Madeleine Wakes (A Wife-Watching Romance): Book One of the Madeleine Trilogy Read online

  Are you picturing his bulging pecs, that washboard stomach grazing over you as his unattainable fantasy cock thrusts into you? Naughty girl...

  Her breath started to take on an urgent stutter, as though she were shivering from the cold, interspersed with the kind of gasps for oxygen that made it almost sound as though she were somehow suffering. She was close to her peak.

  Her darkly exhilarating scent was now strong enough in the air that he could sense it without doubt. What an incredible experience it was to witness her in such free abandon—he felt euphoric from it all.

  “Oh yeah...” she let out a forced whisper, as though unable to contain the words. “Oh God yeah... oh yeah...”

  Hugo wasn’t sure when he’d started touching his hardness while watching her, but now he was aware that if he wasn’t careful, he’d make a mess. It was difficult to control himself, though, as he heard her vocalize the powerful sensations blooming inside her.

  “Oh... oh fuck yeah... Oh God...”

  The sight of her silent scream as she came—the open mouth, the flushed cheeks, the eyes squeezed tightly closed, those two little vertical lines showing between her eyebrows, her head tilting back as the feelings shuddered through her entire body—that was the biggest turn-on for Hugo. Nothing staged for his benefit: just real, honest, overwhelming satisfaction.

  What more could a husband want for his wife?

  Two

  Hugo’s own new job had started as soon as they’d moved to New York, of course, since it was what had enticed them down from New England in the first place.

  In those first few months, Madeleine had done all the unpacking, shaping up the apartment in their own image, taking on the lion’s share of the process of setting up home, to allow Hugo space to focus on his work.

  She’d been doing a cursory search of the newspapers and websites for suitable jobs as well, but Hugo didn’t want to put any pressure on her in that direction. Putting any kind of weight on her shoulders was never going to help her shrug off the burden of her condition. She’d pursue work when she was ready.

  While he’d been prizing himself out of bed at ungodly hours in the morning, returning late at night, he got the impression she spent a lot of her days sitting in the window, as she had back in Boston, reading her Kindle or gazing out at life across the street.

  And there was a lot of that. The apartment buildings on this street not far from Washington Square were disturbingly close together, the windows so close it almost felt as though you could reach out and touch them. There had been a reason he’d chosen this place above all the others. Madeleine’s lack of interest in where they lived was a lingering part of her depression, but he’d been able to explain the other virtues of this apartment to her sufficiently enough, he thought, to even persuade the old Madeleine.

  If she ended up permanently entrenched on that window seat, her melancholy taking hold once again, at least she’d be able to people-watch. To see others going about their daily lives—it might help her re-engage with life herself, he figured.

  He saw her at weekends sitting there, watching, and knew his instincts had to be at least half-right. She liked looking into those apartments, with their wall-to-wall windows, high ceilings and gorgeous interiors. The occupants had to be wealthy, their designer furniture and spacious floor plans a cut above anything in Hugo and Madeleine’s building, Number 147.

  Their more affluent neighbors also rarely seemed to shut out the world with blinds or curtains—and Hugo didn’t think for a moment it was because they wanted to show off the trappings of their success. It was as though a life of living within view of others had vaccinated them against the need for personal privacy.

  “They’ve got nothing to hide,” Madeleine told him one day when he commented on it.

  “I guess not. Nice apartments to show off to the neighbors.”

  She shrugged, “They’re proud of what they’ve achieved.”

  He’d nodded at that, painfully aware that their own apartment was a quarter the size of those across the street. “D’you ever wish we were like that?” he’d asked her. “Maybe if you hadn’t married another reporter…”

  He hadn’t realized until the words came out of his mouth that it was a downer of a question, not something he would have normally directed her way. It must have been the change of scene, bringing his safeguards down.

  But Madeleine had merely smiled, batting away the sentiment. “Marry someone other than you?” she’d said, and her tone was that of amusement, taking Hugo a little by surprise. It seemed that they hadn’t shared a moment of amusement in forever. It gave him a little sugary warm feeling inside.

  “Well, you must have had countless offers before me,” he’d said, returning her smile. “All those movie stars and rock stars and hipsters you used to hang with.”

  “I used to interview. Not the same as hang with,” she’d said. “Their offers were only ever a quick jump in the sack.”

  The vague picture of a younger Madeleine being presented with the option of a bed with some of the big names she’d written about in her heyday caused a flicker of jealousy deep within his gut, but he knew her well enough. She’d been ruthlessly ambitious back then, and a virtual librarian when it came to her social life.

  “Besides, you gave me that beautiful little sparkly ring,” she’d laughed, holding up her hand to flash the dual bands of gold—engagement and wedding rings—as though it were proof she’d made the right decision all along.

  The sound of her laughter, such unbridled and genuine joy, made him feel like he’d just won the lottery. She’d always had that affect on him—he just hadn’t really felt it in a while. This resurgent Madeleine gave him such hope. She seemed more motivated than ever to get back to some form of normality.

  Was it the change of scene, the fresh start?

