He mirrors my stance. “Well, now you don’t have to decide. Unless you hit another brick wall, in which case, it can be your turn. That work?”
“And if I hit a brick wall tonight?”
His head dips low, and he whispers in my ear, “Then I won’t be able to eat you or fuck you or play with those perfect tits. And I really want to do all of those things. Now.”
Shivers race down my spine. “Maybe tomorrow then.”
“Okay, Wifey, maybe tomorrow.” He lifts a hand over my shoulder and turns me toward the door.
And my new car.
66
oxytocin and orgasms
Liam
Torture. The woman is torture in the best and worst kind of ways.
First there was the ten minutes of adjusting, readjusting, ooh-ing and ah-ing. What followed was another ten minutes of learning the dials, the radio, and her pushing buttons.
Then, she pulled out onto the street and jammed the brakes so hard, I could hear it from inside the SUV, over AC/DC no less.
She rolled down the window and screamed. “I got it. I’ve got it. Don’t worry.”
I worried.
I followed her all the way home, from crawling like a granny to speeding through streets because she didn’t “have a feel for it yet.”
Then there was the parking. She did an eighty-three-point turn into her garage, by which point, I had parked and aged four years. It reminded me of the scene inAustin Powers, I don’t remember which one, with a one inch forward, one inch reverse.
She makes me hard in the bedroom. But watching her concentrate and seeing her brain spin to work it all out, I realize how much I enjoy her.
The last six weeks have been… different. No sex. Shit tons of banter and getting to know each other. And here’s my wife, attempting with all her focus, to park a car that’s not three inches longer than her former Accord. She just hasn’t figured that out yet.
Me: Need me to guide you or do you have it?
She brakes and stares at the screen, her face luminescent in the blue light. She presses the button then looks around, finds another button, and slides down the window. “I’ve got it.”
I don’t know what she sees from her vantage point, but I can only guess it’s me, hands on hips, head tipped to the sky, laughing my ass off.
She has a fucking PhD, and talk to text is too complicated.
I love my wife. This shit is an adventure, and I’m so glad I get to do it with her.
If you’d told me fifteen years ago, or even fifteen months ago, that the right partner for me was a Madonna-loving, brainiac biochemist who’s a terrible baker and inexperienced in bed, I’d have laughed you out of my life. Yet here we are. I’ve met my match.
Now, about the bed part…
Me: My cock is weeping to be inside that greedy pussy. Park the car, Wifey. Time for me to feast.
The SUV stops on a squeak of brakes, and she exits the car, right in the middle of the alley, and walks my way. She extends the key fob and silently heads into the house.
Alrighty then. Seems she’s ready for the bed part too.
Car parked, I step into my back door, to find a trail of clothing, starting with shoes and ending with panties at the mouth of our bedroom.
As far as invitations go, it’s a good one and I accept.
