She frowns. “Not the same address.”
“See? A coincidence.” It was shipped to the warehouse.
“No way.” She walks to the gray suede couch I think is the best piece in the house. Besides the gargantuan TV across from it, of course. She runs a hand over the soft suede, and I think that’s how she’ll pet my dick, fist it, suck it, swallow my cum.
“Do you work from home?” I ask, thinking she’ll have to set up another shop somewhere local, preferably our garage. It’s big enough.
She shakes her head. “I have two jobs, and I’m rarely home.”
I head for the bar to pour a whiskey. Contrary to popular stereotype, not all Russian Americans or even Russians period drink vodka all the time. We also drink whiskey, beer, bourbon and some of us don’t drink at all. “That will change,” I mutter as I search for the bottle. Where did Martha put the bottle? Ah. Here we go. I uncap and pour straight up, no ice, no chaser. Warm and smooth, like the fine pussy juice my wife’s gonna give me tonight.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “What did you say?”
“I said that will change.”
She walks to the bar, and I pour her a whiskey, then slide it over. She takes it with no ice and sips. “I don’t want to change.”
“You don’t have to, but some of your single-life habits will. You’ll be home more often, or at least as often as I like.”
“I can run, you know.”
“You can try.” Those long legs can carry her to the moon and back. Our bedroom and back too.
“I will.”
I chuckle. “Baby, listen and take notes. When you’re forming a plan of any kind, you never, ever give yourself away to the enemy. You want to appear weak when you are strong and strong when you are weak.”
“The Art of War.”
“Is deception.”
“I didn’t think you read books.”
“I read books that make me happy.”
She laughs softly. “You’re funny.”
“How’s your foot?”
“Oh,” she says as if she forgot about it. I haven’t. Jesus. I scoop some ice in a bag and hand it to her. She sits at the bar chair and lifts her foot onto the other chair. It’s wrong I’m glad about the injury because now I can show her my caregiver side, which should get me laid in no time.
Once I fuck her, she’s gonna fold on all matters and this marriage will prosper like no marriage before it, till death do us part. Amen.
I come around the bar and pick up her injured foot by the ankle to rest it in my lap as I sit down.
She tugs, but I hold her ankle firmly and slip off her sandal, then press my thumb into the arch of her foot. She makes an O with her mouth, and I press harder, running my thumb over the bottom of her foot, back and forth, watching her shoulders slump, eyes darting to the couch. I don’t make the move to the couch, though I know she wants me to. The chair will do just fine for what I have in mind.
I run my palm up to her ankle and calf, then stroke under her knee, watching her the entire time. You can tell a lot about what makes people tick by watching their face and body. Physical signs are just as important as the words. Farther up, I grip theback of her thigh and slide my chair closer. I’m not an octopus. I can’t stroke a pussy from ten feet away.
My movement makes her sit up straight as if she only just now realizes what I’m doing. She opens her mouth, likely to protest, but I cut her off. “Shhhh. It’s okay. I’m gonna get you off. That’s all.”
Her lips pinch and she’s still on alert, but I’ll remedy that in a minute. I slide my hand between her legs, slowly rubbing her inner thigh, and inch closer to my target as her chest rises and falls, her shoulders slump, and a hand lands on the bar to hold herself up.
Keeping the injured foot over my thigh, I sneak an arm around her waist and move her to stand between my spread legs. With one leg over my thigh, she’s spread for me, and I slip my hand back between her legs, two fingers touching her little lips down there, finding them wet.
I don’t comment on how wet she is lest she feels embarrassed and ruin the moment. This time around, I’m not gonna talk at all because yapping might break our eye contact.
I find her brown eyes expressive, open, and warm, and as I stroke her wet place, I bunch up the whatever the fuck she’s wearing and slowly pull it up, wondering if she’ll lift her arms or if I’ll have to rip it. I’d like to rip it and never see the garment again.
