, what do... what do you mean?"

"What?" I asked, confused.

"You... you said Liz makes you mad."

Of course I fucking did. Of course I was sitting with a woman years younger than me and dreaming about her lips and thinking about how much my marriage fucking sucked and saying shit I shouldn't have said.

I let out a slow breath. "That's not the point."

"What does she--"

"It's not important."

"It sounds important."

"Mallory," I said, trying not to let the pain show in my voice.

"Scott," she replied, pouting slightly.

I laughed.

I couldn't help it; I couldn't avoid it. I shook my head and I tried not to, but I laughed, and Mallory looked annoyed for a moment before she seemed to realize I was laughing because there was nothing else, not one single fucking thing, that I could do.

"Scott," she said again, and then the side of her thigh was pressed against mine and she had a comforting hand on my back. "It'll stay between us. Talk to me."

I meant to say no, but then I started talking.

**

"You're fucking it up."

He said it to me more than once. He said it all the time while I was growing up. He said it when I picked her and he said it when I got divorced and he said it when I refused to admit I'd fucked up by picking her.

"You never marry the other woman, Scott," he lectured. "You wanna stick your dick in every pretty cunt that comes along, you do that, but you never fuckin' marry the other woman."

And it didn't matter that I protested, that I told him this was different, that it wasn't like him and Mom, that I really loved the woman he kept condescendingly referring to as "other," even after she became "only."

"You're fucking it up," he'd say, and if he hadn't been so goddamn insistent about it, I wouldn't have been so stubborn.

But I was. I was so fucking determined to prove him wrong that I excused so much. Too much. Everything. I fell for her and I followed her like she was a religion. I followed her every whim, I followed her on adventures and excursions, I followed her to the bedroom and the altar and to wherever she wanted to go.

And as she spiralled downward, I just kept on following her.

The first signs weren't even signs. They were just things that I thought were normal. One weekend we were taking spontaneous road trips to a nearby lake just so we could say we'd fucked on a beach; it seemed like the next weekend, road trips were for antiquing and golf and cute little bed-and-breakfast getaways. We were just getting more comfortable with each other, I thought. More laid back. Life didn't have to be a big party all the time; it was perfectly fine to settle down and focus on what mattered.

And what mattered was her.

I excused so much because of that. I excused everything, and I justified everything, and one day I woke up and realized I didn't recognize the woman beside me.

She always slept next to me; right next to me. Sometimes in my arms, sometimes just pressed against me, hip to thigh or ass to groin or even just hand in hand if it was really hot out or something. But always, fucking always, we slept like that, and I loved it.

There were days that I'd wake up hard as stone, tugged out of dreamland by feather-light fingers playing with my cock. There were days that she opened her legs before I'd fully opened my eyes, days where I was still shaking off the cobwebs of sleep as I slid myself inside her. She would laugh at that, giggling at the fact that even half-awake, I wanted her. That even with limbs still heavy and eyes still shut, I could strip her, caress her, suck on her tits and pin her on her back and start fucking her, only rousing myself fully when I felt her pussy tighten around me and her juices gush as she came again, and again, and again.

God, I loved waking up like that.

I should have known that things were going downhill when I woke up one morning and she wasn't pressed against me. She was still beside me, gingerish hair fanned across the pillow as she lay on her back, dozing lightly. I blinked myself awake slowly, watching her come into focus, her breath steady and her eyelashes touching her cheekbones.

God, she was fucking gorgeous.

I shifted forward lazily, bringing myself closer to her, letting my hand slide across her stomach and up to her perfect, perky breasts. She murmured softly and I leaned forward, pressing my lips to her shoulder and nuzzling against her.

"Hmm?" she mumbled.

I smiled and kissed her soft, sweet skin again.

"Morning, honey," I whispered.

She stiffened. "What are you doing?"

I froze, then pulled away from her, confused. "What?"

"Why are you touching me?" she asked, blue eyes cold as she glared at me.

