“Give in to your pushy impulses. I will not be surrendering to your demands this time. I will not. You need to wait, because I need time to think. And no amount of pressure from you is going to make my thinking process go faster.”
“I’m not pushy.” He crossed his arms again.
“Yes, you are. You’re impatient; you want everything right now. You want all the answers immediately, and you mow down everyone in your way. You rush into things, and it’s worked out for you so far because you’re smart and wily. But I’m not like that. I need to contemplate and consider. And if you don’t want me to freeze you out, you need to give me some time.”
He frowned and issued a perfunctory nod. “Fine. You have an hour.”
I laughed, irritated and amused. “I’ll take all the time I need.”
“An hour and ten minutes. That’s my final offer.” His frown had grown fake; he was a faking frowner.
I laughed again, less irritated and more amused. “Hand me my towel, the water really is cold.”
He grabbed the towel, but didn’t hand it to me. “Can you do me a favor?”
“What’s that?”
“Stand up.”
I shrugged, then stood as requested, not immediately grasping the nature of his request. I blamed the post-Ketamine grogginess for my belated understanding.
I watched my husband blankly as he swallowed with difficulty, his eyelids growing heavy as his gaze traced over my body. I was suddenly self-conscious and considerably less cold.
I wondered; are there women who grow accustomed to being the subject of such longing?
I’ve found, as a general rule, the longer women are married, the more judgmental they become of other women, especially about sexuality and desire. But I’ve yet to meet a monogamous person who is an expert on sex, nor have I ever met a polygamist who is an expert on love.
Each marriage is a living thing, just as complex as the two individuals within it.
After eighteen years together and two kids, nothing about the way my husband wanted me in that moment felt ordinary or calm. And as thrilling as his desire was, the realization also saddened me.
We’d never been allowed to grow bored of each other. Time was a commodity, and time together had become the ultimate luxury. Perhaps if we spent infinite hours in each other’s company I’d eventually tire of his companionship. Maybe . . . but I doubted it.
He held his hand out. “Come here.”
“Greg, I’m very tired.”
“Come here,” he commanded, and yet there was a note of desperation in his voice.
I shivered and fit my fingers in his palm, goosebumps erupting over my skin. When I stepped out of the tub, he tugged me forward. I stood between his legs. His hands moved to my hips, his fingers digging into my wet skin. Mine rested on his shoulders. Both my feet were on the ground, and yet I felt unsteady.
Inclining his head, he licked a drop of water from my stomach, his hot tongue velvet against my chilled skin.
“Can you blame me?” he asked, his warm breath fanning over the wet tip of my breast, the combination of sensations coiling my insides.
“Blame you for what?” I asked, feeling remarkably winded.
He didn’t answer. Instead he covered my ribs and breasts with hot, wet kisses, causing my toes to curl, my neck to flush, and my lower abdomen to tighten and twist with a pulsing ache. His hands stroked my bare body, damp and slick and sensitive.
I was so tired. And he felt so good. I wanted to be selfish, and give myself over to him. But I didn’t want to confuse him, or me.
“Nothing is resolved,” I whispered, even as I pressed him against me, wanting more, wanting to be devoured.
“I resolve to make you come with my fingers.” His fingers moved to my center, making me gasp.
“You’re not being fair.”
“I further resolve to make you come with my mouth.” He swirled his tongue low on my abdomen, sending a shock of heat to my core.
“Husband, this isn’t a good idea. You’re not listening.”
His hands slid to my bottom and he lowered his head, saying, “I will, darling. I resolve to listen to all your sweet sounds, be they sighs or screams . . . each and every one.”
I shivered again, a quaking capitulation, a submission.
The sound of Greg’s voice, dark and thick with promise, was just as potent as his touch. I knew soon he would be speaking salacious nonsense. Demanding, exacting phrases that revealed his baser instincts and desires. Possession. Ownership. Carnal infatuation. I welcomed it.
I welcomed his provoking and zealous vulgarity.
Greg’s grip grew restless and he bit me, making my breath hitch and hiss. He surged upward, stood, and I hooked my thumbs in his boxers, frantically pushing them to the ground, the tips of my fingers and the bite of my nails skimming along the coarse hair of his thighs.
He grabbed me, stroking and caressing my body. Single-minded and greedy, he pushed me against the wall, his hands rounding on my thighs, preparing to lift me.
But I didn’t want the loss of control. I didn’t want a rapid coupling against the wall. So I maneuvered him to the chair, pushed him down, and climbed on his lap, his skin now as wet and slippery as mine.
“I miss this,” he growled against my lips.