  Was it the hours she spent watching those affluent Manhattanites in the mansion-like apartments across the street?

  Was it her new therapist, her new treatment regime?

  The fact that she’d even signed up for formal therapy in the first place had to be a good sign—it was something she’d studiously avoided back in Boston, even going so far as to scour dozens of papers on why therapy could do little to really help combat depression other than by prescribing drugs, which Madeleine had never been comfortable taking.

  So her transformation had begun before starting therapy, although the unusual Dr. Simeon may have helped accelerate it.

  And now, here she was with a job.

  He liked the idea of his wife mingling with books and the bookish, spending her days among the quiet shelves, helping customers thanks to her impressive literary knowledge. A bookstore had to be a rare thing these days, after the same digital revolution that had so hampered Madeleine’s promising career and set Hugo on the track to the dark side—public relations. It was like she was hitting back.

  And what place could be more sheltered and protective for someone hauling themselves out of the remaining traces of mental anguish than a book store?

  Hugo came home to an empty apartment, and it felt strangely exhilarating to know that Madeleine wasn’t there, she was out and about, getting things done, interacting with people, returning to the ins and outs of life in the city.

  Some days she was home for dinner after the end of her shift, some days she was kept out longer by the store’s extended opening hours. It all seemed healthy to Hugo, who’d come to dread returning home to their little pad in Charlestown every evening to find a despondent wife waiting for him, so dependent, so isolated from the world around them.

  The night she’d phoned while he’d been walking to the subway, to say she was thinking of going to a bar with some of her co-workers—that had felt like Christmas to Hugo.

  “Of course it’s all right, sweetheart, you don’t need to ask me,” he’d said, some of the other commuters around him giving him quizzical and disapproving glances—New Yorkers reacting to the visible signs of joy on his face.

/>   “I don’t know if I really know them all that well yet—”

  Her voice revealed a slight faltering hesitation, a dip in her new confidence, and he recognized that peculiar ability of her condition to persuade her that consorting with other people, doing anything other than hiding, was likely to be fraught with pain and complication.

  “Which is why it’ll be a great chance for you to bond, right? I’m sure you’ll have a great time.”

  “They didn’t say anything about inviting partners…”

  “You don’t need me there,” he chuckled. “It’ll be a lot more fun without your boring husband along for the ride.”

  “I get so tired in the evenings now that I’m working.”

  “I tell you what,” he said. “I’ll call you in a couple hours, see how you’re doing. If you’re not having a great time, we can pretend I’m asking you to come home to deal with something urgent.”

  “Okay.” Her quiet voice made him wonder if he was pushing her too much in this, though he felt she needed it.

  Later on, he’d phoned her feeling nervous that she’d be all miserable and regret going out to the bar, the whole thing threatening her relationship with her co-workers and all the progress she’d made in her new job. But there on the crackly line over a loud cacophony of background voices, her sweet soprano voice had been so very bright and cheerful.

  “Hey sweetie!”

  “Hey honey, having a good time?”

  “Fantastic!” So bouncy, so effervescent. “You mind if I stay out later?”

  “Of course, sounds good to me!”

  She’d even given him the feeling she wanted him off the phone quick, so she could get back to some conversation or other with the book crowd. It left Hugo with a quiet grin plastered across his face. She really was becoming the girl he’d married again.

  Home alone for the night, he had the rare privilege of reacquainting himself with the art of relaxation. In this case, an evening of CSI and a ridiculously over-filled Calzone from the deli around the corner.

  When she’d eventually come home after her first real night out in ages, more than a little affected by alcohol, she’d been the picture of happiness. The sight of her like that, so vivacious and giggly—even bordering on loopy as he’d helped her avoid falling over on the way into the bedroom—made him react quite physically to her beauty.

  He hadn’t had such a powerful erection in years.

  It probably helped that she was wearing the shortest skirt he’d ever seen her wear, something he never even knew she owned. Did she really wear things like that to work?

  “I want to stay up a little…” she’d said, protesting against his encouragement for her to lie down on the bed, though as soon as she touched the mattress, she was collapsing back, eyes closing, muscles falling limp as sleep consumed her.

  He had undressed her, to get her into her PJs, as he had done many times before during her blackest periods in Charlestown. Only this time, he found himself caught up in the cloud of her sweet perfume, thinking how god-damned good she looked right now. Had she put extra highlights in her hair? She was certainly wearing more make-up than usual—but now he removed her shirt, the extravagance of her lace bra also struck him as unfamiliar.

  Along with the shortness of her skirt, it all suggested to him real self-confidence in her. This was a great sign.

  Peeling off her skirt and her black nylons, seeing her that way before he dutifully began slipping her into her nightwear, it also inspired such fervent lust in him that Hugo knew he’d have to take care of business before coming to bed himself.

  Madeleine was becoming—or had already become, at any rate—drop-dead gorgeous again and it reminded Hugo just how long it had been since they’d shared any kind of passion together.

  Maybe there would be opportunity to initiate something some time soon, a seduction. Was that appropriate at this stage in their relationship? They were married, there shouldn’t be any need for seduction. Married people just looked at each other, recognizing the need for sex in each other’s eyes, and then they just hopped into bed, didn’t they?

