Love Complicated (Ex's and Oh's Book 1)

by Shey Stahl

  “I’m not begging you.”

  “No?” he asks, halting his movements.

  I cave. “Fuck me harder.”

  He chuckles under his breath, kissing my lips, then my cheek. His lips meet my ear, and he whispers, “I own every part of you.” Then he flips me over, my stomach pressing against the floor, my ass in the air. It’s so quick I don’t have time to object, not that I would have. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

  “You’re not wrong.” He pounds into me, filling me from behind. He’s so big. I know women say that all the time but goddamn, I can feel him hitting my cervix, each sharp painful thrust. But then comes the pleasure.

  My elbows shake, and I look over my shoulder at him.

  He yanks my hair, making me arch, my shoulders meeting his torso again. This time he bites the back of my neck. “I knew you’d beg for it. You’re so weak for me.”

  I’m tempted to punch him in the face and tell him to stop talking. Ridge has swagger that only he can pull off. And he knows he’s that good. You remember the girl I told you about that he fucked on the roof of her house? I bet you she still talks about it to this day. My point? Ridge is confident he’s going to make me writhe in pleasure the way no man ever has.

  Guess who’s makin’ good on his statement?

  Ridge.

  Heat builds in my belly, whimpering at what he’s giving me, something no one else has cared to give. He’s not just fucking me. Like he said, he’s owning me.

  His mouth nips at my skin, shoulders, back, neck, one hand tangled in my hair, the other on my hip forcing me into every thrust.

  “Come for me,” he demands in a low raspy voice that rattles my bones and pleads for more.

  It’s not his movements that do it, though they’re enough; it’s that voice and those words. It’s the fact that he’s ordering me around, something Austin never did.

  Wanting it, my body curves, arches, needs for him. There’s nothing touching my clit but this orgasm, it builds from deep within, rocking through my very center. Until now, I wouldn’t have thought an orgasm with no clit stimulation would be possible. I thought it was a myth, like the Loch Ness Monster.

  Nope. Not a myth.

  Ridge groans, low, deep within in his chest as if this sight of me squirming around on his cock is too much to bear for him. “That’s it, baby, fuckin’ take it.” He squeezes my hips, bringing me into each thrust.

  He doesn’t give me a chance to bask in the endorphins. No, he wouldn’t. He pulls out, flips me back over so that I’m on my back again. His buckle clangs, his jeans still around his knees and climbs up my body, growling as he enters me again, forcefully, like he promised.

  His lips part, and then they’re on mine next, kissing me with an intensity I’ve never felt before. Our mouths are colliding, tongues tangling and breathing heavy. Words fall from his lips, but I can’t hear them. All I feel is pleasure that shoots through me and blinds me.

  Just as I don’t want it to end, his thrusts come a little faster, and I know what’s coming. He’s breathing hard, chest heaving, every muscle tensed as he hovers above me. He looks at me, a quick glance, then his eyes dip low. He slams into me two more times, his eyes squeezing shut.

  I feel like it lasts forever, or maybe it’s just me wanting it to. My hands grip the back of his neck, sliding over damp skin.

  My lips curve into a smile when his lips brush mine, his knuckles on my cheek.

  He rolls to the side and flops next to me on the floor, breathing heavy.

  “Say something.” We are still both naked, and I’m starting to get chilly on the floor. But I want him to say something. I need him to, badly.

  “Why do I have to say anything?” He lifts his head so we’re looking at each other.

  “I don’t know. I just. . . I have no clue.” I really don’t have a clue. I don’t even understand what I’m saying, just that I need to say something to fill the silence.

  His lips twitch, but he fights his smile. “Aly.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. You asked me to say something, so I did. Your name.”

  “You suck.” I nuzzle into his neck, knowing damn well I’m only fueling a delusion that this could be anything more than tonight.

  “You could again. . . if you want to.”

  “What do you want to be for Halloween?” I ask, watching Grady pick up pinecones and then tossing them at the dog down the street. Get this. . . the dog eats them. Crazy fuck.

