As it had been the first time, watching her state of abandon was breathtaking. Sean’s release burst through any attempt to corral it just as Kelly’s subsided. Her body draped across his chest as he gripped her hips, burying his cock to the hilt as it pulsed inside her.
Sean watched as she got dressed.
“Is there anything you need to get home for right away?” he asked suddenly.
Her face impassive, Kelly answered, “No,” after a tiny hesitation.
“Would you stay here with me? Tonight?” He felt a tightness inside at the idea of her leaving. “I mean, I have to get up really early in the morning, but…” His voice trailed off. “I suppose you have to work tomorrow, too, though, and don’t want to have to drive an hour and a half to get there.” Something inside him deflated even as he said it.
“I’m off tomorrow. I’m a nurse. I don’t go back to work until Tuesday afternoon.”
Sean’s heart jumped a little. “Really? Well, if you wanted, you could stay here tomorrow night, too. I’ll be busy all day, but I’ll be done by early evening.” He looked down, suddenly embarrassed by his eagerness. She probably had things to do, and here he was asking her to sit around in an empty hotel room all day waiting for him. “I’m sorry. I guess you wouldn’t want to spend all day here by yourself.”
“I’m pretty sure I could find ways to entertain myself,” Kelly said dryly. “And quite frankly, I like to be by myself.”
Sean looked up. Kelly’s intent gaze was on him, and the corners of her mouth turned up in a little smile. “But not always.” She stood up.
“Yes, I will stay with you tonight.” The smile still gracing her lips belied the formality of the delivery, and he grinned up at her. Spontaneously she let out a giggle, and Sean caught his breath as the sunshine burst through again for the first time since they’d been in the bar. She composed herself quickly, but the brilliance of what he’d seen twice now wasn’t so easily forgotten. In fact, he wasn’t sure he ever would.
“I checked my bag in at the front desk when I decided to hang out in the bar for a while,” she said. “I’ll go down and get it.”
Sean walked her to the door, resisting the urge to grab her and drag her back to bed as she reached for the handle. There would be time. More time than just the next two nights if he had anything to do with it.
He watched from the doorway as she headed down the hall toward the elevator. Her gait was reserved, but it didn’t concern him. She had her reasons for the reserve and the impassiveness and the weariness, he knew. But it was the light they covered up that most interested—mesmerized, if he was honest with himself—him now. Sean stepped back into the room and let the door drift shut behind him, ready to spend his foreseeable future doing everything he could to help it shine.
HOW TO GET YOUR WIFE BACK, IN ONLY ABOUT A MILLION STEPS
Claire de Winter
Idial my brother from the office before I leave. No one at home is waiting for me. I light a cigarette. Yeah, it’s against the rules, but I excel at meaningless acts of bravado. No smoking allowed in the office, no smoking in the entire building and a three-foot radius around it. Elise hates it when she smells smoke on me. I listen to the phone ringing down the line, wondering if Scott will pick up in Oregon.
On the outside everything is a sweet ideal, everything I’ve worked for, really. My brother, though, knows better.
Scott picks up on the tenth ring; he once said voice mail was for fascists.
“We’ve just lost touch,” I say into the phone without preamble. “I can’t get her back.”
“Dude…” If there’s one thing about Scott, it’s his ability to pick up right where you are. It’s a rare gift to find an ally in one’s own family, I’m aware. “You guys have tiny kids. She doesn’t want out. She wants a nap.”
“That’s part of the problem,” I say, and yes, I know I’m the jerk here. My wife has twins. We have twins.
“You just need some spice. Unless someone’s humiliating someone on a daily basis, is there something you’re not telling me?”
“Ha fucking ha,” I say, knowing he’s both jokingly referring to kink, but also seriously asking on a different level.
“What you need is to go to Vegas, check into a hotel, smoke a joint and see where it leads. We’ve discussed the benefits of hotel sex.”
That’s my bro. Almost any of his problems can be solved by checking out of the world and into hedonism. Leaving the babies for the weekend wasn’t going to work for Elise, or me, or the twins for that matter.
