by Noelle Adams
Heat. Hunger. Need. Power. Knowledge. Trust.
All of it mingled together.
I’m still overwhelmed by it when he lowers his face to my groin and strokes me open with his fingers.
I cry out loudly at the first touch and keep crying out as he holds me open and teases me with his tongue.
I evidently have no inhibitions left—even the ones I always assumed made me me. I’m begging and sobbing and writhing helplessly as he works me up to climax with his lips and tongue.
I feel his beard against my sensitized flesh, and it adds another layer of sensation.
Tears are running down my cheeks when he finally scrapes his teeth very gently against my clit, and I come apart completely, shaking through an orgasm that seems to go on longer than it should.
He’s stroking me gently as I come down, and I’m limp with the aftermath, unable to even hold my eyes open.
I’ve never experienced anything like it.
“Oh, angel,” I hear him murmur as he caresses me. “That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
I open my eyes and see that he means it. He looks just as overwhelmed as I feel. I glance down and see that he’s visibly aroused beneath his underwear, but he’s not making any sort of move yet.
He’s waiting until I’m ready.
“Thank you,” I manage to say hoarsely. “Thank you, Hunter.”
“You’re welcome. Do you want to stay tied up?”
I nod. “Yes. But I can’t wait anymore. I need to feel you inside me.”
“Then you will.” He gets off the bed, shucks his boxer briefs quickly, and then is moving over me, adjusting my thighs so he can settle between them.
He kisses me before he uses his hand to put himself in position at my entrance, and I’m struggling against my ties as he starts to ease inside me.
I gasp and arch up, my head falling back in satisfaction as he fills me. He uses his knees for leverage and holds my hips up so he can get me in the position he wants before he starts to thrust.
Both of us are louder than normal as our bodies slap together, and I do my best to keep my eyes open so I can see his face.
He’s gazing down at me with a look that’s almost fierce, possessive.
And awed.
I fight against the ropes, desperate to put my arms around him as we move together.
Then suddenly I can’t stand it. Can’t stand not being able to touch him.
“Hunter, untie me,” I say. “Please. Now.”
He stops with a jerk and it clearly takes a moment for him to shift gears. But then he’s working on the knots on the ties, and he gets them undone with surprising speed.
“Are you okay?” he asks, reaching out to stroke my cheek when I’m released from the bindings.
“Yes. I just wanted to hold you. I don’t like not being able to hold you.”
His expression breaks just slightly before he kisses me.
Then he enters me again and I wrap my legs around him, holding on to him with my arms, my legs, everything as his motion grows hard and fast.
A climax rushes up fast and hard. It crashes over me, and I cry out loudly in the wake of it, nothing held back anymore.
Then Hunter is coming too, and he’s shouting out just as loudly, just as uninhibitedly.
I can hear how powerful his release is. I can feel it as it shudders through his body.
Both of us are completely wiped out when the last of the spasms have finally passed. We collapse in a tight tangle of limbs and flesh, and I keep holding on to him.
I’m not sure I’m capable of letting him go, even if I wanted to.
A FEW MINUTES LATER—OR maybe a hundred years later, since it’s one of those emotionally undefinable time periods—I’m starting to get uncomfortable.
I have to pee.
I want to clean up.
I’m hot and sweaty, and Hunter is starting to get heavy.
I’m also terrified about the state of my heart.
How am I ever going to make it once this year is over, when Hunter wants to end the marriage as agreed upon?
“Hunter.”
He makes a grunting sound against my neck.
“Hunter, I need to get up.”
“Okay.” He doesn’t move. Doesn’t let me go.
“Hunter.”
This time, he rolls off me, groaning slightly as he does. His face is relaxed, flushed, sated, but his eyes are watchful on my face as I get up off the bed.
He’s observing me, and I’m so terrified.
He’s going to see. He’s going to see. He’s going to know.
With a shaky breath, I say lightly, “Stop staring. Being naked isn’t all that fun once the sex is over.”
He smiles in response to the words, but his eyes never leave my face.
So I grab my pajamas and hurry to the bathroom.
I take care of business and clean up. Then I stand in front of the sink and stare at myself in the mirror for a long time.
I don’t know how long I stand there, but I jump dramatically when a voice comes from the doorway of the bathroom. “Are you okay?”
Hunter has opened the door a crack and is looking in at me.
“Yes. Of course. Since when do you just barge in on me in the bathroom?” My voice is a little sharper than it should be, but it’s hard to describe how shocked and flustered I am right now.
“You flushed a long time ago.” His face is sober, and he’s completely naked when he opens the door all the way.
His body is gorgeous but not perfect. Not every inch of it is toned. He has a lot of body hair. The tattoos on his arm and chest stand out starkly.
His hair and beard need to be trimmed.
He’s wearing his plain gold wedding band on the ring finger of his left hand.
My eyes burn. My throat aches. My bottom lip trembles just slightly.
We stare at each other for a long time in silence.
