Our Dirty Secret (A MFM Ménage Romance) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Lexi Epilogue

  Our Dirty Secret

  Vivian Ward

  Contents

  Vivian Ward Newsletter

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  Free Gift!

  Good Girls Do It Well

  Prologue

  Sarabelle 1

  Christian 2

  Sarabelle 3

  Christian 4

  Sarabelle 5

  Christian 6

  Sarabelle 7

  Christian 8

  Sarabelle 9

  Christian 10

  Sarabelle 11

  Christian 12

  Sarabelle 13

  Christian 14

  Sarabelle 15

  Christian 16

  Sarabelle 17

  Christian 18

  Sarabelle 19

  Epilogue-One Year Later

  Free Gift!

  Lexi 1

  Liam 2

  Lexi 3

  Liam 4

  Lexi 5

  Liam 6

  Lexi 7

  Liam 8

  Lexi 9

  Liam 10

  Lexi 11

  Liam 12

  Lexi 13

  Liam 14

  Lexi 15

  Liam 16

  Lexi 17

  Liam 18

  Lexi 19

  Lexi Epilogue

  Also by Vivian Ward

  Vivian Ward Newsletter

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2016 by Vivian Ward

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  For all the sexy ladies who aren’t afraid to go after what they want!

  Vivian Ward Newsletter

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  Chapter 1

  I should have known when I found the porn on my husband’s computer. I mean, how stupid was I?

  Well, it’s not that I’m stupid, but I just didn’t see the signs. The clues that he had left behind. Little tiny traces all over.

  Walking through the door, I toss my work bag and purse down by the door as our youngest son, Alex, rushes toward me.

  “Mommy! Mommy!” his little fists clenching open and closed as he reaches out to me.

  I’ve always loved how he greets me when I come home. His brother and sisters couldn’t care less about welcoming me when I walk through the door, and maybe that’s why I adore him so much. He still loves his mom; he needs me.

  “Hey, baby!” I pick him up, squeezing him in a bear hug.

  “What’s for dinner?” he asks.

  “Um, I don’t know.”

  I look over at my husband who is sitting at his computer desk; his usual spot since he works from home. I don’t know how he does it because I’d go stir-crazy. I love human interaction and have to talk to people. Out of the two of us, I’m the outgoing one.

  He doesn’t mind the solitude of working from home, though. In fact, I think he prefers it. The only time he’s not at his desk is if he’s sitting on his throne (in the bathroom) or if he’s outside with the kids.

  “Any ideas?” I ask my husband, Brett.

  “I don’t know, babe,” he sighs. “I haven’t even thought of dinner; I just figured you knew what we were having.”

  Right.

  Because I always do the cooking and it’s always my responsibility. For being as thoughtful as he is, he sometimes takes little things for granted, such as eating for example.

  A part of me feels guilty for expecting him to cook dinner. He works just the same as I do but my job is more physically demanding. The biggest part of my guilt is that while he is always cooped up in the house all day with the kids while he works, I’ve been at work surrounded by men who smile and whistle at me, stroking my ego all day long. My stress doesn’t begin until I’m cooking dinner while the dogs play at my feet and I have to referee the kids while I try to get laundry started.

  He’s a good husband, and I couldn’t ask for better. Sometimes I wake up to gift cards from Bath & Body Works or Victoria Secret sitting in my inbox. Other times, I wake up to the sound of him playing with the kids and taking care of the dogs while he lets me sleep in late.

  But it’s usually me who wakes up to him snoring, mumbling incoherent babble in his sleep while I start the coffee and let the dogs out to potty before I get the kids ready for school so I can get myself out the door.

  I’m sure it’s stressful for him to work with the kids in the house on their days off or letting the dogs out every couple of hours, but he doesn’t complain. Of course, judging by the way the couch cushions are scattered across the living room and the massive amount of dirty dishes, he probably doesn’t pay that much attention to them when he’s busy.

  “I’ll go get something started,” I say reluctantly.

  As good as he is to me, I don’t know why I allow the guys at work to flirt with me, or why I flirt back. I mean, it’s harmless flirting, but I like the attention. I like knowing that even though I’m a married woman with a family, I’ve still got it.

  If I’m going to be completely honest, it scares the hell out of me that my 40th birthday is right around the corner. I’m halfway to middle age.

  Fucking middle aged!

  I don’t want to be middle aged. I don’t want to get older, but it’s inevitable. So yeah, if I’ve still got it, I want to know it. Who wants to get old, shrivel up and die?

