Sticky

by Nina Lane

  “I can’t,” I whispered. I put my hand on his chest, my pulse quickening at the sensation of his heart pounding against my palm. “I… I just can’t.”

  “The fuck you can’t,” he hissed, and before I knew it, his mouth crashed down on mine, his muscular body pushing me up against the shelf.

  A groan lodged in my throat. I fisted my hands in his shirt, my knees weakening as he thrust his tongue into my mouth and shoved his thigh harder between my legs. Lust uncoiled inside me, heavy and overpowering, my sex clenching in instinctive response.

  Even though I was still sore, I wanted it again, wanted to feel him pounding inside me, his husky voice whispering dirty words and commands as I writhed naked underneath him. Dizziness filled my head. I dimly realized that he could fuck me right here in the workroom, and I would let him.

  A beeping noise penetrated my haze of need. Muttering a curse, Mr. Hunter lifted his head. His eyes blazed into mine, dark as a twilight sky.

  “We’re not finished, Maddie,” he grated out. “No fucking way.”

  He pushed away from me, slamming a hand down on the laminator controls before stalking out of the room. I drew in a shaky breath and pushed away from the shelf.

  My surroundings came slowly back into focus—the baskets of children’s picture books, the copier, the shelves filled with pencil boxes, notepads, and bottles of glue. I started to sort the construction-paper flowers.

  My hands trembled. The bright flowers—pink, blue, red, purple—looked too cheerful and pure to be touched by a woman like me. Shame burned me from the inside out.

  “Go Tornados!”

  The crowd of parent and family spectators seated in the bleachers cheered as the home soccer team scored another goal. My heart filled with pride as I watched Emma run toward her teammates, exchanging victorious high-fives.

  “She’s really improving,” Richard said, climbing onto the bleachers beside me. He’d left work early to attend the game, and he tugged at the knot in his necktie to loosen it. “Especially dribbling.”

  “She told me she might not want to do soccer next year.” I adjusted the shutter speed on my camera and focused it on the field. “She’s interested in tap dancing.”

  Richard made a scoffing noise. “She’d better do soccer again next year. She’s good. Waste of talent if she quits.”

  I shrugged. “She’s six, Richard. She’s allowed to try different things.”

  “I don’t want her to be a dilettante. I want her to focus. Work to her full potential.”

  “I’ll be very interested to hear you tell her that when she’s a teenager,” I remarked dryly.

  On the bench in front of us, Noah was playing a portable video game. I touched his shoulder and indicated I was going down to the field. I climbed off the bleachers and walked to the touchline to take closer shots of my daughter.

  Emma’s brown hair flowed behind her in a ponytail, her lithe, strong body running across the field like a machine. Richard was right—Emma was an excellent soccer player already, but I didn’t want her to think she couldn’t try other things.

  Unlike Noah, whose love for karate and reading had remained steady for years, Emma had always flitted like a butterfly between various interests. I loved that about her, as much as I loved Noah’s methodical mind.

  I wanted Emma to do everything she wanted to, to explore and experiment. I wanted her to try tap dancing, basketball, gymnastics, ice skating, whatever caught her fancy. If she didn’t try, how would she ever find out what she truly loved?

  I focused the lens on her and snapped a series of photos—Emma running, kicking, dribbling, blocking, guarding. My fierce, strong girl. I wanted her to have everything.

  The Tornados won seven to three. As she always did, Emma ran to hug me right after the teams went through the post-game handshake. I closed my arms tightly around her sweaty body.

  “You’re amazing,” I said, kissing her hair. “I love watching you play.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” She gave me a squeeze and hurried to high-five Richard before running to where the coach was handing out snacks.

  Richard went to get Noah from the bleachers, and we headed back to the car amidst a dozen other families with chattering, tired children.

  “Can’t we go for hamburgers?” Emma asked, watching one of her friends pile into the family van. “Denise is going to McDonald’s. They get ice cream sundaes after every game.”

  “I’ve already made dinner.” I pulled on my seatbelt and started the car.

  “What is it?” Noah asked.

  “Spinach frittata and green salad.”