"I... I thought... This is how we usually wake up," I stammered.

She stared at me, frowning and confused and concerned, for a long and terrifying moment. Then, her face softened, and she tried to smile.

She tried, but she didn't.

**

For far longer than was appropriate, Mallory and I sat on her couch, commiserating about the sickness of our marriages as thunder crashed and lightning flared in the world outside her house.

She had it far worse. I mean, obviously. There weren't enough words to describe how angry I was with her husband, a man I'd never met, for what he was doing to her. She excused it, because of course she did, because it's never as easy as people think to admit they're in a broken marriage.

Hell, mine had been broken since before it began and I still couldn't admit it.

He hit her. That much was certain. She said it had stopped and they'd gotten help, they'd gone to counselling together and separately, that he'd gotten help for his anger. But he was still a wife-beater and that meant if I ever saw his face, I was going to kick his ass.

I might have been a shit husband, but at least I didn't beat my fucking wife.

She listened as I haltingly explained how things had gone downhill with Liz. How one day, she'd been a fiery, passionate, life-loving woman, and the next, she'd turned into a warden and my home had turned into her prison. How I felt indebted to her, how I was the one who worked and I took care of her and our daughter and yet she dictated everything in our lives.

I told her how much I loved Liz, how despite everything, I'd always been determined to make it work. How I'd waited for my Liz to come back.

How I was certain the woman I'd married was still in there somewhere.

"Is she... like, sick?" Mallory asked at one point.

"Like mentally?" I asked.

Her face flushed pink enough that I could see it under the dim glow of the flashlight. "Well, I mean..."

I swallowed, my throat tight, and thought for a moment.

"I think she needs help," I finally said. "I've thought that since... since before Ramona was born. And I tried. I... I've always had good benefits, you know? We're not fucking struggling for money. I asked her time and time again to talk to someone, to just get... get help."

"If she's changed that much since you married her, why are you still with her?" she asked when I didn't continue.

"I'm not a fucking monster," I said stiffly. "Even if she's... I still love her."

"Of course," she said. "But if you're making yourself sick by staying..."

I raised my eyebrows at her, and the pinkness on her cheeks grew.

"You can stop judging me any time." Her voice wavered. "I... it's not like I can just walk away, okay? So stop judging me."

"I'm not judging you. I just think you deserve better."

She opened her mouth, then closed it as she looked at me.

"You do," I continued. "Look at yourself, Mallory. You're young and talented and gorgeous. You're a great mom, you work hard, you... you're worthy of more. You deserve better."

She bit her lip. "I... thank you."

"It's just the truth."

"You do, too."

I frowned. "I do what?"

"Deserve better." Her gaze was steady. "Sick or not, your wife treats you like garbage."

"I--"

"You just said she doesn't trust you, she checks up on you, she barely lets you go to the bathroom by yourself without freaking out," she said. "Okay, yeah, I can admit that Jeremy hitting me is quite obviously toxic, but Scott, you're being treated just as badly."

I was taken aback. "That's not--"

"It is," she said fiercely. "You've been unhappy for a long time. For so long that you don't know what it's like to be happy anymore. And you're the nicest guy, you know that? Y-you came here tonight and you helped me with Ellie and sh-she loved you. When Jeremy holds her, she just cries and cries, more than she cries when I hold her, and you let me talk and cry and you j-just deserve better, okay?"

The pink on her cheeks had gone red, and her eyes were glistening with passion and tears.

"It pisses me off," she continued. "That she doesn't know what she has. That she has... she has you and she acts like that. She has no idea how lucky she is."

"She's not that lucky," I said softly.

"Don't say that," she whispered. "Don't. You are good, Scott. If my husband was anything like you, I'd... I wouldn't be feeding you overcooked chicken and gross broccoli every night, that's for sure."

I laughed. I had to. And she laughed; she had to, just as much as I did.