  Certainly not me. I’m terrified of aging, and that’s probably why my husband rolls his eyes every time I come home from Sephora or Ulta. I’ve got enough lotions and creams to keep my skin young and smooth to last a lifetime, but I’m always on the hunt for the latest and greatest miracles.

  From the kitchen, it’s hard to ignore all of the kids arguing in the living room. The boys, Alex and Dakota, are fighting their sisters, Angie and Karen, for the TV. From what I can tell, the boys want to play a racing game, and the girls want to watch the latest episode of Supernatural.

  “Babe?” I c
all out to my husband, tired of hearing the kids fighting.

  “I’m on it,” he replies.

  That’s the great thing about him, about us. I never have to tell him things. He just always knows. Maybe he can tell by the tone of my voice, or maybe it’s because he’s my best friend and I’m madly in love with him, and he can just read me that well.

  Even though I might flirt, and sometimes say inappropriate things to the guys at work, I’d never cheat on him. He’s truly my soul mate. There is nothing or no one that would ever make me want to leave him. Like I always say, “The grass is never greener on the other side. It’s just covered in a different kind of fertilizer.” We all have our own shit, our own past, our own problems and I don’t want anyone else’s. I’ve got exactly what I want right here at home.

  Wiping my hands on a dish towel, I lean against the wall as I watch him give Alex a piggyback ride over to the couch and flip on something all the kids will love: Jumanji.

  With a sigh, I realize that the dish towel I just used to clean my hands is covered in a yellow, sticky substance and now I have to rewash my hands.

  It’s one of the perks of being a mom, I suppose. You never know quite what you’re getting your hands into until they’re already dirty.

  I can’t wait for Sunday and Monday, my days off so I can give this house a good cleaning from top to bottom. I spend more time scrubbing baseboards on my days off than I do relaxing.

  “Hey woman,” Jeremy says as I walk over to his station to take inventory of his supplies. “You smell good today.”

  Of course, I smell good. Every day before work, I shower and put on one of my many bottles of body spray. It’s usually a toss between Japanese cherry blossom, Paris, or one of the latest scents that just hit the market.

  Before I started working here, I never actually wore body sprays or anything. I had a few bottles of designer perfume that I’d wear on occasion when my husband and I would go on a particular date, but that’s about the only time I wore something.

  “You like that, huh?” a grin spreads across my face as I lean a little closer for him to get a better whiff of what I’m wearing.

  Buying into my bullshit, he leans in closer to me and smells my body spray.

  “Mmm, I like that,” he says. “Will you bring me some more markers when you get a minute? These are all dried out, and we’ve got a big order coming up, so I’ll need them.”

  Writing on my supply sheet, I take note of his station number and circle markers.

  “Anything else?” I ask.

  “I could ask for more, but that might get me in trouble if you know what I mean,” his eyebrows dance as his eyes scan my body.

  “Jeremy!” I wad up a piece of paper and throw it at him. “You’re married, and so am I!”

  A stupid giggle escapes my mouth before I can stop it and I realize that I’m blushing. He always does that to me.

  I don’t know why he has such an effect on me, but he does. His sense of humor is what attracts me to him most, I think.

  “Go get my markers hot stuff, and make it quick or I’ll have to come looking for you back in the supply room where we’ll be all alone.”

  As he towers over me, I can’t help but stare at him with my cheesy smile.

  Jeremy makes me laugh, and he’s very friendly, maybe too friendly. If we were both younger and single, I could see me dating someone like him but not now even though there’s a certain chemistry between us.

  Still walking around with my supply sheet, I get to Larry’s station and ask him if he needs anything before I make my rounds.

  These are my favorite days: when I’m the supply runner for our line. It gives me a day off the machines where I can just run and get everyone stuff that they need. It’s a nice change.

  “I could use some more boxes, 6x24’s.”

  “You got it,” I scribble down his machine number.

  “Hey, what’s up with Jeremy? You’re not cheating on me with him, are you, Cathy?” he teases.

  Larry, Jeremy and I have an inside joke that they’re both my work boyfriends and I cheat on them with the other one.

  My husband doesn’t know about any of this. He’d lose his damn mind as jealous as he is. He’s always giving me trouble asking about the guys at work. I could never tell him the scoop about our work jokes.

  The truth is, Jeremy and I are both married, and Larry’s girlfriend works in a different department.

  I’ve never been one to judge people based on looks, but her resting bitch face is as cold as they come. The first time I met her, I could almost feel the hatred radiating out of her pores.