  They both let out simultaneous groans. Noah grabbed his throat and pretended like he was choking.

  “Can we at least have dessert?” he asked.

  “Yes, I have poached pears,” I offered, bracing myself against another series of groans that sounded like my children were mortally wounded.

  “So the school book fair starts soon,” I remarked brightly.

  Richard had arrived home before us, and after dinner (which was, in my opinion, excellent) I helped the kids bathe and get into their pajamas. We settled down to do homework while Richard drank scotch and watched the news.

  “Three times three,” I said.

  “Nine.” Noah yawned.

  “Nine times five.”

  “Forty-five.”

  I went through the rest of the multiplication table, then put a check next to “Math” on his homework list.

  “Okay, you’re finished.” I ruffled my son’s thick brown hair and gestured to the stairs. “Go brush your teeth and get into bed. I’ll be up to say goodnight in a few minutes.”

  I pushed up from the kitchen table, collecting all his worksheets into a folder and putting it in his backpack. Emma’s school things were all waiting by the door, and I put Noah’s backpack next to hers. I laid their spring jackets over their backpacks, lined up their shoes, and checked the calendar to make sure I hadn’t forgotten a permission slip or school event.

  All was in order. I straightened the living room, put wet clothes in the dryer, and set out the breakfast dishes. I walked upstairs to Emma’s bedroom, where she was reading a Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle book. We had a brief discussion about the book before I turned off her light and kissed her goodnight. I tucked Noah in, wished him sweet dreams, and went to the master bedroom to get ready for bed.

  Nightgown, makeup remover, facial cleanser, floss, toothbrush, overnight cream. I climbed into bed, settling in for an hour of reading.

  Fifteen minutes passed when my cell phone buzzed with a text. I picked it up from the nightstand and swiped the screen. A photo of an adorable, fuzzy puppy sleeping alongside a kitten filled the small screen, from recipient HUNTER.

  My heart thumped. I didn’t respond to the text. Another picture appeared—a pink-nosed mouse eating a tiny doughnut with rainbow sprinkles.

  M.COLLINS: What are you doing?

  HUNTER: Are you smiling?

  M.COLLINS: No.

  A third photo appeared of a baby hedgehog wearing a little knitted cap. My lips twitched.

  HUNTER: Now?

  M.COLLINS: No.

  HUNTER: If this doesn’t do it, I give up.

  The screen filled with a picture of a baby monkey clinging to the back of a baby leopard. You’d have to have a heart of stone not to smile at that.

  HUNTER: You’re smiling, aren’t you?

  M.COLLINS: Possibly.

  HUNTER: Ah. Success.

  M.COLLINS: Why?

  HUNTER: You have a beautiful smile. But you don’t seem to use it much.

  An ache pushed at my chest. He was the only one who’d ever noticed.

  M.COLLINS: You know this is wrong.

  HUNTER: You know I don’t care. What are you wearing?

  M.COLLINS: Oh, God. You’re going to use a cliché?

  HUNTER: You want to know what I’m wearing, don’t you?

  M.COLLINS: No. I want to see another cute animal picture.

  A
photo of Mr. Hunter flashed on the screen. A white T-shirt stretched across his broad chest, and a pair of blue boxer briefs clung to his hips. My breath almost stopped, arousal quickening inside me like a flame. He looked rakishly into the camera, his dark blond hair tousled and falling over his forehead.

  HUNTER: Are you smiling?

  M.COLLINS: I think my pussy is.

  Oh my God. I started laughing the second I hit the send button. Where in the love of heaven had that come from? And what was I doing?

  HUNTER: My work here is done.

  M.COLLINS: If that’s your definition of done, you need a dictionary.

  HUNTER: You’re a naughty girl, Madeline.

  M.COLLINS: I think you like me that way.

  HUNTER: So much. Are you in bed?

  M.COLLINS: Yes. I’m wearing a white cotton nightgown.

  HUNTER: Show me.

  M.COLLINS: I will never send you a selfie. I will never take a selfie.

  HUNTER: Just of your body.

  M.COLLINS: No. Use your imagination.

