Lily's Last Stand by Delilah Devlin

Lily’s Last Stand
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    L ily Newcomb checked her makeup in the rearview mirror. She wore a new shade of lipstick—“Waitress Red”—on her lips with a slick of gloss to wet them. Brent used to say red lips made him think of blowjobs. She pouted her mouth at her reflection. That ought to make him sit up and take notice.
    Then, bracing herself, she let herself out of her Volvo and tugged the belt of her raincoat securely around her waist, trying not to think about how ridiculous this was, how cliché. But she was at her wit’s end.
    Brent didn’t know it, but he’d just spent his last night burning the midnight oil. They had enough now—enough money, enough things, enough of the right friends and associates. It was time Brent turned his considerable skills toward shoring up another relationship—one closer to home.
    Lily used his spare set of keys to open the outer door of the law offices and let herself inside. The reception area was dark, as was the corridor. Only a sliver of light shone beneath her husband’s door. They were alone.
    She unbelted the coat, letting it drop into a messy puddle at her feet. She fluffed her hair, combing her fingers through her bangs to tousle them. With a last deep breath, she strode on her four-inch patent leather heels to his office, grasped the knob with her sweaty palm, and inched the door open.
    Brent sat at his desk. The neck of his white, button-down shirt was opened, his tie askew. Bristles shadowed his rugged jaw. His dark hair looked deliciously messy as he frowned at the document in front of him.
    Before he lifted his gaze, she leaned against the doorframe in a seductive pose and tossed back her head, hoping he wouldn’t laugh when he realized she was there—and what she wasn’t wearing.
    She heard a cough. Brent’s gaze rose and widened, giving her a quick once-over before he bolted from his chair.
    Too late, she realized he wasn’t alone. She thrust a hand downward to hide her sex, wrapped an arm around her breasts, but it was too little protection, too late.
    Brent’s partner, Lou, rose from an armchair, instantly averting his gaze. He coughed again. “I can see why you were in a rush to get home, Brent,” he said, sounding strangled. He turned to walk toward the door, shielding his face with a hand and offering a muffled, laughing, “Nice seeing you, Lily,” as she stood, slack-jawed, beside the door. In the distance, she heard Lou whistling tunelessly as he exited the office.
    Heat crept across her cheeks as she glanced at her husband. “This was a bad idea. I’ll just let myself out,” she said in a little voice, backing away.
    But Brent kept coming. His face wore that look, the one he assumed when dressing down an intern for shoddy research. “Lily, get back here. Now .”
    Lily bit her lip then dropped her hands. She eyed him with trepidation. Not because she feared him—Brent was never harsh—but because she hated disappointing him. Too late again, she realized she’d acted rashly. Would she ever learn patience? To let things happen in their own time?
    As always, she’d seen a problem and rushed to solve it. It had seemed a simple plan—an ambush, really. He’d been staying later and later at work over the past weeks. And if she didn’t know he had a deep streak of integrity running through his core, she might have assumed he was having an affair. But she knew him. She used to work for him. She’d seen how deeply he could sink into a case to the exclusion of everything else. She’d just never thought she’d be shunted to the side for so long.
    Tonight, she’d decided to give him a wakeup call. Remind him that he wasn’t alone. That he had responsibilities at home to consider.
    Only now, she felt foolish. Desperate. Tears burned her eyes, but she lifted her chin, refusing to let her humiliation make her cower.
    Brent strode toward her, his expression neutral. His firm lips tight and crimped. When he stood in front of her, he snagged her