It was absurd; we both knew it was absurd. That we were both in these fucked up relationships and knew it, that neither of us understood why the other was still there, not really, but that we understood, even if we didn't understand.

But understanding was like laughter, and laughter--like all things--fizzled and faded and fell to silence.

"You deserve better," she repeated softly.

God, wasn't that a nice thought. But it wasn't true. I shook my head slowly.

"You do," Mallory said fiercely. "Scott, you do. You are a good person."

"I'm not," I said. "I... she might be difficult to deal with, but I'm not innocent. I fucked up my marriage worse than anything."

"How did you fuck it up?"

I couldn't look at her.

I couldn't say it.

I couldn't bring myself to stare into those blue eyes, to look at the heartbroken woman sitting beside me and admit to her what I'd done to my wife, all the ways I'd hurt her.

How she was broken, and how it was my fault.

"Scott?"

Thunder rumbled and the room brightened, then dimmed back to the golden glow from the flashlight, and still I couldn't speak.

"Was it the same way I fucked up?"

My mouth went dry. Those words got me; those words forced my chin to rise and my head to turn to her. Those big blue eyes stared up at me, pleading and yearning and full of emotions that were dangerous and irresponsible and damn enticing.

"Scott," she whispered, and she touched my thigh.

I knew what she was feeling; I knew the loneliness, the ache, the feeling of being touch-starved and emotionally ruined. I knew how good it would feel to hold her, to kiss her, to run my fingers through that glorious red hair of hers. I knew it would be amazing, and I knew that it would probably kill my wife. I knew that I was miserable, and I knew that I deserved the misery, but goddamn if I didn't want her anyway.

I knew I would regret it for every second of my life, and I almost--almost--didn't care.

But I did.

"I have to go home," I said, and her hand fell away from my thigh as I stood up.

**

She called in the middle of the day.

"I'm bored," she said.

I glanced towards my office door. "How bored?"

"Bored enough that you should come home," she teased. "No one's around."

I bolted out of the office five minutes later, my dick half-hard and my heart pounding as I raced towards my truck.

She saw me the moment I parked on the driveway; I barely had time to get into the house before she was there, pressed against me, all curves and plump lips working against mine. We pawed at each other; a mess of hands and heavy breathing, rushed fingers slipping beneath fabric as we did a stuttering sort of dance towards the bedroom.

I undressed her there; her bra ended up on the floor, her dress ended up near the closet, her panties ended up pressed to my nose so I could inhale her scent before tossing them to the side. She pushed my blazer off and threw it with a boundless, giggling energy towards the door; I tripped on the legs of my pants as I tried to tear them off.

We stumbled to the bed and I pushed her down, feasting my eyes, then my lips, then my tongue on the immaculate skin that made up her tits. I sucked on her nipples, making her squirm, and couldn't stop myself from grinding my cock on her leg as she writhed under me. The wetness of her pussy was pressed against my thigh, dripping, warm, slick against me as she strained upwards. Still I licked, and sucked, and worshiped those perfect breasts and that flat tummy and those devilishly tempting curves.

"Will you fuck me already?" she gasped as I practically humped her leg.

I laughed against her mouth and she sank her teeth into my lip. It hurt in the best way, shock and insolence surging through me as she made her demands.

"Don't you tell me what to do," I scolded her, and the smile on her face told me that was exactly what she wanted to hear.

I flipped her onto her stomach and got behind her. She tried to sit up but I shoved her face back towards the mattress, making her squeal with delight. I fucking loved that sound, loved the way she loved to be used, and I slapped her perfectly round ass hard so she'd make it again.

She did, and then again when I spanked her again, and then a fourth time when I shoved myself into her waiting hole. I groaned, the sound unrestrained, freeing, relief overtaking me as the slick walls of her pussy gripped my cock.