  HUNTER: Are your nipples hard?

  At that exact moment, my husband walked into the bedroom. I jerked the sheet up to cover my chest, where—yes, Mr. Hunter—my hard nipples were visible through the thin cotton of my nightgown.

  “Any good?”

  I looked at Richard, my heart dropping. “Um, what?”

  “The book.” He nodded toward the book still open on my lap. “Any good?”

  “I’m only on the second chapter, but so far, it’s good. I’m just… answering an email from the museum director.”

  Richard disappeared into the bathroom.

  M.COLLINS: I need to go.

  HUNTER: Come away with me.

  M.COLLINS: What? No.

  HUNTER: I have a beach house north of San Francisco. Come with me next weekend.

  M.COLLINS: Absolutely not.

  I turned the phone off before he could respond and tossed it back on my nightstand. My pulse was racing, fear and excitement warring inside me. My whole body reacted viscerally to the thought of spending an entire weekend alone with Mr. Hunter, even as my mind knew it was entirely out of the question.

  Like everything else about what I was doing with him.

  Richard came out of the bathroom dressed in his pajamas. He climbed into bed beside me, smelling like soap and toothpaste, and picked up his iPad.

  I gripped my book. I’d once wanted him. We’d once wanted each other.

  We were married, for God’s sake. It was an unspoken rule of marriage that a couple fucked each other every so often. I wasn’t a nymphomaniac wanting it three times a day… or hell, even once a day. At this point, I’d settle for once a week, if my husband would just get on board.

  Anxiety twisted in me. I took a breath and slid my hand over his thigh. He glanced at me over the tops of his reading glasses. I shifted closer, moving my hand up toward his groin. My fingers touched his penis through his pajama bottoms. I swallowed, easing my fingers over him.

  “Want to do something with this?” I whispered.

  He reached down, and for a second I thought he was going to put his hand over mine and encourage me to touch him. Instead he brushed my hand aside.

  “It’s late,” he said, setting the iPad aside. “Early meeting tomorrow.”

  Though his tone was gentle, the rejection felt like a slap. Frustration boiled up inside me. I was not unattractive, goddammit. And clearly, at least one other man wanted me, even if my husband didn’t. Just knowing that soothed the hidden cracks threading my self-esteem.

  Richard turned off the bedside lamp and rolled over, his back to me. I did the same.

  I closed my eyes and thought of Mr. Hunter, looking so gorgeously edible in his worn T-shirt and boxers, his eyes the color of the sky. I was still aroused from the start of our sexy conversation, my blood throbbing with unfulfilled arousal. Slowly I hitched my nightgown up over my hips.

  Not caring that my husband was beside me, or that he might not be asleep, I slipped my hand between my legs and touched my clit. My breath came faster as I rubbed, pushing aside the unending swell of guilt and letting images of Mr. Hunter flood my head until I came.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‡

  Springtime at Sweetwater Elementary meant a litany of family-related school events. Fun night, picnics, field trips, and fundraisers. I was in charge of them all, whether directly or through delegation. And despite recent occurrences—both with the school principal and other mothers—I focused on each task at hand with my usual thoroughness and precision.

  If they’d heard the rumors about my marriage, the members of the PTO were coolly polite and didn’t argue with how I chose to run the various committees. Regardless of what they thought of my personal life, they clearly were not about to question my leadership abilities, which I’d proven time and again.

  Mr. Hunter didn’t text me again, and I thought perhaps he’d decided to back off—though I didn’t want to examine all the ways in which that would disappoint me.

  I saw him regularly—both when I was volunteering in the classroom or attending meetings and conferences. We didn’t speak in front of others, but whenever our eyes met, a hot electric current sparked between us. Heat bloomed in my core, heavy and all-consuming, my mind awash in memories of me splayed naked over his desk.

  As stimulating as the memories were, guilt continued to gnaw at me. I tried to console myself with the reminder that thinking about sex with Mr. Hunter was not the same as doing it again.

  Neither was fantasizing about it, which I did almost every night, biting a corner of the pillow to muffle my gasps of pleasure while my husband slept beside me.

