First Comes Lust

By Anika Lynn

Move on.
That’s what Abigail was trying to do after her husband died. But his dirty little secrets refused to stay buried. She thought she knew him, believed in their love with all her heart.
It was all a lie.
Jaded by his countless deceptions, Abigail thrusts herself back into the dating scene. Steamy encounters. Sizzling adventures. She’s soon swept up in an erotic journey of self-discovery. Yet when pleasures of the flesh begin to morph into something more, her every impulse screams for her to run before she can get hurt again.
Is it possible for Abigail to move out from under the shadow of betrayal and find the love she truly craves? How could Abigail ever giver her heart and soul to just one man? Why choose?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Red Rebelle Books
• Release date: Jan 27, 2019
• ISBN: 9780997620009

Book preview

Chapter One

Ithought I knew everything. I thought the lesson I took from my husband’s death was each day is a gift, and not a given .

At first, it was. I cherished our memories, I thought we’d have so much more time together. Forty more years, in my mind, wasn’t an unreasonable expectation, but it wasn’t in the cards. Fate had other plans.

So, every day, to be close to him, to touch things he’d touched, to see things he’d seen, I picked a section of closet, a drawer in his desk, a box he’d carefully packed and I went through it. I wore the shirts he loved for months after his scent had faded. I could still smell it, it was burned into my brain.

None of these things, made them missing him less or the grief softer. None of these things helped, but still, I did them because I couldn’t think to do anything else.

I listened to his voicemail and I pined. I wished and bargained. Why did this have to happen to us, to me? I mourned him like a wife who loved her husband with all of her heart and all of her soul was supposed to.

And then the truth came for me, a truth I couldn’t fathom. Didn’t believe. A truth so unbelievable, I balked at the idea. It just wasn’t possible that the man I was mourning didn’t exist. But emails didn’t lie. And then the lies stacked up. The evidence against him was powerful. And sad. And startling. I went from undying love to if he was here, I would’ve killed the bastard.

The whole thing was sordid. I was looking through his emails. A woman’s strange hello here, or an out of place plane ticket there. Reality set in with each new discovery. The memory of the man I mourned died as I found multiple sex websites he had accounts with. He’d spent thousands of dollars on porn.

I found receipts for flowers I’d never received, plane tickets for trips I’d never been on , hadn’t even known about, and dinner reservations at restaurants I’d never heard of. The part of me that loved him died a slow agonizing death with each new discovery that showed me the man I married wasn’t the man I thought he was.

He had profiles on every dating site I’d ever seen advertised and a few I didn’t know about. And his phone had about a thousand photos. Some so obscene I hadn’t been able to tell which way to hold the phone to know what was happening. The emails and chat conversations were equally enlightening and informative and borderline disgusting. I had to talk all this embarrassing shit out with someone. I was desperate, and with no else to turn to, I called Audrey, a friend I’d known since grade school. I didn’t want to involve her, but what choice did I have? I had no one else.

She is vivacious, social, a go-getter, but she is also my most trusted friend. When she walks into a room the lights shine brighter, the men stand straighter, the woman pay attention. Audrey is the kind of woman people notice, and next to her, I’m as dull as dishwater and about as attractive, but I love her dearly and she’s never let on that she sees the differences between us. She goes out of her way to make me feel better about myself.

Girl, you need to get back out there, now. She claps her hands at me, punctuating each word and putting the period with a couple big claps at the end. One hand shoots into the air as she signals for the waiter. Our favorite place to eat is a little Greek place called Apollo’s. It’s owned by a local and serves the best gyros I’ve ever tasted. They also serve alcohol from open to close, all day, every day. And today, I need plenty of fucking alcohol.

Aud glances at me, her eyes as baleful as my soul. This is terrible. She lays her hand over mine, and I’m grateful for her friendship, for the fact she’s letting me unload this mess at her feet, and that she isn’t the kind who judges but manages to take charge without making it seem so—like picking this restaurant because she knew I would need a drink even when I didn’t. I’m sorry he was a piece of shit, but you’re free. That son of a bitch—she gives a God-rest-his-soul gesture and eye roll—is gone so whether or not he worshipped you from vows to death doesn’t matter anymore. He’s got his own seat in hell now, probably as Satan’s right hand man and you get to start over. A new life. Your freedom served up on a shiny silver platter.

God love her for trying. I don’t think cheating on your wife is a direct ticket to hell. I could be wrong. Hope I am and he’s on fire as we speak, but I don’t want to assume or get my hopes up.

The waiter delivers our vat of cheese and sets it on fire before putting it on the table. Opa!

Abigail, sweetie. I love you and I’m setting you up a dating profile. But first, we’re going to fill our bellies and talk about her love life. She’s a serial dater. And it works for her. She dives into our appetizer then starts a story about her last date. We went to that new club on Porter and Main. She gives me all the details. The dancing—he’d taught her to Lambada. And the drinks—she plied him with alcohol in hopes he would spend the night horizontal dancing with her. The goodnight kiss—he’d used tongue and she’d been into it, but he had to work today.

Are you seeing him again?

She shrugs and sips from her third Mai Tai. Now, you.

I cock a brow. I know what she wants, but I’ve just fallen out of the nice safe shell of grief I used to hide behind and now I’m