  Do you notice the two kids beside me covered in dirt? Do you know what they’re going through? Aside from chasing a raccoon that might possibly have rabies earlier.

  I do. I’ve been there. Their parents are divorcing, and they’re constantly being pulled in one direction after another and trying to make sense of the new arrangements.

  And that is exactly why me and those boys are walking to get ice cream on a school night instead of making them eat whatever that shit was Aly had picked out for them to eat for dinner. It had tomatoes in it, so naturally I was all about not touching it.

  Anyway, back to the Halloween talk.

  “I want to be Dracula for Halloween,” Cash tells me, walking slowly and dragging his feet on the sidewalk covered in dead leaves. His cheeks are bright pink, and he’s quiet, but that’s pretty normal for him.

  I want to be Dracula too and suck on your mom’s pussy, all night.

  I don’t tell him that, but it’s a beautiful image that has me forcing my hands into my pockets to avoid the obvious semi I’m sporting.

  “What about you, Grady?”

  He looks up at me, blue eyes shadowed by his hat. “I think a pirate.” He nods. “Yeah, a pirate, and I want an eye patch.”

  “Do you know why they wear eye patches?”

  He shrugs. “’Cause they’re cool?”

  “If you’re Johnny Depp, probably.”

  He stops walking. “Who’s Johnny Depp?”

  I motion for him to continue. “Not important.” Ducking under a low hanging tree, we approach the intersection. Both boys grab my hands before we cross the street. “Pirates actually wear an eyepatch to help acclimate their eyes to darkness. It allows them to see better when they go below deck on ships.”

  “You’re really smart,” Grady tells me when we reach the ice cream shop on the corner.

  I hold the door open for them. “Well, I am a teacher.”

  Once inside, I’m wishing there was another ice cream shop in town because of who’s in there.

  I haven’t told you about Emily yet. Mostly because she’s not important, but now she’s approaching me, so I kind of have to tell you. She’s Luna’s mom. You remember. The girl who told on Cash for spitting that first day of school? Anyway, she’s newly divorced too and guess who she’s interested in?

  Ordinarily, I might say lucky me. She’s attractive, but she’s a clinger, and if you haven’t noticed, I’m bent on a girl already. Emily, she wants me to be her BFF and have my babies.

  If anyone’s having my babies, it’s Aly.

  Emily stands before me, licking her ice cream like she wants it to be my dick, and it’s too provocative in the presence of children.

  While Grady chats with Luna and Cash ignores everyone, Emily leans in. “Are you going to the Monster Ball benefit?”

  I look at her stupidly. “The what?” I know what it is.

  Emily giggles, another lick. I watch her tongue glide over the ice cream. I have no idea why, either, but it’s not her I’m thinking of when she does this. I’m thinking of Aly deep throating my cock last night. And the semi returns. “The Monster Ball benefit at LSA next Friday night. Are you going?”

  The Monster Ball is a charity event the school puts on every year for the rich to get richer, if you ask me. Everyone dresses up in fancy costumes, kind of like a mascaraed ball, and guess who hosts it? Madalyn and Brooks.

  I’d rather be set on fire than go to that fucking ball.

  “I hadn’t planned on it.”

  Emily frown
s. “I thought it was mandatory for teachers?”

  I blow out a breath, watching Cash stare out the window at passing cars. “Then I guess I’ll be there.”

  Raising her hand, she glides it over my chest seductively as she’s licking the ice cream. “I’ll see you there.”

  I wonder if I can fake an illness that night? Maybe break my ankle or something. I’d totally go for a broken bone rather than go to that stupid fucking ball with all these rich, pretentious assholes in this town.

  Grady tugs on my hand. “I want the salted caramel.”

  I step toward the display case and tap Cash on the shoulder. “What about you, dude?”

  He turns, his cheeks flushed, eyes low-lidded. “I don’t want any.” And then he flops himself in a nearby chair like he might pass out. He fucking looks like he’s going to pass out. “My stomach hurts.”

