making sure the hero lived to fight another day, I had a brief shower and slipped between the cool sheets. I thought about making love to Abby but remembered her headache, so instead I gently kissed the nape of her neck. When she didn’t stir, sleep came quickly and soundly for me, too.
Early light spilled into our room when I woke up Sunday morning. I groaned, realizing Abby was kneeling between my legs, her bare nipples softly brushing against the inside of my thighs. And I was harder than a cricket bat.
“Shhh,” she whispered when I groaned again. “I want you.”
“Uhhh,” was about all I could manage, and when I thought I was at the point of no return, she stopped, climbed on top and slid me inside her.
“It’s my turn now.” She grabbed my hands and pulled them onto her breasts. I felt her fingers between her legs, rubbing and touching. It drove me crazy. I had no idea if she still had a sore head, and frankly right then I didn’t care.
But she whispered, “Fuck me. Come on, baby, fuck me. Hard.”
God knows how, but some of the blood got diverted from my dick to my face to the point where I felt my cheeks glow like a beacon. Now, I’m no prude, but Abby, well, I didn’t like fucking her. Yes, having sex with my wife was awesome. Better than beer, pool and England winning three World Cups in a row (I imagined). I’d heard some guys got tired of being with the same woman, but Abby still drove me crazy every single time. I’d taken care of her ever since I’d laid eyes on her, and fucking her seemed too...rough, uncaring, somehow.
I thrust a little faster, and she drove herself down onto me, eyes closed, back arched. It was savage; there was no tenderness at all. I felt like I could have been anybody, or that maybe I was surplus to Abby’s requirements. As I wondered even more what the hell she was doing, I almost started to go limp. When she climaxed and collapsed on top of me, I held her as she gasped quietly.
“Did you come, too?” she whispered.
“Of course,” I lied.
She raised her head and looked at me for a second, then slid off me and went to the bathroom. I rolled over and, when she came back a few minutes later, pretended to be asleep.
IT WAS JUST after six on Wednesday evening, and Abby and I lay on the floor. We hadn’t made it to the bed—deeming the extra few meters an unnecessary obstacle course, a waste of precious time. When I’d got home from work, she’d surprised me by walking down the stairs dressed only in emerald green, satiny underwear.
I’d fleetingly wondered what had gotten into her, but then realized we could have sex for the second time in four days. Seeing as my performance hadn’t been great on Sunday morning, I stopped wondering and started doing.
Afterward, I stretched my arms out, momentarily too exhausted to get up, exhaled deeply and pulled some clean towels from a plastic laundry basket barely within my reach. I covered Abby’s shoulders with the warm fabric. She shivered and raised her head from where it had been nestled on my chest.
“Hey,” she said, smiling, “I just folded those.”
My fingers traced the length of Abby’s back, and she sighed as she propped herself up on one elbow. I noticed the shadows under her eyes and realized she probably wasn’t sleeping well again. Before I could ask her what was going on, she said, “How was your day?”
“Ugh,” I groaned, not wanting to spoil the afterglow with stories about the office.
“That bad?” She wrinkled her nose.
“Nah,” I said. “Business as usual, you know? Got another deal done today. That’s four in less than a fortnight.”
“Congrats, Nate,” she said and kissed my chest. “Fantastic.”
I had to agree it was a pretty great result. I’d worked in recruitment for more than two decades, started fresh out of uni. But it was hardly earth-shattering stuff. I couldn’t say I hated my job, nor was I exactly passionate about it. I’d always been envious of people who said they loved what they did, or they’d always known what they wanted to do with their lives, what they wanted to be. On the other hand, I made good money, was a recession veteran, had worked my way up the corporate ladder to IT Sales Director. I could hardly whine.
My fingers slid through Abby’s silky hair. “How about you? You okay?”
She blinked three times. Slowly. “I’m fine.” A small smile. “Everything’s fine.”
She looked about as fine as I did when my brother, Paul, set fire to my hair at church one Christmas. Accidentally, of course, or so he’d claimed. “You sure?”
I should’ve bet money on her answer.
“Yep.”
Ka-ching!
She got up and reached for my hastily discarded boxer shorts, which now dangled off the side of the bed. As she passed them to me her face relaxed again, and she winked. I smiled back and watched as she slipped on her underwear, T-shirt and jeans. When Abby bent over to pick up the towels I’d pulled out of the basket, I clung to mine as if it had the makings of a magic carpet.
Abby was a bit of a neat freak. Okay, a lot of a neat freak. She was the epitome of the saying, “A place for everything and everything in its place.” Except her version included family, friends and, I’d come to accept after all this time, feelings. She was better at keeping the lid on stuff than Tupperware. I’d acknowledged a long time ago I’d never completely know my wife, however much I wanted to, or tried.
“So Sarah’s at Claire’s again?” I said. “They working on that tire project?”
“Oh, Nate.” Abby laughed. “You’re so wonderfully naive. I bet you five pounds they’ll gossip far too late and barely make it to school on time.”
I grinned. How our daughter continually pulled A’s out of her bag was a mystery to me. She definitely got her brains from her mother because I’d battled like a bastard for every B I’d brought home.
Abby dumped the briefly used towels into the laundry basket (neat freak alert), then said, “I don’t feel like cooking tonight. Shall we get some food in? I fancy Indian.”
I gave her two thumbs-up and made an attempt to move. “Deal. I’ll go.”
She held out a hand in a stay-put gesture. “I’m dressed. You chill out, okay? There’s some wine and beer in the fridge.”
“Thanks.” I grabbed her hand and kissed it. “How kind of you, my beloved.”
“Anything for you, husband dearest.” She curtsied and laughed.
And with that, she was gone, leaving me lying on the floor with a tepid towel, wondering why her laugh had somehow sounded a touch too loud.
AFTER
