I felt like a fraud, but mercifully, the chef arrived and the attention shifted off us and onto the show.
The rest of the meal passed in a blur. The next thing I knew, we were crammed in the backseat of his car, fucking like we did in college. I faced him, legs splayed across his lap as I bounced up and down, his thick cock filling my cunt. I hadn’t even realized how empty I’d felt until he rubbed his velvety head between my lips and thrust inside and I came harder than I had the entire last year of our marriage.
Afterward, we sat in silence, our fingers touching but not entwined, and the full force of our actions hit me. There were only a hundred days before our divorce would be finalized and his fresh come was leaking from my body.
“We probably shouldn’t have done that. The judge will restart the clock on the separation.”
He laughed and the vibrations sent tremors through my body. “Who’s gonna tell? I’ll stay quiet if you do.”
“Fine by me.”
He yawned loudly and stretched. “It’s not like it’s going to happen again.”
Cocky bastard. I scooted away from him and adjusted my clothes. “Damn straight it’s not.”
We lasted about a week before he shattered the silence. I answered my phone to hear “What are you wearing?”
It’s pitiful how quickly my panties dampened at the sound of his voice. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were stalking me.”
“Perish the thought. Can’t a man check on his wife?”
“What about his soon-to-be ex?”
“When it becomes official, I’ll stop calling.”
I smiled in spite of myself. “What do you want?”
“I had fun with you the other night.”
My internal radar started to go off. I hadn’t been married to him for so long without knowing when he was up to something. “We had sex, of course you had fun. So what?”
“Did you?”
Yes. “It was…an experience.”
“An experience,” he repeated. “Well…I’ve got this free time at lunch. I don’t suppose you want a repeat…experience?”
“Wow, that’s such a romantic proposal.”
“Yeah, but I shouldn’t waste romance on my soon-to-be ex, right? So, how about it?”
Touché. “Not that a quickie in the backseat of your car—which could use a vacuuming by the way—isn’t enticing, but you know I’m a bed and comfort kind of girl now.”
He tsked into the phone and I could picture him shaking his head at me. “That’s so boring. Luckily for you, I’m considerate of your needs. Do you remember the Lydia Hotel?”
Of course I remembered the Lydia. Our first year of marriage, we rented a house that had a broken…well, everything to tell the truth, but particularly a roof that leaked right over our bed. Our first anniversary we fled to the Lydia and rented a fancy suite in a hotel that we couldn’t afford in the first place. I made a picnic of cold chicken and salad and then he ate me as I clutched the coarse blanket in my fists and tried not to wake the neighbors.
“Fine. But you’re paying.”
He sighed. “Don’t I always?”
And that’s how it all began, against all rational thought and orders from the judge. And all the while I told myself: This doesn’t count for anything, doesn’t mean anything for either of us. Just sex, nothing more. After all, I was about to be a single divorcee and anyone who’s watched television knows the chances that I’d be getting any again in my lifetime were slim to none, so I figured I might as well enjoy it while I could.
It took about twenty-nine days for us to stop pretending that each encounter was our last. Day Forty-One, we started planning future rendezvous. Sometimes, we went to the Lydia. Once, we found a seedy pay-by-the hour hotel and pretended I was a hooker looking for a john. He fucked me as I bent over the narrow sink and tried to touch as little of the scummy surface as possible. One morning, I met him in the back of an old movie theater and sucked him off as Uma Thurman slaughtered the Crazy 88. Just as she cleared the path to O-Ren Ishii, he squirted in my mouth with an ill-disguised groan that made the other patrons look around.
Now here we are, a hundred days later and no closer to a resolution than before.
He doesn’t say much when I open the door, just looks around reflectively. It suddenly hits me that it must be weird for him to be back in the house he had been unceremoniously kicked out of.
“I’ve made a few changes,” I offer, suddenly shy.
“So I noticed.”
And that’s an understatement. One Saturday, I talked my friends into helping me tear down the wallpaper, and paint. And when I couldn’t get his scent out of the furniture, I bought a new couch set.
“The boxes are in the living room. I put them against the wall.”
“Thanks.” He steps in the room and pauses. “Where’s my recliner?”
I’d been trying to get rid of that that piece of crap since I first laid eyes on it. “You don’t even want to know.”
He sighs heavily and mutters something under his breath. “Is the toilet still running?”
“Um, yeah. I keep forgetting to call a plumber.”
“Here, let me look at it.”
“Thanks.”
He starts fiddling with the toilet and I hop up on the counter to watch him work. He’s concentrating on his task and the little muscles around his mouth tense as he frowns and I have to stop myself from running my hand over his head like I used to.
“Just like I thought, the flapper needs to be replaced. See it?”
I peer over his body. “Not really.”
“Come here.”
I lean over the toilet and look where he’s gesturing. “That rubber thingy?”
“Yeah, the thingy,” he says with a laugh. “See how it’s not sitting right? That’s what’s causing the dripping.”
“So I need to call a plumber.”
“Not for this. It takes five minutes and I should have a spare here. Hold on.”
When he returns, he pulls me over. “Okay, I’m going to show you how to do this. See how I take it off?”