  This is where I start to panic. Aly leaves me with her kids for a night and one passes out. . . . She’ll never leave them with me again. I mean, she’s got two, and they’re identical, she can spare out, but still. Don’t freak out. I’m totally kidding.

  I touch my hand to his forehead. “You all right, man?”

  Uh, now I do freak out. He’s burning up.

  I pull my hand back and motion toward the ice cream case, nodding to the guy behind the counter. “Hey, man, can we get one kid’s scoop of the salted caramel to go and one chocolate?”

  When Grady has his ice cream, he stares at me. “My mom said you left town when you were younger, why?”

  Shit. The man behind the counter even stares. He remembers me and I think he’s curious what I’m going to tell this kid. “I was young and dumb back then.”

  He lets it go. Are you surprised?

  Me, too.

  We get the ice cream. Cash insists on me carrying him back to the house, which I do for some odd reason, and we literally get inside the door and he pukes on me. All over my fucking chest.

  This isn’t exactly what I had in mind when I said I’d watch the boys for a night.

  Grady plugs his nose and raises his other palm in my face. “I’m not cleaning that up.”

  Fuck.

  I stare at Cash, trying not to vomit myself. “Feel better?”

  He shakes his head. “Not really.”

  I really hope that parent coaching doesn’t last long.

  It’s been thirteen hours since I last felt his touch, but my skins still burning.

  My mind refuses to loosen its tight hold on the images of him. It’s like there’s a noose around my mind, squeezing like a vise, withholding everything else.

  The tightness in my chest, the constant loop of images in my mind, it’s a reminder of his power over me.

  Do you see that girl on the couch in the really white room? I can understand if you can’t; the room is so damn bright, isn’t it? You’re probably blinded by the fact that there’s even someone else in the room.

  Since you can’t see, I’ll tell you. There’s a girl on the couch, crying, shaking her head in confusion. She doesn’t understand the last twenty-four hours and the endless orgasms she experienced on the floor, the table, in a two-foot shower and eventually, on a bed.

  She also doesn’t understand why she’s here alone when her soon-to-be ex-husband said he’d be on time and guess what? She fucking believed his lying ass. Probably because her brain is on hiatus from the orgasms.

  Either way, here I sit, crying, wishing Ridge’s tongue was on me.

  By the way. . . guess who’s watching my kids at the moment?

  Ridge. Never even had to ask him. I told him I had to go to our parent-coaching session today and he took the boys out for ice cream. And the thought he did that, makes me cry even harder.

  Parent coaching. It’s dumb if you ask me because I know how to parent. Austin. . . he doesn’t even know how to be married much less parent. Our divorce proceedings started back in August and here we are the middle of September and shit still isn’t finished. The papers have been filed; we agreed on everything presented. I keep the house, we split the savings we had, and he agreed to pay off our credit cards.

  You’d think he’s giving me everything I want, right?

  One would think that, but one wouldn’t know what the fuck they were thinking. And I’ll tell you why. In California, it’s a 50/50 state meaning you split custody of the children 50 percent of the time, and debts/money is the same.

  Austin being the only one who worked during our marriage thinks our hefty savings account should go to him, and he shouldn’t have to pay child support if he’s getting the kids 50 percent of the time.

  I don’t care about the money. I don’t want Brie raising my children. Plain and simple. Austin works long hours, and I know who will have my kids when he’s at work. Her.

  So that leads us to parent coaching while we await the finality of our divorce—which by the way won’t be final for five months.

  All of this—and the fact that I’m sitting here alone with the parent coach—brings me to tears.

  Carol hands me a tissue. “It’s okay. You’re allowed to cry.”

  I stare at her. “I know I’m allowed to cry. I’m in the middle of a nasty divorce. My husband cheated on me, with my best friend.” I rip the tissue from her hand. “Oh, and this just in as of two days ago, I had the best sex of my life with my kids’ teacher. Who is also my soon-to-be ex-husbands stepbrother. So yeah, welcome to my life, Carol.”

