Good Time(34)

Fuckity fuck, that was fast. Apparently my husband doesn’t lack initiative. Initiative is a trait that comes in handy when you need the trash taken out or a piece of furniture assembled. It’s not a trait that comes in handy when you’re trying to buy some time on your annulment. “Dinner, wow.”

“I’m a very busy man, Payton. I’m multitasking.”

“Of course. And we should talk. Absolutely,” I agree as nonchalantly as possible while side-eyeing the hell out of the envelope. “So many things to talk about.”

“You don’t have anywhere to go this evening, I presume?” Vince asks, eyeing my pajamas again. I’m wearing my favorite of the sheet pajamas. Lydia made them out of a vintage sheet with a bright floral pattern. They’re super obnoxious. I’ve paired them with a grey tank top that says ‘I just want a hug,’ underneath a sketch of a porcupine.

“Nope.” I shake my head and wiggle the envelope with my fingertip. It’s large, the size of a sheet of printer paper.

“Are you sure? Do you want to double-check your calendar? I’d hate for you to have to run off without a bra again.”

“Don’t be old. I put it on in the car.”

“Glad to hear it. I’d hate to think of you running around Las Vegas without one.” His gaze drops to my chest. I’m definitely not wearing a bra right now and my breasts are most definitely appreciating his appearance in my house. “I assumed you’d have a corkscrew?” Vince questions as he pulls a bottle of red from the bag. “Pots and pans?” He looks as though he’s second-guessing the idea that I might own cookware. He’d be correct to second-guess it, but I live with Lydia so we should be good.

“What are you making?” I move behind the kitchen island to dig out the corkscrew for him, placing it on the countertop next to the bottle before scooting around him to grab the glasses.

“Chicken and pasta.” He shrugs out of his jacket and hangs it on the back of a kitchen chair before tugging at the knot of his tie. “You okay there?” He smirks, likely because I’ve stopped what I was doing to watch this tie-undoing. There’s something very, very enticing about the flex of his fingers, the veins running along the back of his hands as he works to loosen the knot and pull the material free of his collar. Why is that so stupid hot? I need to get a grip or this night is going to end the same way the previous two nights ended.

Wait, that’s what I want though, right? A night that ends in orgasms?

I do want that, but I want to talk too. Definitely. Maybe not about our pending separation, but things. I’d like to know how he feels about cats for example. And if he’s read any good books lately. If he prefers the Summer Olympics or the Winter. What his favorite movie is. If Saturday night was the best or worst night of his life.

I know he likes tacos. And pizza. And cooking. And giving oral. I know he’s not into tattoos because he married me to prevent me from getting one and I couldn’t find any on him. I know he thinks before he speaks and I know he likes me, at least a little.

He thinks I’m funny. And exasperating. And bossy. And beautiful, he said that I was beautiful.

It’s not the worst start in the history of starts, but I’d like to know more.

I pull out a stool and sit down at the island countertop so I can watch Vince work. It occurs to me once again what a shit wife I am. I don’t cook. I don’t give blow jobs. I haven’t asked if he needs anything dropped off at the dry cleaner. I don’t wear sexy lingerie. Maybe I should change? To be fair, the blow job thing is not my fault. I did offer that first night. I meant to yesterday but he distracted me with his tongue and that was that. Gah, I’m just the worst.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Giving you a blow job.”

“Yeah?” Vince responds easily, as if we’re talking about where the cutting board is. “Do you have a list of specific requirements for how you’d want that to happen?”

So he’s open to the idea, is what I’m hearing. Maybe he’ll want to date after the annulment and he’ll fall in love with me? It’ll make a great story for our grandchildren.

“You say that like I’m demanding.”

“You are.”

“I’m extremely easy-going! Everyone says so!” No one says that, actually. But it’s probably just because it’s never come up. It’s not as if I go around asking people if they think I’m easy-going, but if I did, they’d say yes. Probably. At least everyone except Vince would.

“You have a very easy-going way of getting your own way,” Vince states as he sets a pot of water on the stove to boil.

I suppose I can see where he might think that. That might even be a fair assessment. I’m really self-aware. I need to add that to my list of positive attributes.

“So for the blow job, can I tie you up?”

“No.” The answer is firm, his lips twitching like the question was amusing.

Humph. “Can you tie me up?”

“How are you going to give me a blow job if you’re tied up?”

Dammit! Worst. Wife. Ever. “I suppose without my hands it’d be more like you using my mouth to masturbate while I did nothing, wouldn’t it?”

“What a visual you paint, Payton.”

“You’re still welcome to tie me up though. It doesn’t have to be tradesies.”