Page 11 of His Vengeful Tradwife

I didn't think my macaroni was too bad, but Amanda took one bite and said anything with that much cheese didn't really fit in her detox diet.

"Do you want to wait here while I put the kids to bed?" I asked. "We can watch a movie when they're asleep."

"I've got to wake up tomorrow morning early for barre class," she said, kissing me lightly. "But next weekend," she said, giving me a slap on the ass, "when you don't have the kids, we can really tear into each other."

"I'm going to have the kids a lot, Amanda," I said, feeling irritated. What the fuck was she even suggesting?

"Well, we'll see," she returned. "You're a busy and important man, Maverick. You don't have time to do this kind of domestic work."

I walked back into the kitchen and started doing the dishes.

Fuck. This wasn't how this was supposed to go at all. I should have been feeling happy to be getting divorced from my wife. Not frazzled and on edge.

And where the fuck was she, anyway? Why wasn't she home yet? How long could going dancing take?

She wasn't home when I was finally done with the dishes.

She wasn't home when Gabriel fell asleep. Or Seraphina. Or, finally, after much persuasion, Emmylou.

I changed into sweatpants and a T-shirt and I stumbled downstairs to grab a beer from the fridge. Sitting in the kitchen, I sat and drank it slowly in the dark. Then I grabbed another one. Although I tried not to, every little noise in the driveway made me jerk around.

It was almost midnight, for Christ's sake! Where was my goddamn wife?

I grabbed my phone to check her location, but she had stopped sharing it with me.

That made meabsolutely fucking furious.

What if something had happened to her? When she came home, I was going to give her a piece of my fucking mind! She better turn her location back on.

When the clock hit 1 am, I started to pace up and down in the kitchen.

OK, I was going to give her five more minutes, then call the cops.

Something must have happened to her.

Then, finally, I saw the lights of a big truck turn in. I let out a shaky breath, then leaned against the counter, waiting for her to come inside so I could insist she turn on her location next time.

But she didn't come to the door.

What the fuck was she doing?

Then I heard it.

Low, breathy moans, stifled laughter, a deep chuckle.

I twitched the curtains aside, and saw, in the dim moonlight, the bright white outline of my wife's dress bunched up around her waist as she rode this farm hand in the driver's seat of his truck.

Absolute feral raging fury filled me. How fuckingdareshe come home and fuck this guy in the driveway!

I saw her hips grind forward and back, her movements slow and sinuous. Then I got a flash of red as her hair spilled over her bare shoulders, his hand dragging her tiny strap down her arms so he could bury his face in her ample cleavage.

It had beentwo goddamn dayssince I told her I wanted a divorce!

I clenched my fists together on the windowsill, fighting the urge to go out there and rip the door open and pull Tallulah out.

We had agreed to not bring anyone to the house overnight for now, so was this supposed to be her little loophole? Out in the driveway?

You have Amanda, I reminded myself, but it didn't do shit to stem the sheer power of my jealous anger, especially when Tallulah's hips began to grind down on him harder, those creamy thighs start to tremble. Fuck, I didn't know how this guycould hold out so long, because it was always sexy as fuck when she did that. I felt the windowsill begin to crack under my hands with how tightly I was gripping it.

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