I know what I’m supposed to do right now. What mature, thoughtful people do in relationships, even when things are hard and confusing.
I’m supposed to tell Hunter the truth.
I try.
“I’m... I feel weird.”
He nods. “I know.”
I don’t know if this means he knows I feel weird or if he feels weird too.
“This isn’t... this isn’t what I thought it would be.” I really hope he understands.
“I know.” He moves his hands so he’s fiddling with his wedding ring, twirling it on his finger.
“What... what do you think we should do?”
“Let’s go to bed.”
I nod because this is the best suggestion he could have made. It sounds safe there, as long as he’s in the bed with me.
I start to leave the bathroom, and he reaches for my left hand as I do. He lifts my hands. Presses a kiss against my wedding ring. Doesn’t say a word.
He has to be feeling what I’m feeling.
He has to.
I don’t know how to understand him—understand any human being on the planet—if he’s not.
I know I shouldn’t believe in those lovely Emma fantasies of a passionate man secretly pining for me, but surely once in a while they could really come true.
Maybe even for me.
I’m smiling as I get two bottles of water from the refrigerator and get into bed. He comes to join me a few minutes later, wearing nothing but his underwear.
As soon as he climbs under the covers, he reaches out to pull me against him, holding me with both his arms.
I sigh in pleasure and let my body relax.
After a while, Hunter murmurs thickly, “I think we’re doing all right.”
“Yeah. I think so too.”
“I’m not any good at this.”
I know exactly what he’s talking about. “Me either.”
“I never thought I’d be a husband.”
“You’re a great husband.”
“You think so?”
; “Yeah. I think so.”
He’s rubbing my back now, and his fingers slip under the bottom of the cotton top I’m wearing. “Thanks. You’re a really good wife to have.”
I’m smiling in the dark like an idiot, but I don’t even care.
We’re silent for a while, just lying together, holding each other.
Then he says in the dark, “When you get a tattoo, I think it should be right here.” He’s making circles with his fingertips on the small of my back, just above my butt.
I laugh softly. “You’re not giving up on that, are you? I’ve told you before. I’m not getting a tattoo.”
His hand grows still. “It’s fine if you’re not ready for it yet. But never?”
I don’t understand the tone of his voice, and I can’t see his face in the dark, even when I lift my head. “I’m not planning on it. That’s okay, isn’t it?”
“Of course.”
He kisses my hair, but it feels like something has changed, and I’m hit with a familiar wave of cold insecurity.
He’s disappointed in me. I know it for sure.
I know I’m not perfect. I know I’m not supposed to try to be perfect.
But I want to be perfect for Hunter.
I want to be exactly the wife he wants me to be. The woman he wants me to be.
I want to be everything he wants and needs and dreams of.
And I’m still not.
Even after the strides we’ve made tonight, I’m still not.
We don’t talk anymore, and after a few more minutes, Hunter rolls over onto his side of the bed and goes to sleep.
Nine
ANOTHER WAKING-UP SCENE—AND one I don’t like nearly so much—is when Alice wakes up and discovers all her curious adventures in Wonderland were just a dream.
She’s thrust from a world of color and excitement and imagination into being stuffily told she needs to wash up for tea. I’ve always hated that ending, even though Alice seems perfectly content.
It’s jarring. Her waking up like that. It calls everything that came before into question.
That’s how I feel when I wake up the next morning.
Everything seems normal again, and the normalcy bothers me.
A lot.
It shouldn’t be normal. It should be better after what Hunter and I experienced last night.
It was important—as deep and vivid and meaningful as anything that’s ever happened to me—and yet Hunter gets up and showers and dresses like it’s just a normal Friday.
I feel like crying as I lie in bed and watch him get ready for the day.
He comes to the bed and leans over to kiss me before he leaves, and there’s something poignant, aching, in the gesture.
I can’t stand it.
Something is wrong.
And if there’s something I can do it fix it, then I have to do it.
Even if it takes courage I never knew I had.
“Hunter,” I say as he starts to leave.
He turns around to look at me.
I swallow so hard it hurts. “Maybe we should talk.”
Something inside him freezes. I can see it although I couldn’t tell you the details of his face and body that give me that impression. “About what?”
“About... about us.” I’m sitting up in the bed now, straightening my top.
“We talked last night.”
We did. But the talk last night wasn’t enough.
“I think we should... talk some more.”
He takes an odd little breath before he says, “Do we have to right now?”
I’m not sure what I expected when I forced myself to bring up the topic, but it isn’t this.
I thought he’d at least talk to me.
“I think we should,” I managed to say.
“I’d rather not.”
I’m frozen now too, slammed with waves of heat and cold. I really can’t believe this is happening. “Why... why not?”
He takes another one of those strange breaths. “I’m not... ready.”
He’s not ready. What the hell is that supposed to mean? It’s just a stall. It has to be a stall because he doesn’t want to have this conversation.