  Carol’s eyes, well, they widen, and her mouth forms a big O of oh my God.

  Again, welcome to my life.

  If you’ve never been divorced, or in the process of divorce, parent coaching is probably something you haven’t heard of. And if you have, it was probably nothing like this.

  Parent coaching sucks sweaty balls in Florida humidity. And that’s putting it mildly.

  I understood the mediation process. That was easy despite it being lengthy, expensive as shit and often having damaging effects of a litigated divorce because of the emotional toll on the wife and children. Fuck the husband in my case. Maybe husbands too, but it seems mine couldn’t give a flying monkey shit about it.

  The parent coach assigned to us, Carol Shepard—you know, the one in front of me staring at me like I’ve lost my mind—she’s the best in the interests of the children while acknowledging the couple’s pain associated with the divorce without allowing those emotions to affect the wellbeing of the children. At least that’s what her website says. I’ve yet to experience this.

  Mostly because she’s still staring at me since I told her I was fucking my kids’ teacher. I’m certain this can’t be the worst confession Carol’s been handed in her years of parent coaching.

  When I said “I do” to Austin, I never thought years later he’d be porking Brie. I do know this. When divorce comes along, the kids always suffer. The damage can be mitigated, however, when both parents remain focused on the best interests of the children.

  That has yet to happen for us.

  I read an article not too long ago that said it’s not divorce that affects children, but the ugly legal battles between parents. I’m calling bullshit on that, but still, children feel responsible for their parents’ divorce.

  They naturally blame themselves for the acrimony between their parents. And despite us, as parents, or maybe just me, believing I’m not putting the boys in the middle, they hear the arguing and experience the lack of affection between us, thus creating emotional instability. Sure, I sound like a textbook now, but I know the boys are affected by all this.

  Austin doesn’t help the situation by talking crap about me and painting an ugly picture of how bad I am for kicking him out. What he really should be saying is that he’s just a dick and couldn’t keep said dick out of another woman’s va jay jay.

  So this parent coaching is supposed to show us how to negotiate, how to stay focused on the issues, and how to listen to one another while co-parenting our children.

  None of that has happened yet.

/>   And it’s not about to now when Austin shows up twenty minutes late and Carol starts with, “I want you to give me two words to describe your current situation in the divorce. Two words that describe how you feel things are going from the time you initiated the divorce.”

  Austin glares at me, smoothing his hands down the front of his suit. He’s quiet at first and I think he’s going to remain quiet. But, as usual lately, he surprises me and pops off with, “Assumptions and control.”

  Eat a dick. A big fat veiny hairy one you best friend fucker!

  Carol’s hardened stare moves to mine. She clears her throat, probably nervous to hear what my response will be. “And you, Alyson?”

  “Doucheness and Assholeishness.”

  Her face screws up, like she’s an English teacher and I’ve broken every grammatical rule known to man. “Those are not words.”

  Ya think?

  “Fine.” I sneer at Austin, who, I might add is still glaring. I hope his face stays like that. “Communication and well-being.”

  I stare at him like he’s grown another head. He has. One uglier than his personality these days. “What could you possibly be worried about regarding communication and well-being?”

  He snorts, and my heart beats so fast. “Like the fact that you didn’t ask me before leaving our children with Ridge tonight.”

  My initial reaction to these words would be to retreat, clam up, not say anything at all, but I can’t because his gaze is assessing. His smile so bitter, jaw clenched like he’s caught me off guard.

  He has caught me off guard, again and I’m burning like that night, like a speck of ash that spirals and drifts with the lies he’s fed me over the years. I pause, indecisive, unable to form what I need to say. How could I have ever loved someone so bitter, so hurtful, so mean?

  He can’t feel anything yet me, I can’t feel anything small.

  My stomach burns when I finally do speak. “And you didn’t ask me before you cheated on me with my best friend. And you certainly didn’t ask me when you moved in with her and had our children sleeping at her house. And ya better fucking believe you never asked me how I felt about her posting photographs of them on the Internet.”