  Masturbation elicited a whole other cringe-worthy guilt, but that wasn’t attributable to Mr. Hunter. No, that was courtesy of my dearly departed mother who, despite having raised me in the era of feminism, believed that women should adhere to traditional puritan roles and behaviors.

  It’s wrong to touch yourself down there, Madeline.

  Ladies shouldn’t expect pleasure from sex.

  Your main duty is to be a good wife and mother.

  Because of her, I hadn’t engaged in the usual sexual explorations of a teenaged girl. Once in high school, I’d invited a boy over to watch movies in our basement, and we’d been sitting on the sofa when he started kissing me. Curious and aroused, I’d let him unbutton my shirt and feel me up… only to have my mother walk in right when he was unfastening my bra.

  She’d been enraged, furious that I’d surrender my virtue so easily. “Slut!” she’d shouted. “If you ever let a boy do that to you again in my house, I swear to God I will kick you out on the street.”

  Needless to say, I never had. And under my mother’s rule, I’d gone to college with almost the sole purpose of finding a respectable husband rather than forging a career path of my own.

  I’d met Richard my sophomore year, and we were married the summer after I graduated. I’d barely even dated anyone else, and certainly never had sex with another man. For almost twenty years, I had done exactly what I was supposed to do. I’d been an exceptional wife and mother.

  Sex had been pleasurable, though. For at least ten years, Richard and I had had what I thought was a fulfilling sex life, which was rather amazing in and of itself considering my mother’s indoctrination that I shouldn’t enjoy sex. Richard had been a good lover, though, and I’d learned what erotic pleasure felt like.

  Yes, the act was over all too quickly and no, we weren’t exactly adventurous, but I’d never considered sex a chore. At least it had been more than I’d been led to expect.

  That is, until Mr. Hunter showed me how utterly lackluster my expectations had been.

  I shivered. Even after two weeks had passed since our encounter in his office, I still felt as if I was walking around in a perpetual state of heightened arousal. I even found myself looking at Richard more often—the shape of his hands with their square, blunt fingernails, the way his shirts and trouser
s fit his body, the breadth of his chest.

  I analyzed the history of our marriage, trying to figure out when we’d become disconnected. Right after college, Richard had gone to work for an investment firm and spent years working sixty-hour weeks to get ahead.

  We hadn’t wanted to have children until his career was on track and our finances were secure, but then when we started trying, I’d had trouble getting pregnant. The stress of that and then two difficult pregnancies complete with acute morning sickness and bed rest had stalled our sex life.

  The problem was, Richard and I had never jumpstarted it again.

  Over the next week, I didn’t make another sexual advance toward him, fearing rejection yet again, but I did occasionally wonder what it would be like to do the same kind of things with my husband as I had with Mr. Hunter. On the other hand, it was difficult to imagine Richard ever being that… hot.

  “Company party to celebrate the end of the fiscal quarter,” Richard said, reaching across the dinner table for the salt. “Saturday the twenty-fifth.”

  I sighed inwardly and spooned a helping of kale-and-edamame salad onto Emma’s plate. I disliked Kingsford Associates company parties, mostly because they were stultifying. Financial advisors and hedge-fund managers weren’t exactly the most stimulating company—my husband included.

  “I’ll call around for a sitter,” I said, gesturing for Noah to wipe milk off his upper lip. “How was school today, Noah?”

  “Okay. We’re learning about salamanders in science.”

  “We did a rehearsal for our music recital,” Emma announced, spreading her arms out like she was about to take a bow. “We’re singing a song about rainbows and we have to go like this.”

  She made a rainbow shape with her arms and tilted back and forth a few times.

  Thank heavens for our children, I thought, as we finished dinner. Talking to them and listening to their conversation and plans was the absolute highlight of my day. The reason for my existence.

  After dinner, I helped them with their homework before they went to bed. Then I cleaned the kitchen while Richard sat in the living room, working on his iPad.

  Close to eleven, I heard the upstairs shower running, which was somewhat odd only because Richard always took showers in the morning. I went into the living room to clear off the coffee table. Richard’s iPad was there, the screen black.