I try to be brave. “Yes, you are. Why shouldn’t we talk about us right now?”
His face twists. “Because you’re not going to want to hear what I have to say. Do we really have to go through it?”
Oh God.
Oh God.
He couldn’t have made it more clear if he’d actually said the words.
He doesn’t love me.
He knows I love him, and he doesn’t want to hurt me.
He’s always been my friend.
But only my friend.
I know I should keep being brave. I know I should force the conversation, say what I have to say, get it all out at last.
But it will strip me bare to do that, leaving me naked, humiliated, completely vulnerable.
And it would all be for nothing.
I’m not going to do that. I’ve never been one of those people.
I’ve always held on to my pride, even when I let everything else go.
Hunter might have changed me, but he hasn’t changed me completely.
I’m still me at the end of the day.
So I nod stiffly. “Okay. We’ll just let it go then.”
He mumbles, “Okay,” and walks out the door.
I DON’T HAVE A GOOD day.
In fact, it’s a miserable day. I sit through a three-hour class in the morning, so dazed I don’t pay attention and so I can’t even answer questions the professor asks me.
I’m never that way, and I don’t like it.
I go home in the afternoon and cry for a while. Then I decide I’m not going to let Hunter make a mess out of me.
Everything I originally wanted out of this marriage is still mine. He hasn’t done anything wrong. And I’m not going to humiliate myself any more than I’ve already done.
So I pull myself together and resolve to be normal again.
I’m not entirely sure I can do it, but I won’t even have a chance of it unless I try. So at five thirty I’m in the kitchen chopping up vegetables for dinner.
I haven’t been trying to cook much lately. I’ve been too distracted with other things.
But now is a good opportunity.
It will at least give me something to do with my hands.
I hear the apartment door open, and all my muscles tighten automatically. I struggle to maintain a casual posture and expression.
I’m dicing a carrot.
Hunter is walking into the room. I feel him more than hear him. I don’t turn around.
Chop, chop, chop, chop.
I’m a dicing machine.
He doesn’t say anything, even though I know he’s standing there behind me.
I hold out as long as I can.
Finally, I say, “Hi!”
My voice is too bright, too fake, too forced. At least it’s something.
“Hey.”
He doesn’t sound right, so I finally put down my knife and turn around.
He’s wearing his blue shirt and his new pair of charcoal gray trousers. He looks hot and wrinkled and slumped just a little.
And so tired his eyes are half-closed.
I take a ragged breath. “I’m making dinner.”
“I see. You need some help?”
“I don’t think so.”
He stands and looks at me for a long time. Poignant. Aching.
It’s not right. It’s just not right. He’s the one who refused to talk to me about our relationship. He can’t act like I’m wounding him for trying to move on with my life.
The surge of indignation helps. I give him an overly bright smile and turn back to my chopping. “Dinner will be around six thirty, I think, if everything goes as planned. You should go change clothes and relax.”
There.
I did it.
I made it through the conversation.
J
ust a few hundred left to go until the year of our marriage is over.
DINNER TURNS OUT PRETTY well in terms of the food. In terms of everything else, it’s not great. But we watch TV as we’re eating, so it’s not as painfully tense as it would have been without that distraction.
I get some coursework done in the evening, and I’m exhausted when I get into bed.
I should keep reading. I’m behind on one of my classes. But I can’t make my eyes work, so I turn on the television instead and find one of the monster-hunting shows I like.
It’s an hour before Hunter comes to bed too.
I watch him stride over toward the far side of the bed in his bare feet and black underwear. His body is big and warm and familiar as he climbs under the covers.
He turns toward me, which surprises me so much I meet his eyes.
“Shit, Sam,” he mutters. “Do we have to do this?”
The words are vague, but I know exactly what he’s asking.
“What else can we do?” I give him my fake, bright smile.
His features tighten in a wince. “Angel, don’t.”
Don’t.
He’s telling me don’t.
When this is the only thing in the world I’m able to do.
He has no right to tell me not to protect myself, when he’s the one who hurt me, he’s the one who refused to have a conversation about our relationship, he’s the one who’s keeping me at arms’ length.
So I lash out. “I’m not your angel.”
He jerks his head to the side like I slapped him. “I know you’re not.”
“Okay then.”
He blows out a breath and turns back to meet my gaze. “Fuck it all, Sam. If you really want to talk about—”
“No. No, it’s fine. Everything is fine. Let’s not worry about it. I’m watching this show.”
That’s me.
A pretend-everything-is-fine-so-they-don’t-know-how-much-you’re-hurting girl. Always. Forever.
Hunter turns off the light, and we lie in the dark and watch television.
Neither one of us says anything else.
I WOULD HAVE EXPECTED the days to get easier as they pass, as I get used to the new state of my life and my marriage, but they don’t.
They don’t get easier.
They get harder, longer, worse.
One after another, rolling into a bleak future, reminding me I’ll never have Hunter the way I want him.
