Typist #4 - Every Romance is a Revenge Fantasy

She announced that she was pregnant not by tucking baby booties into his suitcase, or any of the other romantic things wives do, but by moving to a guest room herself. She claimed his movements in their shared bed made her nauseated. The scent of his skin, or the food he’d eaten, was too strong, and she would not kiss him.

Smith’s mother assured him this was all quite normal, and that time and patience would sort everything out.

Smith’s father took him aside and warned this was a sign of things to come, and to get used to it, perhaps with a mistress on the side to keep him feeling “vigorous.” They had this conversation over dinner at the Wittingham family home, though it was just the three of them, Brynn staying home with her nausea.

Mr. Wittingham said, grinning, “Just get yourself a spare, and you’ll be fine. You have to make sure she’s on birth control, though, or you’ll be in a double mess.”

“Father, how can you say such a thing? Mom’s in the next room.”

He waved his hand dismissively. “She doesn’t care. And you should be more grateful you don’t have a half-sibling to split everything with. How would you like that? A whole herd of bastards coming after the family fortune.” He laughed at his own joke.

“I appreciate your advice,” Smith said. “Thank you, sir.”

As Claude drove him home that night, he requested a detour.

“To where, sir?”

“Claude, take me to a strip club. I need something relatively wholesome to take the stench of my father off me.”

Chuckling, Claude put on the turn signal and made a u-turn.

In all his thirty-some years, Smith had been to very few strip clubs, as most of his business colleagues preferred golf.

The strip club made him feel like a very sad god. He gave away everything in his wallet, and he drank until the bar apologized for running out of his drink of choice. The strippers fought over who would help him “get safely” to his vehicle, but he managed to stumble out on his own, and by some miracle, located the dark-colored town car.

Claude drove him home in silence, the windows rolled down for fresh air.

The driver also served as his legs, hauling him to the elevator and then up to the penthouse.

Claude was steering Smith toward the master bedroom when he let out an undignified shriek.

Brynn was standing in front of them, her arm raised, and a pistol in her hands.

Smith dropped to his knees, followed by Claude.

Her arms shaking, Brynn said, “I thought you were an intruder!”

The adrenaline had a sobering effect on Smith, and he found himself able to speak, yelling, “Since when do you have a gun in the house? And since when does an intruder use keys on the front door!”

She set the pistol on a hall table between them. “I was scared.”

Claude helped him to his feet, keeping his eyes averted the whole time. “See you tomorrow, sir,” he said with a curt nod, and he was off, leaving the two of them alone.

Smith said, “What’s going on with you, Mrs. Wittingham?”

“Ugh. Don’t call me that. You make me think of your mother.”

“My mother never brandished a pistol at anyone.”

“Brandished? Really, Smith? For someone who writes about a big c**k detective banging every hot babe in the city, you sure are a f**king pu**y.”

He turned around and started walking away. “Whatever, Brynn.”

Something hard struck him on the back of the skull. He dropped to his knees, absolutely certain Brynn had shot him. After the longest three seconds of his life, he touched the back of his head, feeling nothing but his hair and a tender spot, wet with blood from a gash, not a hole. The gun lay at his feet, where it had landed.

He picked up the gun and tucked it into his waistband without comment, and continued to the master bedroom, which now belonged solely to the master, as the mistress slept down the hall, where she couldn’t be made nauseous.

He hid the gun in the back of the closet, staunched the bleeding with some aftershave, and crawled into bed, eager to put the day behind him.

The room was spinning, so he lay on his back with one leg over the side of the bed, his foot on the floor.

Brynn came into the bedroom, stripped down to just a button-down shirt. The pregnancy was showing now, more than he’d realized, as she usually kept herself covered in layers.

“Go away,” he said.

“Where were you tonight?” She didn’t move from the doorway, backlit by the hall light, her face in complete darkness so he couldn’t read her mood.

“I was at my parents’. For dinner. It’s Sunday, remember?”

She sniffed. Was she crying? He couldn’t tell.

“Come snuggle with me,” he said. “Come get in your bed. You can leave in a bit if you start to feel sick.”

To his surprise, she came around and climbed in. Within seconds, she had her hands on his cock, squeezing and rubbing like there was no time to waste.

“Mm, that feels good,” he said, reaching for the spot between her legs.

She crossed her legs and rolled her lower body away. “No. I don’t want you.”

In response, he raised his voice, “Are you f**king kidding me?”

She whimpered. “Davey.”

“Don’t call me that.” He grabbed her wrist and pulled her hand away from his crotch.

“Davey, make love to me,” she whispered in the darkness. “Davey, my boss is suspicious of what’s going on with us, what we’re doing in the guest cottage after your lessons, or instead of your lessons.”

He rolled over and pulled her in tight to him.

She said, “Davey, I had to suck his c**k so he wouldn’t fire me.”

“For f**k’s sake Brynn. What is wrong with you?”

She started to sob. “Davey, make love to me.”

He put his hand between her legs and pinched at her flesh through her panties. She moaned with pleasure, even as she sobbed.

“Brynn, do you even love me?”

“Yes.” She twisted her h*ps to the side, locking his hand between her legs.

He pulled himself up and on top of her, his face in her face.

“The baby,” she said.

He’d been holding his body up with his arms, but he rolled to the side immediately and apologized. “Dammit, Brynn, I just want to feel loved by you.”

“Or what?”

“Don’t make me say it.”

Her voice cold, she said, “You’ll divorce me, and I’ll get what’s laid out for me in the pre-nup, and you’ll never f**k me again.”

Her back was to him, and he kissed her shoulder blades and the back of her neck. “Just make love to me, Brynn. That’s all I ask.”