Page 4 of Venomous Kiss
I don’t swim.
I hate the water.
I’m a serial loather.
And that’s why when he asked me to marry him, and I didn’t immediately have visions of domestic hell, I thought, Fuck it, maybe this will work.
My bare feet hit the tile floor of the kitchen, and that’s when I hear it—a second voice—feminine, breathy, and giggling. I force myself to keep walking forward, straight to the patio doors, even as my stomach turns to lead and my whole body shakes with adrenaline. Because I know what I’m likely to find. But standing here at the open back doors, I blink slowly, taking in the scene before me. My mind is sluggish, even as the rest of me grasps hold of this.
I see him.
Or should I say them.
Deven is in our pool—the one he loves so much—with another woman.
My eyes are playing tricks on me.
What is in front of me may not be real…
Unless he has a death wish.
She laughs as he pulls her to him, their bodies hugging one another intimately. And to top off the delightful image assaulting my eyes, the woman is naked. She leans in and kisses his lips. He moans and presses forward, runs his hand through her hair, holding her against him like he has done to me so many times.
I recognize her.
She is his co-host on the radio show, the same one he told me not to worry about. It sounds so cliché: the insecure wife jealous of an innocent relationship. She started this year, and I saw how attractive she was and how he watched her.
My pastime is to watch people.
My husband included.
So, I knew there was something between them.
I reach for my phone and lift it to take a short video of them kissing in the pool. Putting the phone back into my pocket, I go to the cabinet and grab a glass before I reach for a bottle of vodka. Opening the utensil drawer, I grab a knife.
I like the feel of it in my hand, the heaviness of it, as if it’s something that’s been missing from me.
The weight, the glint of the blade—it’s everything.
I carry my glass, bottle, and blade to the table that overlooks the pool through the patio door, and then I take a seat and pour myself a glass. It’s interesting to watch your husband fuck another woman.
As I sit here, halfway through my glass of vodka, the knife on the table in front of me, I think, Do we look like that when we fuck?
What would happen if I walked straight into that pool and slit both of their throats?
He bounces her on his cock, and she clings to him. Her moans fill the air, and I wonder how they would feel knowing I’m watching.
I can’t remember the last time I had sex with him.
I reach for my phone again and press record.
Her head tilts back, and her caramel-colored hair hits the water as he thrusts into her before he slips a finger into her mouth.
He’s never fucked me like that.
He hardly fucks me at all.
As I watch them, I wonder why it’s not jealousy that’s coursing through me right now. That would be any normal woman’s reaction to finding your husband cheating.
