Something in the Way (Something in the Way #1)(97)

Three glasses of red wine coursed through my veins. I stripped off my emerald dress in one sinuous motion and let it drop onto the floor. When he didn’t look up, I shimmied over and settled myself onto his lap.

“Hi,” I said in my sultriest voice. His hand righted a stray strand of hair as he glanced between the screen and me. I wet my lips and kissed him full on the mouth. I’d been humming with electricity since intermission and was impatient for human contact.

“Well, well,” he said when we broke. “What’s gotten into you?”

“It’s late. Take me to bed.”

His eyebrow rose, and his mouth popped open as if connected by an invisible string. He looked about to protest and then relaxed as he thought better of it.

In an uncharacteristically graceful motion he stood. With my body secured to his, he carried me to the mattress. Fingertips tenderly caressed the outsides of my thighs as he hovered over me.

“Shit,” I said, just as his face dipped. I sat up in a panic. “I forgot to pick up condoms.”

“It’s fine.”

My brows furrowed. “It is not fine. Not while I’m not on birth control.”

He sighed, annoyed. “Come on, just this once.”

“Nope. You know how I feel about no condom.”

“There’s one in the kitchen drawer,” he said, rolling his eyes. I slid out from underneath him and shuffled to the kitchen. I rifled through the cluttered drawer until I found one in the back. “Liv,” he called impatiently.

I checked the expiration date and ran back, jumping onto the bed. “I’m sorry, babe, where were we?”

Frown lines faded as he propped himself up on long, wiry arms. I touched his pecs, trailing my fingers down to a soft midsection while goose bumps sprang to attention across his skin.

“My, my, Mrs. Wilson,” he said. The designation always made me think of Bill’s mom, but I’d managed to control my grimace over the years. It remained one of the reasons I hadn’t officially changed my surname. “What big green eyes you have,” he continued, touching his lips just above my cheekbone. “And such pretty blonde hair,” he added, brushing a lock from my forehead. His hips ground against me in anticipation. I reached up and ran my hand through his floppy brown hair, cocking my head to the side.

“Not blonde, just plain brown,” I said with a pout.

“What?” he asked with feigned surprise. “You must be colorblind. I see some blonde strands in there.”

“You just want to tell people you married a blonde.”

“Agree to disagree, then.” He smiled. It creased his adorably crooked nose. He loved to say he’d broken it during one-on-one, but the truth was that it was just naturally that way.

He unhooked my bra swiftly, gently cupping my breasts in each of his hands. His fingers were long. I didn’t quite fill them up. From the living room, the unmistakable sounds of a heated basketball game blared from the television.

The motions were familiar. His touch had become defter, more confident, over time. And his usually awkward nature became more fluid. He groaned my name as he pushed himself into me, pulling my hips closer. I echoed his movements, my arousal growing with his satisfaction. I watched beads of sweat form on his brow, more apparent when his face screwed up with pleasure. He didn’t kiss me again, but I’d become accustomed to that. Making out was for teenagers.

I inhaled his natural scent, enhanced by a salty concoction of unwashed hair and fresh perspiration; it was always sharper when we were making love. I felt a twinge inside and sighed softly, but then it was gone. It wasn’t long before he came, squeezing his eyes shut as he called out and collapsed onto me.

“Sorry,” he breathed into my ear after a moment. “Do you want—”

“It’s fine,” I reassured him, suddenly tired from the wine. “It was nice.”

It took him less than two minutes to fall asleep; I knew because I often watched the clock as I waited. I untangled myself from his clutches and tiptoed out of the room.

Once the apartment was dark and still, and I’d washed my face of the day, I returned to cocoon myself in the soft sheets. He stirred and reached for me, but I expertly dodged his grasp. I’d had to learn to find the comfort in postcoital cuddling. I was always the one left with tingling limbs and uncomfortable sweating as I willed myself to sleep.

A twinge. Though the sex was comfortable and good, a twinge wasn’t much of anything. I let my head roll to the side to look at my husband. At one point he’d wanted my orgasm as much as I did, but it was the one thing I couldn’t give him. There were times when we’d been close, when the stars and the body parts had aligned, and I’d shuddered in response. But when it came time for the grand finale, I’d buckled under the pressure.

Bill had found comfort in the fact that it wasn’t just him. I’d been with other men before him, mostly in college, but despite my efforts, had yet to find my slice of Nirvana. I couldn’t find comfort in that, though. To me, it was my eternal flaw and as a wife, my greatest inadequacy. If things were the other way around, could I live with the fact that I couldn’t pleasure Bill?

I was happy, though. I had other ways of getting myself off when necessary. I had my husband, who loved me in spite of everything. My life was pretty much as perfect as a night of good friends, wine, and sex. I lay in bed and watched the ceiling, waiting for sleep. Yes, I was happy.