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  • Tabatha Vargo

Heartbreak For Hire Prologue

Updated: Feb 19, 2018


I turn trusted housewives into adulterous whores. Let’s face it, nothing lasts forever. She may have started out as your wet dream, but now she’s your ball and chain. Let me set you free. I’ll turn your loyal lady into a lecherous liar. I can give you the uncontested divorce you desire, end your impending engagement, or rid you of that clingy girlfriend. Either way, you’ll be a free man. My name is Rift, and men pay me to have affairs with their women. It’s my job to get caught. While unethical, my profession is easy. Hell, most days it’s fun. At least until I fall for the soon-to-be ex of my newest client.


PROLOGUE


The soft click of the front door sounded in the distance. The only reason I heard such a quiet noise over her obnoxious sucking—which felt amazing—was because I was listening for it. I almost lost myself in her mouth a few times before I remembered exactly what I was doing.

She looked up at me through her large curls and licked the head of my dick with a smile. My thumb skimmed the side of her cheek as I cupped it. She was sweet—one of the sweetest I’d fucked over. I almost felt bad for what I was doing to her, but then again, she’d given in to me, which meant she wasn’t any different from the rest.

Losing my fingers in her chestnut hair, I grinned when I heard the hallway floor squeak beneath his steps. He was close, and knowing the end was near filled my chest with excitement. After many years of doing this, the thrill never got old. No matter how many times I played a part in this drama, it was always like the first time.

My eyes slid closed, and for a few seconds, I enjoyed the warmth of her mouth. I hadn’t fucked a woman for myself in a long time. I hadn’t tasted my preference of woman in years. It was always for work and whatever client I was working for. It didn’t matter what they looked like. They were the job.

Don’t get me wrong, the women felt good. Sex was sex, after all, but getting paid the big bucks while I laid back and let them lick and suck my cock and balls or ride me like a prized stud somehow intensified the sensation.

Another squeak.

He was creeping as I had advised him to. He was buying himself precious time without spooking his wife and making her flee. This wouldn’t work if he didn’t catch her with her lips wrapped around my cock. He had to catch us in the act. Too much was riding on that exact moment.

The hardwood floor just outside their door whined, and this time, it was a bit louder. I felt her mouth loosen as if she heard it too, and I quickly moaned in pleasure and pushed her down onto my shaft.

He was close to catching us—I was close to wrapping up my fifty-thousand-dollar deal. I wasn’t about to let a loose floorboard or a reasonable blow job ruin that for me.

My cell next to their bed ticked off the seconds until showtime.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Lights.

Camera.

Action.

“Heather?” Jonathan Bishop said from the bedroom door.

His intrusion was like clockwork. I couldn’t have timed it any better.

My eyes clashed with his, a certain amount of understanding swimming in his brown orbs. He cut an imposing figure—tall and dark and wickedly handsome the way most women liked. It was no wonder he wasn’t without an abundance of women. Had our situation not been planned, I could see myself in for a good fight. He was a big guy, but I was bigger.

“What’s going on?” he asked, his eyes skimming over our scene and taking it in.

The door squeaked as he pushed it open farther, filling the dim room with the light from the hallway. The light washed over our naked bodies, giving him a full view of us.

“This isn’t happening,” he muttered. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

Shit.

This wasn’t going to work.

He was a terrible actor. He stood there, his eyes wide in feigned shock. That expression might have worked if it wasn’t for the noticeable grin he kept trying to cover.

We’d discussed the proper way to “interrupt” my affair with his wife, but apparently, he hadn’t taken my advice to practice.

My eyes trailed over his defensive stance—the tightness in his shoulders and his large, rigid arms … he looked like a man ready for a fight. Except for the fucking grin.

His white button-up was tucked into his khaki slacks, and his hair was combed perfectly. Then I noticed the damp curl on the ends of his hair.

Fuck.

He didn’t look like a man who just got off a plane from a business trip. He looked fully rested and refreshed. The bastard still had damp hair from his shower.

After our talk, he should have been the perfect picture of a nice guy catching the love of his life in her most dishonest moment. There should have been devastation in his eyes and possible moisture from pressing tears. He should have had heartache written all over his face.

