Millionaire Wives Club Read Online Free PDF

fuck I been saying. If you can’t accept Da Truef like he is, then ain’t no need for you to stick around and wait for Da Truef to get back on his feet. Man, please. Your Puerto Rican ass—”
    “I’m not Puerto Rican.”
    “Whatever, I betchu you understand ‘Adios motherfucker.’ You gotta lotta dreams that ain’t gon’ amount to shit, ’cause you ain’t shit. You’re talentless, and you’re fat as hell. When I met you, you were cute, exotic and shit.”
    “Please, you were just hung up on me being black and Dominican.”
    “Well, now I’m hung up on you being a spic-ass trick. Since we don’t have any money, why don’t you go down to the corner and hop on the back of a truck with the rest of the goddamn Mexicans. ’Cause I don’t need you in my face.”
    “You ain’t shit,” Milan snapped. “All the other athletes’ wives are living lavishly, and here I am stuck with the fuckin’ towel boy!”
    “Oh, so that’s what this has come to? You wanna put me down? Well, if yo’ big ass think you can come up with something better than Da Truef, number twenty-three, then who is Da Truef to hold you back? Da Truef shall set you free.” He opened the front door and walked out into the hall. “I ain’t gotta take this.” He slammed the door behind him.
    “And neither do I!” Milan screamed, as the automatic locks clicked in place.
    After sitting still for a few moments she walked over to the wall of windows and looked down at the busy Manhattan street. “How do I get outta hell?” Milan said to herself as she turned around and leaned her back against the glass. Suddenly she felt the room was closing in on her, and if she didn’t leave now she knew her fear would never let her out.
    “Happy Birthday,” she said, sliding her wedding band off and dropping it on top of the cake. She lay back on the couch and rubbed her empty belly.

Jaise
    J aise was tired of carrying the weight of a strong black woman on her shoulders. She didn’t want the responsibility of being seen as Mother Earth, Nubian Queen, or an I-don’t-need-no-man-all-I-need-is-me being.
    She wanted to be vulnerable without being taken advantage of. To be able to cry without being charged as emotional. The permission to stand up, place her hands on her voluptuous hips, shake her fly-ass hair, and say, “Yes, I need a man for more than dick,” without any judgment.
    Jaise wanted to be submissive without anyone thinking she lacked substance. And she might be rich due to her substantial alimony checks, but she was tired of paying her own bills. She wanted a man—her man—the infamous “him” to do it … and not complain about it.
    And she wanted to cook for “him” …hell, she liked to cook. She wanted to hold “his” hand while he took charge.
    And no
, Jaise wanted to shout,
no matter how you slice it, how many goddamn support groups, testimonies, and self-help books there are, I cannot
be my sixteen-year-old son’s mother and father
. She was failing miserably at it.
    But since she couldn’t voice her true feelings, and because what everyone else thought of her mattered more than what was in her heart, she swallowed her emotions and glided into her bedroom where her on-again, off-again boyfriend, Trenton, was lying in her Civil War—era antique four-poster bed waiting for her.
    Jaise moved from side to side, her see-through nightie showing every erotic gift she had. She placed her hand on the retractable pole in her bedroom and started a sensual dance, moving her size-sixteen hips in a seductive rhythm. She could see Trenton’s dick hardening and seeming to grow by the moment. Jaise spun around the pole and grooved like a Vegas stripper. Trenton gripped his dick and squeezed the tip, as the pre-cum glistened and eased out the sides. “Shit, Jaise,” he said, “I want you over here.”
    Jaise smiled and hoped that him wanting her had a double meaning. “You want this?” she took her index finger, slipped it into her