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And one thing she knew for certain about Winston, he had a lusty sexual appetite. Even after all their years of marriage, he’d still been hungry five out of seven nights a week whenever he was home.
He’d been without for two years.
She knew what that meant. It would probably be quick for him.
She was mentally prepared for that. Didn’t care if it was over in five seconds. She’d been without his touch, without the feel of him inside her, for two years, too. She’d gotten pregnant with his baby without him inside her. Even one second would be enough for her for now.
He’d been under the covers when she’d finished turning off her computer and locking up the house. He’d already checked the doors before they’d gone to the office, but she wanted to give him time on his own to reacclimate with his things. As far as she could tell, he still hadn’t looked in his closet or any of his drawers.
“Would you like the television on?” she called from her sink in the master bath. They’d never slept with it on the past, but she’d heard about guys who’d come home from particularly hard tours who’d suddenly been unable to sleep without it.
They needed it to drown out memories that came in the dark of the night.
“No, but it won’t bother me if you’d like to watch for a while.”
Thinking that maybe the television would help him relax, she turned out the light, picked up the remote and, once she was beneath the covers, turned on the TV. Winston lay flat on his back. Eyes already closed.
After a minute, she turned off the television. Slid carefully down until her head was on her pillow. And lay there. His breathing was even. Too even. He didn’t snore, but there’d been a depth to his breaths when he slept. She had to figure that hadn’t changed, which meant he wasn’t actually asleep.
Thinking of him, in physical need, lying there stiffly, willing to sacrifice himself and not touch her as he gave her time to get used to having him home and sharing her bed again, she swallowed back tears. Putting his own needs last was exactly what Winston would do.
And she knew what she had to do. Exactly what she wanted so desperately to do.
Turning on her side, facing him, she scooted over. Not crowding him. But close to him. When he didn’t turn away, she knew she was on the right path. Reaching out a hand, she touched his chest, surprised to come into contact with a T-shirt. Winston never slept with a shirt on.
But...okay. Someday she’d ask him why, what had happened to him to prompt him to need a shirt at night. Someday.
For those first few minutes she was just plain selfish. Reacquainting herself with the feel of his chest. T-shirt and all. The muscles, the breadth, it was all exactly as she remembered. He didn’t move, but she hadn’t really expected him to. His self-control was about as strong as everything else about him, and after two years, he’d
be holding himself in check.
A memory surfaced. She’d been seventeen...and knowing she was going to have sex with Winston for the first time. He hadn’t wanted their first time to be in a car, or on a night when he had to leave her. He’d insisted they wait until they could spend the whole night together.
She’d been so afraid of disappointing him. He, she’d later found out, had been worried about hurting her. She’d made the first move that night, too.
When the T-shirt became too much of a barrier, Emily slid her hand down to the hem and up underneath it, feeling his skin like an electric shock through her system. The warmth, the hair that spread across his belly and upward...every sensation was homecoming to her.
Pure, blissful. Right.
As Winston lay still, silent, Emily grew bolder. And more blatant in her intentions. He’d taught her every single erogenous inch of his body and how to stimulate them, and she remembered it all. With a flick of her finger, she teased his nipples. The left always got him harder than the right, so she played with the right first. He liked a little tongue mixed in, too, but aware that he might not last long, she didn’t want to come on too strong.
While he didn’t touch her—probably trying to stay in control since she knew that touching her turned him on fast—she was getting revved up with every second that passed. It didn’t take her long to know she was ready to host him, and she moved her hand slowly lower.
He used to sleep nude, but would lounge in a pair of loose cotton boxers, and considering the T-shirt, she figured he’d have them on, too, was already remembering how to maneuver the waistband by the time she reached it.
A quick glance told her that Winston still had his eyes closed. No matter. Silent sex was the most intimate sometimes.
There were no words that could live up to this moment.
Holding her breath as mind-altering sensations swarmed through her, she moved her fingers beneath the elastic at Winston’s waist and down. Moved her body, too, getting ready to move over him, to settle on top of him.
He’d push up and into her hand first, and then into her. It was a dance they’d perfected.
He didn’t push up. But the change in their moves didn’t faze her. She was making love to her husband. He was letting her. Nothing else mattered.
With her breath almost catching on a sob, she slid her hand slowly downward, anticipating her first feel of him in two long years. The velvety hardness and...
He wasn’t hard. At all.
