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Needing to do something to keep the emptiness from crawling deeper inside her.
It was the sheer indulgence of it.
She’d gotten herself off on the living room couch. In the kitchen, standing up. At the table. She’d done it on the stairs, in the laundry room, in the shower.
She didn’t think of Tony. She thought about things that got her wet. This moment in a movie from years ago. A snippet of a novel. Damp mouths and busy hands and slapping flesh.
She was getting really good at it, too. She was becoming a master of masturbation.
She giggled, the sound too loud, totally inappropriate with Tony’s face still so dark.
It was possible that the alcohol was affecting her more than she’d bargained for. Absinthe packed a punch.
Or it simply made her giddy to say this thing, this slightly shameful, entirely unsanctioned thing, out loud.
Because sometimes when she did it, she felt so defiant. Fuck you, she said to the house, with her hand between her legs. Fuck Tony for not being home, ever. Fuck this house for being such an endless source of work that I’m supposed to enjoy just because I chose my life, I chose the carpet and the couch.
Fuck fear, fuck death. Fuck it.
“What do you think about?” he asked.
“Oh. Lots of different things.”
“Tell me.”
His fingers were white around the glass. He would squeeze it too hard, and it would explode.
This was backfiring in a really bad way.
But, she reminded herself, he wasn’t supposed to be Tony. He was supposed to be Steve, and this was supposed to be fun. Steve would find the idea of a lonely housewife masturbating kind of sexy, wouldn’t he?
Sure he would. If she made it sexy, he would. If she fed him some over-the-top Penthouse Forum material, maybe he would smile and tease and fall back into his role.
“I think about the UPS guy,” she said. “Ringing the doorbell, and I invite him in. Wearing lingerie.”
“The UPS guy?” The lines around his mouth relaxed a fraction. “You do not.”
“I do. I answer the door in this pink lace nightgown, and he can see right through it. He can see my nipples and my … all my hair, and he’s only, like, twenty-two. And I invite him inside.”
“What do you do with the poor kid?”
“I go down on him. In my front hall.”
“On the marble? That would be hell on your knees.”
“I’ve got carpet in the front hall,” she said indignantly, and he smiled. Because yeah, he was totally right. It was no fun at all to kneel on the marble.
“So you get yourself off thinking about giving the UPS man head.” He sounded dubious.
She tried to come up with a more outrageous fantasy.
“I spank him sometimes,” she offered.
His eyebrows lifted. “Do you?”
“Yes.”
“What do you like about the spanking?”
