Page 8 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight

---

The clothes she chooses to wear add to that allure, as does her precisely applied makeup, her hair curled carefully and hanging down her back in gentle waves.

Those blonde locks have spent a lot of time spread out over my pillow…almost as much as her legs have been spread on my mattress.

But even sex was deliberately enacted.

Each and every single move carefully planned and prepped.

Courtney is beautiful, but nothing is natural. Nothing is real. It’s all a carefully curated show.

And as much as my dick likes how beautiful and confident she is…my heart is done with it.

I just want something real.

Something like what Aiden has. What Smitty has.

Court—as usual—stymies my plans before I can show her the door.

She plucks the beer out of my hand, lifts it to her lips, and even the sip she takes is designed to tempt and titillate.

And my dick responds.

Christ, I’m a fucking disaster.

“I need to have a reason to be here?” she asks after she’s swallowed, fingers stroking—deliberately—along the neck of the bottle.

Yes, she does.

And she damn well knows it.

But I don’t say that out loud, don’t bother arguing (because it won’t make a difference). Instead, I ignore my dick and turn for the fridge, intending to get my own beer.

To numb my idiocy with alcohol.

How could that go wrong?

Fuck. I need to be done with this shit.

I need?—

“I want a divorce.”

I freeze.

Because those were the words I was thinking.

The words I should be saying.

I spin back.

Before I can reply, she launches herself into my arms, and, reflexively, I catch her, beer sloshing over the rim of her bottle, dripping down onto my pants.

“Court—” I growl.

I don’t know how I would have finished that statement because…

She kisses me.

And the worst part?

---