I watch him as he talks me through his actions, his forehead wrinkling with concentration.
“There you go.” He flushes the toilet and watches in satisfaction as the water stops running.
“My hero.” Now I do rub his brow. “Are you hungry? I have leftovers.”
“You cook now?” he blurts out, partly teasing, but mostly astonished.
“You fix things now?” I stare back at him, eyebrow raised.
“Touché, Meka.” He looks at me for a long moment before following me from the bathroom. “Sure, what ya got?”
“Chicken, green beans, sweet potatoes, uh…and some cornbread.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve got any ice tea?”
I pull out the pitcher and hold it up. “Sweetened with lemon?”
“You know me too well.” He takes the pitcher and kisses my temple before making a beeline for the fridge.
I’m not sure what to do while he’s eating, so I sit across from him and smooth out the creases in the tablecloth.
“Why weren’t we ever like this when we were married?” he asks suddenly.
That’s the million-dollar question. I’ve been wondering the same thing over the last few weeks. Even now, in the midst of my redecorating, he seems completely at home. And I realize that I could never have wiped him completely away because there are too many memories of him here. From the stubborn closet door that resisted his repair efforts to the curtain rod that broke after he snuck up on me in the shower. And the ghosts of our lovemaking that haunt me every time I curl up to sleep.
Instead of sharing these thoughts, I just shrug. “Beats me.”
“I should get going.” He pushes his plate away, but doesn’t make any move to leave.
“Do you mind helping me with something first?” I point to the ceiling. “It’s upstairs.”
“Lead the way.”
My heart’s thumping as we go to our—my—bedroom and I show him a box on the closet shelves. “I can’t get it down, it’s too heavy.”
He pulls out of the box and dumps it unceremoniously on the floor. “What do you need with your winter clothes?”
“I’m trying to decide what to give away. I don’t wear half this stuff as it is.”
“This one too?”
He’s looking at the dress lying on top. It’s the last anniversary present he ever gave me. It’s horrid; some lurid, pink hue and the cut is all wrong for my body. We had a huge fight over that hideous thing. He couldn’t understand why I never wore it and I couldn’t understand how he could have known me for so long and thought that I would have been caught dead in the outfit.
He pulls it out and examines it closer. “You were right. It is horrible. It looked a lot better in the store.”
“Most things do.”
He chuckles. “You should try it on again.”
He must be joking, and the look on my face says as much.
“Oh, come on. Maybe it looks better now.”
I roll my eyes, but take it from him. “Oh fine, if it will shut you up.”
The dress fits as badly as I remember, but to Darren’s credit, he doesn’t start laughing immediately, even though I can see it in his face.
“Nope, this is getting trashed. I can’t knowingly pawn this off on some unsuspecting woman.”
“Oh, wait a sec.” He gets up and turns me around. “I think it just needs a little adjustment.”
His fingers brush against my shoulder blades and I shiver, uncomfortably aware of how close he is. He continues fussing with the dress and every touch sends a jolt through my body.
Finally, he lets go. “Maybe it can’t be saved. I see why you were mad at me.” He kisses the side of my neck. “You can take it off now.”
“Will you unzip me?”
He slides the zipper down to the small of my back, but his hands don’t stop there. I feel him caressing my hips, his fingers sliding over the curve of my bottom—he always was an ass man. And a breast man. Actually, anything that had to do with women and sex, he was all over it.
“Meka.”
For some reason, I’m infinitely more nervous than I was before. And as his mouth covers mine, it hits me. For all our illicit encounters, this is the first time that we’ve come together in our home.
I step out of the gown and he kicks it aside impatiently and lowers me to the bed. His mouth leaves a wet trail over my body: neck, nipples, stomach, thighs—nothing is spared as he licks and nibbles my skin.
He pushes inside of me and my cunt tingles, like she’s welcoming his cock back. I wait for the thrust, but it doesn’t come. Instead, he hovers over me and strokes my cheek with his thumb.
“You’re still the most beautiful woman in the world,” he whispers in my ear.
And suddenly, my face is as wet as my lower half. I’m crying as we move together slowly, but it feels good. It feels right.
All too soon, my body is tensing and shuddering against his and he’s collapsing on top of me, breathing heavily into the side of my neck. We lay there a while, his cock still nestled inside me, listening to the sound of the AC and the cars zooming around outside.
I don’t think we should do this anymore. The thought flashes across my mind and, deep down, I know stopping now would be the right thing to do. Sooner or later, one or both of us is going to get hurt.
I open my mouth to tell him, but before I can speak, he yawns and rolls off me. “Maybe I can take a look at the closet door tomorrow morning. And see what else needs to be fixed around here.”
That wasn’t what I was expecting to hear. I guess I stay silent too long because he leans up and nudges my shoulder. “Meka?”
“That’s fine. I’ll make you pancakes.”
“Sounds like a plan.” He kisses my head and a mere moment later, he’s snoring against my hair.
Sooner or later, we’ll have to figure this mess out. But tonight, I’m sleeping with my husband.
