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She wanted to do it. Spread herself out on the bed. Let this man’s hungry eyes see what she looked like, let him see how she touched herself when she didn’t care what anybody got from it but her. How she could make herself come with just her fingers and her imagination, and she could make it last longer than he could. She could do it better than he did, with no compromises, no mess to clean up afterward. No pillow talk. No trouble at all.
“You could practice on me,” he said. “Pretend I’m him.”
“That’s sick.”
“Is it?” He pressed her hand harder, urging her fingers to grip tighter and work him up and down with long, slow strokes. “I think it would be fun.”
And it would. She didn’t really believe in “sick”—not when it came to what two people did in bed, inside a committed relationship.
It would be something she could give him. Something he wanted. A secret she’d hoarded, and now both of them could share it and take pleasure from it.
“Would you do this?” She squeezed her hand tighter around him. “While you watched?”
“I’d try not to.”
“Why?”
“Because if I don’t come, I could fuck you after.”
“Maybe I won’t want to. Maybe I’ll be sleepy and I?
??ll send you on back to the bar to find some other willing woman.”
He smiled. “I’ll take my chances if I get to see you naked.”
She pulled on her hand. He released it, and she stood up, offering him a cheeky smile. “Who said anything about naked?”
* * *
Tony watched as Amber took off her shoes and got up onto the bed. It was such a tall bed, she had to climb, and then she crawled across it, and he found himself gripping one of the bedposts in his hand, with no recollection of having moved closer. His heart raced as if he’d never seen his own wife’s ass before.
She masturbated. When he wasn’t home.
It was like some kind of ridiculous gift from the gods.
He hoped that when she’d told him, she hadn’t been able to read his thoughts. Sometimes she had an uncanny ability to do that, and in this case he’d rather she couldn’t hear them, because his thoughts were, basically, That is the single hottest thing I’ve ever heard in my life and I must be the lousiest excuse for a husband there ever was. Both at the same time.
Clearly, he was doing something wrong. He was supposed to be keeping her satisfied. If she wanted sex, she could have it, pretty much any damn time.
Except between the hours of five a.m. and ten p.m., when he was at work. Which was, what, two-thirds of the day?
Falling down on the job there, Mazzara.
By the time he got home and ate something, showered, and crawled into bed, she was always already so damn tired. Sleepy and soft, and they had a whole day’s worth of conversation to catch up on. Stuff that had happened to the kids, whether Ant needed medication, if Jake was getting enough sleep.
They still managed to have sex a couple times a week. He’d talked to other guys, other married guys, and he knew he and Amber weren’t doing half bad, comparatively. He knew guys who got laid once a month. Quarterly. Never.
But if she was making herself come when he wasn’t home … if she was doing it a lot?
He wanted in on it.
That was the upshot. He didn’t want to waste time feeling like a loser. He wanted to come home from work and fuck her on the kitchen counter. On the stairs. In the front hallway, and he could be on top. He’d put up with his knees aching for a week if he could spread her out on that cold marble floor he’d laid himself, tile by tile, and hear her come so loud it echoed.
He wanted to watch her face and tell her he loved her and feel like it was just them—just the two of them—and nothing else mattered.
“Hey, Steve?” she asked.
“Yeah?”