I pounded her hard, just how she liked it, just how I needed it. She fucked herself back against me and I watched her fat ass ripple like shockwaves as I did my best to destroy her pussy. Her squeal turned to a low, braying sort of cry as I licked my thumb and then stuck it in her ass; she fucking loved it when I played with her asshole, couldn't get enough of it, begged me for more and more until I was fingering her as fast as I was fucking her. It was hard and it was primal and it was everything I wanted.

Everything I fucking needed.

She was struggling beneath me, trying to prop herself up on her elbows. Selfishly, I considered pushing her down again; when she was completely face down, I could fuck her deeper and take her harder. But that was only for a moment; instead, I generously helped her prop herself up by reaching forward and grabbing a fistful of that thick hair.

"Yes," she hissed as I pulled, forcing her neck up and her back to arch inwards. The sound of my hips slapping against her ass echoed in my room; my bed shook with the force of each thrust, the headboard slamming against the wall. She moaned and cried out and it was so fucking good, her pussy was so fucking tight and wet and hot and I couldn't get enough of it, I couldn't--

"Liz!" she gasped.

I didn't freeze; I turned to stone. My heart froze and my stomach froze and horror clutched at me the same way her pussy was still clutching my cock, so tight around me as I looked towards my wife.

She wasn't looking at me; she was, but she wasn't. It didn't matter that her eyes weren't on me. I could still see the betrayal, the hurt, the pain in them as she took in the sight of us, as she processed the fact that my dick was inside--was still fucking inside--her best friend.

"Hi, Monica," she said, and I almost raged at the absurd politeness of her tone. "Would you excuse us for a moment? I need to speak with my husband."

She left the room as we shakily got dressed. There would be no repercussions for Monica. Well, not in her marriage, at least. She and George had an "arrangement," she'd told me one tipsy evening while Liz helicoptered over our children playing quietly in the backyard. Intrigued, I'd asked what she meant, and she explained in a soft, breathless whisper about how George got to fuck just as many other people as she did. Sometimes she watched, sometimes he watched, sometimes they took people together and sometimes they had their own side fling, and sometimes--just sometimes, just once in a fucking while--she decided she really, really wanted to fuck her best friend's husband. It was almost sick how well it worked for them, how the ability to find pleasure in other people didn't damage their marriage but strengthened it.

That was most certainly not the case for me and Liz, probably because Liz had no idea I was finding pleasure in anyone but her.

"Why?" she asked me after Monica left.

Why.

Why?

How could I answer that? What could I fucking say that didn't make me sound like a goddamn monster?

Because Liz was exhaustingly perfect and it almost disgusted me?

Because I didn't feel like I could be myself with her anymore?

Because the woman I married was spontaneous and fun-loving and insatiably horny all the fucking time, and Monica was closer to that woman than Liz was?

Because I was miserable, and I was just starting to realize I had been since before our daughter was even born?

All those things were true.

All those things were horrific.

And I couldn't. I couldn't tell her that. It was just going to hurt her more.

She asked again and again. She guessed at the reasons; I refused to confirm them, even when she got them right. And for a while, I thought maybe it was a blessing in disguise. Maybe it was about time she'd discovered it.

Maybe it was time for me to accept that I'd fucked it up.

The thought gave me a sense of peace, in a sick sort of way. Yeah, I'd have to admit my dad was right. Yeah, he'd never let me live it down. He'd never liked Liz, not really. He'd always thought she was too young, too immature, too easily accepting of the easy life I could give her. And yeah, that meant listening to his lectures, and I'd be trading one misery in for another, but at least I didn't have to live with him.

Maybe it was about time for our marriage to be over.

I didn't say the words out loud. I thought them, and as soon as I thought them, Liz asked me why again, and when I didn't answer, she started to cry.

"Why didn't you just ask me for a divorce?" she choked, her voice cracking and shaking.

And if I hadn't looked up, I probably would have said something else. I probably would have said we should get a divorce, that I didn't deserve her forgiveness, that she had to see just as clearly as I did that our marriage was over.

But I looked up, and she was crying, and her eyes were full of a thousand emotions as they met mine.