Yes, he’s always sorry. ‘Sorry’ doesn’t mean anything anymore.
We finish dessert in silence. We leave the restaurant without a word, and the drive home is quiet. There’s an old Céline Dion song on the radio. I wonder if Céline has to put up with this shit. I wonder if she’s married, and remember that I’d recently read in one of those tabloids at the grocery store, the ones I scan while I wait in line, that her husband passed away not long ago. I wonder what it would be like if John died. What would life be like? Would it be worse? Or better? Surely worse. I shake my head. I can’t believe I’m fantasizing about John’s death. Okay, so I’m a bit peeved with him at the moment, but notthatpeeved.
“The kids are fast asleep already. They were exhausted,” Anna tells us “How was your night?” she asks cheerfully.
I plaster on a forced smile. “It was nice,” I tell her as I dig into my purse for my wallet.
As soon as she leaves, I peel off my boots, and tell John that I’m going to bed – my sexy outfit gone to waste.
“C’mon,” he says. “Let’s say goodnight to the kids, and then cuddle in bed.”
I roll my eyes. By ‘cuddle in bed’, he means sex. John is not much of a cuddler. I usually don’t get cuddles unless there’s sex either before or after.
I trudge upstairs to kiss the kids, and head to my bedroom. I lock myself in the en-suite, and check my Instagram. I told myself I would try to ignore him, but I just can’t. I’m disappointed when there are no messages from him, not even a new post on his feed. I scroll through my camera roll, and find the picture I’m looking for — a photo of Elsie and me. I don’t have a lot of photos with her, and this is my favorite — we’re cuddling on the sofa, and she looks adorable, and I look really nice in a pink fuzzy sweater, despite the fact that my hair is messy and my face is bare.
I send him the photo, and write a quick message below.
Since you sent me a photo of you and your dog, I thought I’d send you one of me and my cat. :)
I don’t feel guilty at all. It’s just a photo of me and the cat. And John is a selfish jerk. So there.
I wash my makeup off — those smoky eyes are a bitch to clean off. I brush my teeth, and slip out of my dress.
When I leave the en-suite, John is sitting on our bed, unbuttoning his shirt. He does look kind of sexy... I turn my gaze away and reach into my dresser for the least sexy nightgown I can find. I find the one my mother gave me a few years ago — it’s bulky, gramma-ish, with little flowers. John says that the mere sight of it makes him go soft.
I slip it on, and John starts laughing. “Oh, so it’s like that, is it?” he says playfully.
I turn and glare at him. “Yes, it is.” I’m drowning but a smile threatens to escape — the situation is kind of funny.
He slithers up to me on the bed, and gently runs his fingers through my hair. He sweeps it to the side and kisses the nape of my neck — he knows that’s one of my buttons. Such a manipulator.
Damn, him. I don’t stand a chance if he’s going to pull these kind of moves. “We’re not having sex,” I say, resolute.
“Really?!” he says playfully as his hand travels up the curve of my leg and pushes up my flannel nightgown. He gets dangerously close to my sweet spot.
I close my eyes. I want this, but I don’t want to give in — I’m still so mad at him.
He pulls the fabric up and over my back, and trails kisses down the curve of my hip where he bites gently. It feels so damn good, and I’m in the mood. I’ve been on the mood all night.
He reaches for my breasts and cups one in his hand. I arch my back into him and let out a soft moan.
He’s won. I want this. I completely give in to him; every inch of my skin surrenders to him. But when I close my eyes, it’s not him I see.
I see Eli’s beautiful face. Those magnetic eyes, and the way I felt when they fixed me. The strong nose, those sensual full lips. And most of all, I see his smile, the way he lit up at my words. When was the last time I felt that special? I can’t remember.
When John’s hands glide over me, I imagine they’re Eli’s hands. When his lips press against the small of my back, I imagine their Eli’s lips. His hands dig into my hips and he flips me around on the bed. I’m on my knees, and he pulls me in close. When he peels off my black silky thong, I still see Eli. When he enters me, I close my eyes and let my mind wander.
My husband is not fucking me. A beautiful stranger is.
Chapter Twelve
JOHN IS UP EARLY, writing. I’m having coffee and toast when I check my phone. My heart skips a beat when I see a message from Eli.
Beautiful picture. Thanks for sharing it. Your cat is cute.
—
Thank you. Are you a cat guy?