Nope.

This fucker looked like he was ready to burst into his happy dance.

Why didn’t these guys listen to me?

I’d only been doing this job for the past seven years of my life. I knew what worked. I’d been in this same situation many times before. If the men showed their heartache and devastation properly, then the women fell into position, which was dropping to their knees and begging for forgiveness. The men wouldn’t give that forgiveness, of course, since that was kind of the point, but at the rate we were going, his wife would know something was up.

His wife, Heather, who I’d been sleeping with for the past week, launched herself from the bed and plucked her rumpled clothes from the floor.

“Oh my God, Jon.”

She was panicking.

They always panicked at that point. Next would be the lies, followed by the groveling, followed by the anger, and ending with the acceptance.

There were five steps.

She was on number one.

“It’s not what it looks like, I swear,” she said, pulling her top over her tousled hair.

Step number two: lies.

Cheaters lied.

That wasn’t shocking, in the least, but I had heard some crazy lies over the years. From nothing happened—when it was obvious we were fucking—to I thought I was dreaming. And let’s be honest, I am kind of dreamy in the sack.

But this woman, she worked fast. Her step two moved in much quicker than the other women. Probably because she had a lot to lose.

Three hundred grand and two kids, to be exact.

I probably should have charged him more than the usual fifty grand since kids were involved.

Her lies were useless, though. I always made sure the scene was set perfectly so there were no doubts.

The door was unlocked, her clothes obviously strewn across the floor, and me fucking the life out of her—making her scream at the top of her lungs—or her lips wrapped around my cock. It didn’t matter as long as we were caught in the act.

I was a perfectionist, and because of that, she wasn’t getting out of this. Jonathan paid me good money to fuck his wife so he could get a divorce. He’d even paid extra for photos of our affair, all without my face discernible, of course. The man had money to lose and no prenup in sight. Her affair would save him a ton. Her guilt would keep her from pushing for more.

I climbed from the bed and grabbed my jeans from the floor. My work was almost done.

“Please, Jon, let me explain. Just let me talk to you. I love you so much, baby.”

Step three: groveling.

This step was the most embarrassing of the five. Women were famous for grabbing their man’s shirt to hold them in the room while they said any and everything they could—begging and pleading for a chance to explain. When, in reality, they couldn’t say shit when they were caught with me ten inches deep in one of their holes.

I’d seen women crawl on their knees behind their husbands. Cry like small children. It was truly disgusting, but they did anything for the money. And that was what they really wanted. That was what they were really begging for.

Security.

A nice lifestyle.

Not the man they supposedly loved.

“Did you hear me?” she asked. “I said, I love you, Jon!”

My shirt muffled his response when I pulled it over my head, but if he was a smart man, he was telling her to get her shit and get out.

Heather was a sweet girl who seemed to love her husband. Honestly, she was one of the harder ones to break. It took me an extra two weeks to get her in bed, but once I did, she took care of the rest. She was eager to please me and happy to try new things. Having sex with her wasn’t bad at all. It wasn’t great, but she wasn’t the worst I’d ever had.

“No! Listen to me, dammit. Let me talk!” she screamed.

Step four: anger.

This step was irrelevant but necessary, I guess.

What did they have to be angry about?

They were the one technically fucking around. Sure, their boyfriend, fiancé, or husband paid for that service, but they weren’t aware of that.

“Don’t walk away from me!” she cried.

My socks warmed my feet before I pulled on my boots and began to tie them. It wouldn’t be long before it would be time for me to go. I was waiting for the moment Jonathan said the magic words.

And then, he did.

“I want a divorce. I can’t be with you anymore, Heather. You broke my heart.”

Standing, I stretched my back and cracked my neck.

My job was done.

She stood there, mascara rushing over her flushed cheeks as she began to bawl. I thought for sure she would fight him—try to salvage a marriage he had no intention of being in anymore—but instead, she nodded her head and wiped at her wet cheeks.

“I’ll be out by this weekend.”

Checkmate.

Step five: acceptance.

And just like that, I was fifty thousand dollars richer.

Damn, I loved my job.


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