  I wasn’t wrong, though. She treats Larry like shit, and he’s a good man. He stays with her because they have a kid together, but I keep telling him that’s no reason to stay. I could never imagine treating a partner or spouse the way she does.

  “Are you kidding? I’d never cheat on you, Larry. Not in a million years,” I wink at him. “So, just the boxes? No labels today?”

  “You gonna let me put one on your butt?”

  I can feel my cheeks heating up as our crew leader walks right behind him as he says that last part and gives Larry some serious side eye.

  “But what? I didn’t catch what you said,” I say, acting like he didn’t mean “butt.”

  Our company has recently been cracking down on anything that remotely sounds like sexual harassment. There was a girl who worked on our crew, and she cried workplace sexual harassment before she got two guys fired and quit, so if management even thinks you’re saying something sexual, they’ll walk you out the door.

  He waits for our crew leader to get past us and turns his head, smiling at me.

  “Admit it already; you like me. Don’t you?” he folds his arms across his chest, waiting defiantly for an answer.

  Rolling my eyes, I try to wipe that stupid high school grin off my face. Like Jeremy, Larry also has a great personality and a good sense of humor. The two of them met when they both started working here, long before I did, and are good friends.

  “Whatever you say, boyfriend.”

  Unable to wipe the smile from my face, I make my way around the department taking note of all the supplies needed at everyone’s workstations before returning to either of my boyfriends.

  Chapter 2

  And it wasn’t just what was on my husband’s computer. He said things to me, teased me about certain things, made me feel embarrassed.

  But it didn’t change the fact that I came home from work every day with soaked panties.

  Wetness that wasn’t meant for him.

  Thirteen years. My husband and I have been married for 13, long, glorious, trying years.

  From the outside, our marriage has always looked perfect, but it’s weathered some fierce storms.

  To everyone else, they’ve always seen a strong, confident, happily married couple—and for the most part, that’s what we’ve always been.

  He’s always doted over me, showered me with attention, and put me on a pedestal. There’s not a day that goes by where my husband doesn’t tell me how much he loves me, kisses me like his life depends on it and tells me how special I am to him.

  Every. Single. Day.

  I love this man more than I like to breathe air. If I had to choose between living or loving him, I’d use my dying breath to whisper how much I love him.

  There’s a certain quality about him that is very comforting. I know he always has my back and we’ve always been partners in crime together. Not that we’ve done many bad things, but there are some shady things in our past.

  Illegal things, but we had to make money. We’ve got a family to feed, kids, a roof over our head, vehicles, and other responsibilities. That’s what the grown up life is all about, isn’t it? I know it’s what the mom life is all about.

  But now we’re on the straight and narrow. We have been for a long time, that’s why I started working at the factory. But somewhere along the way, something changed.

  I
changed.

  I lost myself a long time ago. It was shortly after I had our first daughter. Even all those years ago, I learned that my father had stored me on his cell phone as “Angie’s Mom.”

  I was no longer “Cathy” in his phone book, just “Angie’s Mom.” If that doesn’t strip your identity, I don’t know what the fuck does.

  The problem is there are a billion “mom”s in the world. A billion other women who answer to the same name. How do you distinguish yourself from them? What makes you different? How are you unique?

  This wasn’t even the worst part.

  I came to the realization of a few things. I didn’t know who I was anymore. What were my hobbies? What did I do for fun? Who were my friends?

  If I didn’t figure out the answers to these questions, I was going to continue being a shell of a person until after my kids were grown and moved out. It was terrifying.

  Can you imagine not knowing yourself anymore? Having to relearn who you are?

  My whole life had gone from fun and promiscuous, going on lots of dates, and being invited to clubs, after-parties, house parties, and having friends that I could call no matter what time of day to hang out with me to being “mom” or “babe.”

  But now? I was “mom,” like the billions of other women, and had no hobbies. I was no longer invited to any kind of parties, not even one-year-old birthday parties because all of my friend’s kids were starting to get too old.

  Not that I’d want to go anyway. I’ve seen enough 1-year-olds cry their way through a happy birthday song or have blue cake smashed up their noses. All of those parties were about as much fun as one of my C-sections.

  I became a married, almost middle-aged woman who works, cleans the house, does grocery shopping and falls asleep at the time I used to go out at.

  The latest adventure that my husband and I had been on was buying our new mini van.

  Who the hell calls that an adventure????

  But, I guess everyone gets stuck in a rut.

  I know that I was until I started working at the factory.

  That’s when I began to regain my identity. I was finally Cathy again. And Cathy got lots of attention.