“Don’t make me come back there and knock some sense into your head,” Scott is saying. “You’re never going to do better than Elise. You know that, right?”
And I have to admit, I agree. Scott’s always liked Elise. Not in a creepy way; Scott doesn’t go for the Elise type. He prefers them small and dark and troubled. But I know he thinks she’s better than I deserve, which is a compliment in its own weird way. He’s both wiser than his years and has no problem calling me out.
“Because that’s what I’ve learned.” I can hear Scott’s lighter click in the background, can hear him holding in the smoke as he says, “You can kill it, man. Love is something to guard.”
My house is dark and sleeping when I get home, though it’s only nine o’clock. Elise acts on the advice that one should sleep when the babies sleep. They’d all just started sleeping through the night. I tell myself she goes to bed early to make up for the insane sleep deficit from the last months. I tell myself it won’t always be like this.
I pour a bourbon, neat, and sit in my dark living room because, the truth is, I miss my wife.
I think about waking her, about light touches and kisses until she’s overcome with lust. I’ve tried a few times, but she’s sleepily brushed me off and rolled over, and I have to admit that crushes the ego a little. Rationality and babies and sleep deprivation be damned, a guy still wants to be wanted, even by his wife, especially by his wife. I’ve pulled all the enticing moves I can think of and wound up feeling like a pervert trying to fuck a sleeping person or a jerk demanding sex from a new mother.
And I don’t want to be one more demand. She has enough new demands on her already. I check my needs and myself regularly, daily—hourly, it feels like. I’m becoming nervous that this is never going to stop, that this is the new reality of our lives with kids. At this point I feel like if she gives in to me, I’ll be so relieved I’ll never stop asking for more, never stop taking. And where would that leave us?
I down my drink and soon I’m lost, like I often am lately, thinking of the day we got married. The day we started down this whole path, I guess. The day I had finally locked her in, because yeah, I won’t lie, that’s how I think of it. There was no way in hell I was letting this woman get away. She’d just broken up with her ex, the idiot. And I went right after her, as her type doesn’t come on the market very often—rarely single for long, men “friends” always hovering around waiting for a chance. I had rushed her, but she’d said yes.
And the honeymoon; I lean my head back. My girl doesn’t do beaches—too pale and she hates bathing suits. What is it with women and that shit anyway? “My tits are too big. I have this thing here,” she says, pointing. Women are insane sometimes if you ask me. As if tits can be too big, and pointing at some insignificant nothing. She looks like creamy, pale heaven with a smattering of freckles in a bathing suit. Anyway, we went to Paris, instead, for a week of eating and fucking. She bought all this incredibly complicated lacy stuff that the French are famous for. It was great.
And just thinking about it, about the way her face looked… I’d never felt more wanted, more desired, I guess. I unzip my pants and pull myself out. I can’t help it; I’m already hard. It doesn’t take much these days. I stroke up once and then down. Yeah, I’m in my living room spanking it to thoughts of my wife who’s sleeping upstairs. I feel sad and pathetic and yet, I’m not going to stop. I want release. I want to feel good. But mostly, I just want her. And whe
n I come, it’s to thoughts of her under me, in that huge white Paris bed, whispering dirty things in my ear that are all about how much she needs me, wants me—like this.
After I’ve finished, I realize this has not been my most thought-through adventure as I’m left with a mess in my hand, in my lap, probably on my pants. I get myself situated as best I can and head upstairs.
The room is dark and I don’t turn on the light. I can make her out—a small hillock under the covers. I strip in the dark, and get in the shower, hoping not to wake her.
I drop the soap when the lights come on. She’s standing there, one hand over her eyebrows, shielding her eyes from the harsh bathroom glare. She’s in that old-fashioned nightgown she doesn’t know I like. White cotton to the floor with lace and shit, like a granny gown, but it’s so old and worn that it’s practically see-through to all the curviness underneath, a perfect mix of innocence and decadence.