THE PRICE OF LOVE
Kate Pearce
She felt him before she saw him, the slightest touch on the back of her bare arm, the frisson of desire that resulted as his blunt, calloused fingertip caressed her elbow. Shivers, goose bumps, pleasure, all in that single moment. He followed her out of the elevator into the designer level of the department store, keeping just close enough to stop any other man from approaching her, but far enough away that she had to strain to see his expression.
But he liked to keep her on edge, to make her experience him as he wished, to make her think. She glided over to the racks of dresses, her fingers touching and releasing fabrics, testing them, as she considered each garment, how it would look, how he would look at her when she paraded in front of him.
She paused at a pale-gray cocktail dress made of chiffon and silk with flowers cascading down from one shoulder to the waist. The chiffon felt fine and airy, the silk deceptively strong. He drew closer as she fingered the silk, his fingers now under her skirt and tracing the curve of her buttock. Deliberately, she arched her back, heard his breath catch as his palm curved around her ass. She’d worn thong panties and they were already damp.
Her nipples hardened as he traced the silk of her panties in the same careful way that she’d traced the silk of the dress.
“Would you like me to start you a fitting room?”
The sales assistant’s question made her look up.
“Sure. Thanks. Let’s start with this.” She handed over the gray silk confection and the sales assistant walked away.
He patted her ass, stepping back as she changed direction and headed for another group of dresses, this time in vibrant reds and pinks. This time she spotted the one she liked immediately—a deep red-blue jersey with a draped skirt and a V-neck that would showcase her rather deep cleavage.
“Nice,” he murmured behind her. His fingers stroked between her asscheeks, plucking at her thong, pulling it up so that it pressed against her already needy clit.
She made a little sound of pleasure as she found her size in the red dress and beckoned to the sales assistant.
“This one too, please.”
“That’s a great dress.” The woman’s gaze flicked between them. She supposed they were an unusual couple. Him in his cowboy gear, and her dressed up like a secretary, which she was sometimes, but not today. They both looked out of place in the upmarket store. “Are you attending a special event?”
“You could say that.” She smiled at the sales assistant and continued shopping, her sex aching now, wanting more of his touch, knowing he wouldn’t give her more than he wanted to give, that he loved to make her wait. It was a game they’d played many times, and one she never tired of.
Over to the black dresses now, shorter, sexier, tighter, but he wasn’t a man who demanded that in a woman. He’d rather she chose something that made her feel good. The one she picked up looked simple on the hanger, but she knew that it would glide over her curves in a way that made him ache to touch them.
He pinched her ass, just hard enough to get her attention, to know that there would be a little red mark on her skin for him to find later to kiss better.
She took the dress over to the sales assistant.
“I think that’s it for now.”
“Sure, I’ve got you all set up in number three. It has the best mirror.”
He wouldn’t follow her in here. Sex in a public changing room was so tacky, so done, so not his style. She smiled as she took out her phone and set it to video. He’d still get to enjoy the show, though. She shimmied out of her short black skirt and blouse to reveal the opaque push-up bra she’d chosen that morning and the tiny lace thong beneath. Her nipples were already aching and she took a moment to pinch and primp them until the ache was almost unbearable. Was he hard for her now, was he staring at his phone, watching her touch herself. She imagined his mouth on her breast…
Her phone rang, startling her and she
recognized his number. And then his low drawl. “Touch your clit, but don’t let yourself come.”
He ended the call and she returned to the video; slid one finger inside her panties and played with her clit until it throbbed, until she was wet.
With a sigh, she removed her hand and used a tissue. She couldn’t afford to buy all three dresses, so she needed to be careful. The hangers rattled as she reordered the clothes and started with the gray silk dress, easing it over her head, pursing her lips so that her lipstick wouldn’t stain the fabric. The silk felt cool against her skin as she zipped up the side and considered her reflection in the mirror.
Perfect.
Elegant, yet sexy, flattering and not too tight.
But what would he think?
She opened the door and walked out to the communal area where he was waiting with the other bored guys by the entrance. At her approach, he slowly got to his feet, his blue eyes taking everything in. She came to a stop and then turned around so that he got the whole picture.
“Yeah.” He nodded. “I like it. Do you?”
“Yes.” She smiled.
“Try the next one.”
She obediently went back and tried on the red dress. He approved of that one too and the third. She suspected the little show she put on for him every time she wiggled in and out of a garment or deliberately touched herself meant far more to him than the clothes.
When she came out dressed in her own clothes he was standing at the cashier’s desk chatting to the obliging sales assistant, his platinum credit card already disappearing back into his wallet.
“What did you do?” she asked, and he gave her that smile, the one that made her want to fall to the ground and kiss his feet.
He shrugged, his shoulders broad in his denim jacket, muscles straining at his blue-checked shirt with the embroidered horse’s head on the pocket.
“I couldn’t pick one, so I got you them all.”
She felt her smile die. “That was nice of you.”
She nodded at the sales assistant who was gazing adoringly at him, obviously calculating her commission and recalculating her opinion of the cowboy’s wealth and status. “Can you have them delivered to Reynolds Hotel, Suite one-oh-four?”
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