The Words We Leave Unspoken(11)

My mind tries to recall the last time that I initiated sex – initiated anything for that matter. Surely our sex life is spontaneous enough that a heated kiss alone would not warrant such a comment. But as much as I hate to admit it, sex has become somewhat of a chore for me. Another check mark on the list to complete by day’s end. Dinner, check. Baths, check. Homework, check. Sex with John, check. With this realization plus the pressing matter of my numbered days, I take John’s hand, ditch our wine glasses on the counter, and practically drag him upstairs to our bedroom where I lock the door and strip my clothes off in one fluid motion. The smile on his face, as if this show of hunger on my part is amusing, empowers me and so I undress him as well. When he is standing completely nude in front of me, I step back and take a minute to admire him. He runs nearly every day and it shows; his body is lean and sculpted. He looks nothing like other men his age, most who haven’t aged nearly as well, something that I do notice but probably don’t assure him of often enough. I pull him to me and devour his mouth once again, until I feel his throbbing erection between us and I push him back until he’s sitting on the edge of the bed. I kneel before him and glide my hands up his bare thighs as I close my mouth around his length. A low hiss escapes him and I wonder how long it has been since I have done this for him. Probably years, too long to remember. In the beginning, John and I had sex at least once every day. I had discovered a new side to myself that first night in my dorm room, a pleasure that I had never known existed. After that, I was insatiable, hungry for more. There wasn’t anything that I wouldn’t do for him or with him. I was a willing participant, an eager student. But years and two needy children later, as well as the tiresome daily grind, had eventually tamed that side of me.

I wrap one hand around the base of his shaft, stroking him as I glide my mouth up and down in the same rhythm. He kneads his hands in my hair and applies gentle pressure, encouraging me to take him deeper into the back of my throat. I feel an ache stir in my core, my own need escalating at the sound of John’s pleasure. I take him to the brink before pushing him onto his back on the bed, where I straddle him, lowering myself onto his erection, moaning as he fills me to the brim. I grind up and down, back and forth, finding my rhythm. His hands are on my hips, urging me to ride him faster as our movements become rough and desperate, a far cry from our usual more-controlled encounters. There is nothing controlled about this at all.

Our breath is heavy, his loud grunts only interrupted by the words he speaks to me in a strained voice, “Yes,” and, “Oh, God,” and, “Faster.” I match him breath for breath, my uninhibited moans and whimpers pouring out of me as every fiber of my being is centered in my core, the need building so intensely I can think of nothing but my release. And then I cry out as white light flashes behind my closed lids, my body pulsating again and again. John grips my hips tighter and moves me against him one more time before spilling into me and I collapse on top of him, completely spent and fading fast.

Once he catches his breath, John kisses my temple, the rest of my face is buried in the crook of his neck, where I can taste the salt of his sweaty skin. “I love you,” he whispers into my ear.

All I can manage is a muffled, “Mmhmm.” He rolls me to the side and slowly pulls out of me, before walking to the en suite bathroom to clean up. He returns with a warm washcloth for me, something he always thinks of. I clean myself and then use the restroom, and before thinking better of it, decide to sleep naked next to my husband. Something I haven’t done since college.

John lays on his back and tucks me into his side, moaning his approval of my sleeping attire, or lack of. Within minutes he is snoring softly beside me and I am wide awake, my exhaustion from my orgasm long gone. I roll away from him and decide that I can’t sleep without my pajamas after all, it feels too foreign. After pulling on a pair of lounge pants and a soft cotton tank top, I quietly unlock the bedroom door – just in case the kids need something – and crawl back into bed where I lay awake for hours, thinking about all the moments I want to share with my family before I die.





Chapter 8





Charley


Once Gwen leaves, I busy myself with cleaning up the house. When all 800 square feet of my bungalow is as clean and organized as I have ever seen it, I fill the bath with hot water and lavender sea salt and submerge myself in the scented warmth. I close my eyes and replay the last twenty-four hours in my head. All I can do is repeat a prayer, my new mantra, over and over again in my mind. Please let her be okay. Please let her be okay. I fight back the tears that fill my eyes, unwilling to let them fall, unwilling to believe that there is reason to be sad. Not yet.

Wrapped in my white terrycloth robe, I plop down on the sofa and pull back the curtain covering the large front window that faces the street. I notice that the rain has stopped for the time being and admire the large, not-quite-full moon that casts light on the dark, fall night.

Before my own thoughts eat away at me, I text Grey with a simple Hey. To my surprise he texts back immediately. Just thinking of you, want to come over? His invitation is exactly what I need. To lose myself in him for a few hours, to numb the pain, to take away the helplessness I feel for Gwen. I text back a simple, Yes.

I’ll be waiting. His words send a thrill through me and I quickly get dressed, needing to be in his arms as soon as possible.

I park down the street from Grey’s condo, thankful that the rain has stopped. My breath releases into the night in visible white puffs, as if to prove that the air is bone cold. Pulling my jacket tighter around me, I increase my pace toward the entrance to Grey’s building.