“Hey.” I pop my head out the shower door. “I didn’t mean to wake you.” Though I’m secretly glad to see her.
“You’re showering?” she asks. “You never shower at night.”
I’m soaping my head. “Yeah, long day. I feel grimy.”
“You’ve been smoking,” she guesses, picking up my clothes.
I’m already turning off the water and wrapping a towel around my waist when she holds out my boxers. “What is this?”
I’m not squeamish about discussing masturbation. Everyone does it right? Including her; she’s no prude. But I’m instantly embarrassed like I’m thirteen and my mom has caught me.
“Nothing,” I say, swiping the boxers out of her hand and stuffing them in the hamper. “You know what it is.”
“Nothing?” she asks, and I recognize the edge of panic in her voice. “Are you having an affair?” Tears are welling in her eyes.
“Jesus,” I say, exasperated because I really don’t want to admit I was jerking it downstairs to thoughts of her, and I’m just a pathetic lovesick loser who misses her. I doubt she’d believe it anyway. I’m a grown man, a father now, and I’m allowed my privacy. Right? “No.”
“You come home with jizz on your pants and you’re not having an affair? Were you at a strip club?”
This kind of makes me laugh, it’s so off base. My girl has no idea what happens at strip clubs. Plus that’s not my scene. I mean, no judgment on guys who dig getting grinded on by naked chicks. I can understand the appeal. And I’ve been to bachelor parties. But that’s never been my thing—variety. I’m more into intensity.
“I was downstairs in the living room.”
“Watching porn?”
Okay, I take a peek every once in a while. She knows this.
“No, not watching porn. Jacking off.”
“I’m supposed to believe you came home to jack off in the living room by yourself without porn?” she says with exaggerated disbelief. “Why didn’t you wake me?”
I put my arms around her even though I’m still wet. “You’re tired. You need your sleep.” See what I did there? Scoring points. Plus it’s the truth.
She kind of sniffles in my chest a little bit, and then she says the craziest thing she’s ever said to me.
“You don’t want me anymore.”
“The hell I don’t.”
“I’ve heard of this. Husbands who have affairs when the babies are little. I just…I didn’t think…”
“I’m not having an affair.” I’m keeping calm, reminding myself she’s tired. “How can you even say that to me?”
“You come home with…or you didn’t come get me. Either way…”
“I fucking adore you.”
“But you’re not attracted to me anymore.”
“I’m trying not to be a dick. You’re exhausted. We have twins for god’s sake.”
“That stretched out my stomach…”
“Not this again.” I run my hands up and down her back.
“Is this because you watched the birth?” She’s asked this before. Can’t lie, the birth was bloodier than I ever imagined, but also fascinating. I took tons of pictures, which pissed her off. The doc said I was less squeamish than most dads he had seen. What can I say? I can hang.
But I know she’s read articles or talked to her girls about how watching the birth can put a man off sex.
“The births were a total miracle.” See how I go for the points again?
This, at least, makes her smile because she knows it’s the truth. I was hyper with joy in the delivery room.
“My body’s not the same.”
“Neither’s mine,” I say, looking down. “Big fucking deal.”
She runs her hands up my chest and around to the back of my neck, doing that thing where she scratches right at the base of my skull. It makes me hum; she knows this. “Yeah, but you’re still hot,” she says. “Look at you.”
This is a promising comment. And okay, I try and look good for her. I run and do push-ups. I watch the beers. It’s not like I’m on a diet or something, which come to think of it…
“You’re gorgeous, you know. Now, even more so.” I know she’s been watching what she eats. Her body’s changed since giving birth, yes. She’s fuller in hip and breast and more rounded in belly and ass, but not less attractive—luscious, rather, and I just want my hands on her, want to feel her skin. I know guys who like them so skinny they look like they’ll break, and then there are chubby chasers. God bless, to each his own, and all that. I like soft, a little curve. Or maybe I just like my girl. I don’t even know the difference anymore.
She’s got a couple buttons undone on the granny gown, and I reach down to undo a few more. She kisses me then—a real kiss with her tongue in my mouth and her hands in my hair, the first one in months. And as quickly as it starts, it ends.