  It felt to Hugo as though he had to woo Madeleine all over again—but he’d never been any good at that, it had been hard enough the first time.

  *

  He came home Friday nights, sometimes other nights during the week, and she was still out with her friends from the book store, and he felt great.

  He knew that on a selfish level, it felt good having a little personal space for a while, after so many months and years in which every minute outside work had been filled with taking care of her. It was a breather for him, even now, time off after the grueling job of being caregiver.

  It was also, it seemed to him, some kind of vindication for his choices, for taking up the job offer in a new industry, moving himself and Madeleine to a new city. She was finding happiness, and nobody could turn around and say Hugo wasn’t helping her, wasn’t doing everything he could to set her on the right track—even though he’d spent so many weeks since they’d arrived in New York focusing on his own work, his own career.

  The main reason he felt so good coming home to an empty apartment, after all, was that he could lay his overwhelming guilt to rest. Madeleine wasn’t miserable. He didn’t need to feel that irrational anguish any more that it was all his fault.

  That, as it turned out, was a huge burden removed from his shoulders.

  She only occasionally invited him out to meet her co-workers, but that early on, he avoided her invitations and she didn’t seem at all put out. Was he lazy, wanting to put off his entrance into her new circle? He saw it more as wanting to enjoy that personal space he now had. And, not insignificantly, wanting her to have her own independence in bonding with her co-workers.

  She’d usually be back before bedtime, to startle him a little with the brevity of her skirts or the depth her necklines plunged, impress him with her energy, dazzle him with her pretty smiles and wide eyes. And he adored it when she regaled him with stories of people he didn’t know, who bore names like Jennifer, Dan, Ryan, Fabian, Sasha—all signs she was immersing herself in normality.

  She’d enchant him, entice him, tease him with her new self, and yet he found himself completely unable to make a move on her, to act on his lust. Afraid, he thought, of pressuring her if she wasn’t ready, though also no doubt terrified of possible rejection, even after all these years together.

  It all seemed perfectly reasonable and logical to him every time he thought about it, that he should simply confront the woman he loved, tell her he wanted to tear off her clothes, kiss her all over her body, thrust inside her.

  Yet when it came to it, and she was right there in front of him, he felt awkward, stupid, blocked. It just didn’t seem right to lay it on her if she wasn’t in the right place for it. It felt as though they were now only best friends, not lovers.

  So he didn’t. He left it, and then he was waking up in the middle of the night to find her tending to herself, and it drove him wild.

  Three

  One Wednesday morning in February, Hugo found himself really struggling to get up, the recent cold weather getting to him, making his joints ache, making him think about calling in his first sick day in the new job though it was far from strictly necessary.

  Madeleine was not only awake, but apparently already in the shower as he reached for the alarm clock to confirm it was his usual time to haul himself out of bed.

  He waited, unsure of the reasons for her change of schedule.

  When she came out of the bathroom, the light streaming out behind her, she was wearing nothing but a pair of simple black boy short panties, looking stunning.

  “Oh, hey you’re up,” she said, and he assumed she meant awake though a double entendre would have been appropriate.

  “I am,” he said, rubbing the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes.

  She reached into the closet, which took up the entire wall of the bedroom opposite the windows, and withdrew some kind
of silky dress that was a blaze of purple, black and white.

  “You can tell me how I look,” she said, putting her hands through the sleeves of the dress then pulling it up her arms, over her head and down over her body.

  His morning wood was tingling at the unexpected fashion show, but it wasn’t going to help him distinguish between different outfits. She looked incredible in whatever. Had she lost a little weight while he hadn’t been looking?

  “You look pretty amazing,” he said, eyes wide, noting that she wasn’t wearing a bra underneath this dress. It still had the tag on it, poking out from the front.

  The dress molded around her breasts, her nipples pushing proudly out through the thin black material, then it flared out lower down, bursting into white flowers and purple as it reached her hips and thighs. Sexy, though more like a geisha’s kimono than business attire.

  “Nice,” he said, nodding his appreciation as she turned up the bedroom lights a little to see herself more clearly in the mirrors that adorned the whole closet door—and therefore the whole back wall of the bedroom.

  Madeleine did look sensational, her long, as-yet unbrushed golden hair, streaked with darker tones, fell in waves down her back, mussed from sleep but still adding to her beauty. The seductive curves of her body seemed perfectly designed to drive her husband—and any man, for that matter—crazy with desire, and she was turning and stretching to show them off to maximum affect in the mirror.

  She wrinkled her faintly freckled nose, as though attempting to mimic the witch from that 60s sitcom, Bewitched— she didn’t entirely believe her husband’s verdict on the dress.

  “It looks like a bathrobe, doesn’t it?” she said, ripping the thing off, drawing his eyes to the fact that her nipples were stiff either from the attention or the cool winter’s air leaking in through the windows.

  “Pretty hot bathrobe,” he said, but his judgement wasn’t cutting it with her. “What’s the occasion? Brunch at the Playboy Mansion?”