She’s always saying that she’s too heavy and needs to eat less but as I carry her into her bedroom, I don’t feel it. If anything, she could use a few more pounds. Her cheeks aren’t looking as round as they ordinarily do. I wonder if she’s stressed out about the grocery store. Maybe the feasibility study will ease her mind. She’s tired. I do know that. We weren’t more than ten minutes into the cooking show on television and she closed her eyes to “rest for a sec.” The next thing I knew, she had fallen asleep. I may have nudged her to rest her head on my lap—for her own comfort.
I cycled through three shows, which is what I think they call binge watching, learned how to cut herbs (rolling them up, who knew?), and that bread is difficult. I’ll stick to buying it from the professionals.
I would’ve stayed there all night but I figured she would rather sleep in her own room. This wasn’t an excuse to get into her bedroom. Not precisely. Okay, maybe it was. I hadn’t been in here in forever. It was her own space and I tried hard to observe that. Our townhouse is one of the traditional walk-ups I bought for around twenty million a week after I laid eyes on Orchard. It’s a long, thin home where every floor serves a different purpose. The master is on the top floor whereas Orchard’s room is a floor beneath mine. The bedroom is in the back overlooking the garden and her reading room is in the front facing the street.
Sometimes when I’m climbing the stairs, I’ll catch a glimpse of her sitting in front of the fireplace in the reading room, her feet up on a fuzzy cushion, sipping on a cup of coffee with the book lying unread in her lap as she stares out the window. Maybe she dreams of an escape while I’m imagining kissing my way down her neck, stripping her out of her clothes and taking her so many times that she can’t go into that room with the memory of us tangled together.
Her bedroom offers no views from the stairs. It’s just a long corridor ending with a white painted door that’s almost always closed. I nudge it open with my foot and proceed to the bed with its lemon yellow duvet cover. Gently, I lay her down and cover her up with the throw at the end of the bed. She murmurs something soft and sweet that I don’t catch and curls up on her side, tucking her hands beneath her cheek. My protective instincts rise up and lodge in my throat like a rock. I need her to be happy. I wonder if she knows how important it is to me that she is happy.
I step back, away from temptation, to let her sleep. The back of the house, guarded by a row of tall townhomes, is dark but I draw the shades closed anyway, leaving the only light emanating from her ensuite bathroom. Quietly, I make my way there to turn it off but instead I find myself stepping inside and pulling the door shut behind me.
The room smells like her—lemons and roses and some other soft scent. I turn hard instantly. This is the room where she’s naked, where she runs her hands over her body under the jets of water. I can imagine her in here, letting her robe fall to the floor, turning the water on, and stepping inside. If I hadn’t agreed to allow her space, I could be in here with her. I’d lather up my hands and run soapy fingers down her arms, over her chest. I’d cup her tits and hold them to my mouth so I could suck her nipples until her knees buckled and she had to steady herself against the marble bench. I’d kneel on the tile, not caring that the hard surface bit into my skin, because from that position, I could spread her legs wide and tongue her pussy.
She’d have to lean on me. She’d have to dig her nails into my shoulders and back to keep her balance while I finger fucked her tight, juicy cunt and sucked her tiny clit until she creamed on my hand and face. I’d lick all of that essence up and then force her to ride my face again. She’d be into it, undulating her hips and grinding down hard because my tongue wasn’t filling her up. She’d be needy. She’d want the cock. She’d beg for it.
It’d be easy enough to change positions, flip her around so I was sitting on the bench and she’d be sitting on me. I’d have her face away so her sweet knees wouldn’t get bruised. She’d slide down my hard cock so easily because her cunt would be slick from her cum and my mouth. Her hands would grip my knees. It’s a precarious position. She’d have to wholly rely on me but I’d hold her secure with one arm clamped around her waist. I’d need one hand free so I could play with her pussy while she rode me. Her tits would bounce with each gyration on my lap and it’d be agony that I couldn’t thumb her nipple or suck on them. The next round would be her facing me so I could be feasting on her breasts while she orgasmed around my cock.
I can hear her moans in my ear, feel her fingers scrape against my scalp. I push down my pants and grasp my swollen shaft, rubbing myself in hard, swift motions.
She’d tell me not to stop. She’d tell me that she was coming. She’d scream it in my ear so loud that the glass would shatter but I wouldn’t stop. I’d keep fucking her, driving into her so hard that I could feel her womb bumping up against the head of my cock.
“Fuck,” I gasp out, my cum streaming out of my cock. My seed spills onto the sink and a brush she left out. When I come to, I clean it all up, trashing the brush and using a washcloth to wipe away the traces of my self pleasure. I drag a hand over my face and stare into the mirror. It’s been five years of this. I don’t know how much longer I’m going to last.
14
Orchard
I lie on my bed looking up at the ceiling. Things have been different. I’m not sure what’s happening. Or maybe it’s me that's different. All those feelings I’d thought I buried years ago have come bubbling to the surface this past week—causing me to have a little bit of hope that maybe there is still a chance for us.
Five years ago I told myself that I’d hate Heath. It would make things so much easier for me. If I focus on the anger then I could push away the attraction I’d felt for him. Over the years he’s made it easy to keep that wall up. We both kept each other at arm's length. Now he is beginning to shorten the distance between us. The more time we spend together, the closer we get. Even today we’ve been texting on and off. Not about anything important but still we are talking way more than normal. I am starting to actually feel married.
It’s strange to only be learning about your husband after you’ve already been married for five years. Our relationship didn’t start out in the traditional sense but I need to try to leave that in the past if we’re ever going to move forward in some kind of way.
After all of these years, those feelings I felt toward him still burn inside of me, so I owe it to myself to try to work on this marriage. Yet I find that those thoughts leave me feeling way more vulnerable than I like. It takes two to make a relationship work. Even though he seems to be opening up more, can I trust his motives? He does want a child; that might be the reason for the sudden change.
I knew last night when he carried me to bed that things were beginning to change. When I woke up this morning, I swear I could smell him on my sheets but he wasn't in bed with me. He was, however, at breakfast. He sat in the kitchen drinking his coffee while I ate my normal Fruity Pebbles, which he teases me about. I’d talked him into having a bowl and he ended up having two.