“I’m just supposed to believe you were sitting downstairs masturbating?” she asks as she pulls away.
It’s like I can see her mind click into gear. I’d gotten to the fourth button only to see a glimpse of that godforsaken nursing bra. When this is over, I am burning that thing.
“To thoughts of you, yeah,” I say.
And then I hear one of the twins cry through the monitor on the bedside table.
She turns immediately, instinctively.
“I’ll go,” I say, grabbing her wrist. “Let me.”
“No, it should be me,” she says.
“If they’re going to sleep through the night, shouldn’t it be me? They smell you or something,” I say, waving in the general direction of my enemy, the nursing bra.
“Okay,” she says. She knows I’m right. And yes, I’m a man who’ll do anything to get his kids to sleep through the night so he can have some of his wife’s attention.
I try to get in there quickly, but I’m not fast enough and both of them are awake. Not to brag or anything, but I can change my twins in about a minute and a half flat.
But there’s rocking and cuddling, and next thing I know I’ve fallen asleep in the rocking chair holding them, and so have they.
By the time I get them settled, it’s nearly sunrise. I leave for work before anyone’s up, fully intending to put in my time and make it home early tonight.
Have you ever had a dick boss? Of course you have. We all have. It just so happens to be my turn on the karmic wheel for that particular torture. He calls a team meeting starting at 6:30 p.m. Who the hell does that voluntarily? I was promoted into this position, and I’ll be damned if I’m looking for a new job. Thankfully he doesn’t play nice with others, and with a rep like that I give him a year, tops.
I call Elise to tell her I’ll be late, and I can hear the doubt in her voice, the exhaustion too. The twins are crying in the background, so we hang up quickly. I sit through the endless meeting trying not to go crazy. Andrea, sitting across from me, catches my eye and mouths “Chill out,” and I realize I’m bouncing my leg.
I have to get some stuff out before I go and even working quickly and accurately, it’s late when I’m rolling home.
The moon is full and low on the horizon, a harvest moon, my dad used to call it. I’ve always thought they were cool, special, romantic, I guess. He told me crazy shit could happen during a moon like that.
All the lights are out when I turn down my drive. I knew they would be. And I know what I have to do.
I tiptoe through the dark house.
When I get to our bedroom door I pause, telling myself that tonight, I will not fail.
I kick off my shoes and socks, unbutton my shirt, and slip into the sheets in my undershirt and trousers. She’s so warm in that flimsy granny gown again.
I kiss the back of her neck; she doesn’t stir.
I nibble an earlobe and her hand swats me away like a fly.
“Els,” I whisper in her ear.
She rolls to me and buries her face in my chest, clinging to sleep, her hand gripping my T-shirt.
I’m about to give in, give up. She’s tired.
I kiss her forehead. “Wake up.” I try a last time.
Her eyes flutter open. “There you are,” I say.
I kiss her, but she’s sleepy, languid—there’s no there, there. I’m worried she’s going to fall back to sleep on me. I don’t think my ego, or hers, can take that right now.
I’m out of the bed then, reaching down and pulling her out too. She’s cold, so I haul the bedspread off the bed and wrap it around her. She starts murmuring about being tired, but I give her the look. Don’t pretend you don’t know the look. It’s best used sparingly, keeps the effectiveness fresh.
I lead her downstairs, making sure she doesn’t trip in all her bundling. I’m thinking the walk will wake her. And I’m forming a plan. That’s another thing if you want to be a husband. A plan will take you a long way. When I walk over to the French doors, she stalls.
“It’s actually warmer outside than in the house. Come see,” I say. It’s one of those oddly warm fall nights, last breath of summer.
She’s still wiping sleep out of her eyes.
“Look,” I say, pointing at the full moon.
She’s shrugged the bedspread off her shoulders, coming out of her cocoon, because it is pretty warm. Then she lets the blanket go in a puddle at her feet.
The One Who Got Away Page 7
