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I have also started swapping cooking jokes and recipes with Tyson. He only has to come to the house once a week now. He helps me with meal prep and batching ingredients and usually teaches me a new technique of some sort. In between his weekly visits, I text him questions and he makes fun of how little I know about everything besides flaky breads. That’s what he’s sending me now,Cooking 101 For Dummiesstuff. The last one said “Remember, metal doesn’t go in the microwave!”
I roll my eyes. Honestly, why cook anything else when stuffed croissants are an option? I keep finding new combinations. Mia thoroughly agreed with me during one of our calls this week. She laughed and asked me to box some for her to take to campus. Though, I can’t only fix Mark breakfast dishes.
So I FaceTimed with Mamá about some of our cook’s best recipes and even saw Papá in the background, tense. Mia wasn’t exaggerating about their increased security. Still, my mother is unflappable as ever and dolling out unsolicited advice.Trust your father. The men have it handled. Just be a happy place for your husband to call home.It’s not all bad.
She was the one who told me early on to figure out a man’s preferences and then simply give him what he wants. It’s what I’ve done with Mark’s food, his clothes, his home. Mia used to chime in with us that Mamá was just proposing cheap manipulation.
Is it manipulation if it’s done with genuine care, real interest? I’m not trying to get something out of him or from him. I just want him. The real Mark. The version of himself he keeps locked away. I want to know who that man really is. And why he’s got to stay buried so deep.
Also, Mark told me to be direct. I have been. I want a partnership with him. I told him I wanted to be touched, to be…used. And I do. I want that again. His hands on me, his low voice in my ear. His eyes, watching me like he can’t see anything else. Like he doesn’t need anyone else.
I want it now. Badly. But I want more, too. I want him to kiss me. A real kiss where there are no cameras, no pretense. Where I get to taste him and breathe him in. I want to see him and to feel him. I wonder if he’ll ever let me in that far. Will he ever let me touch his scars? See him completely naked?
Maybe not.
Probably not.
Still, I’m going to try. Because, for better or worse, I really, reallywantmy husband.
So I’m wearing a flimsy short nightgown right now under an equally short silk robe. I made an easy meal of beef and veggies earlier, but I also made some key lime pie that I think Mark loves. He didn’t come out and say so, but weeks back, he ate a slice of it for breakfast. A man who works out hours a day and has a pantry shelf dedicated to zero-sugar protein bars does not just happen to have pie for breakfast.
When I see the car pull in, my pulse goes berserk, almost as much as my nerves. I’ve learned better than to make him a plate. I’m also done faking silly activities, like I’m not waiting up specifically for him. He knows I am. No, I’m going to pour myself a glass of wine and sit down myself with this slice of pie and—
“Eleanna.” I jump at his voice. I didn’t think he’d come straight to the kitchen.
“Hey,” I say, trying to sound casual as I turn to see him, but sounding breathy instead. He’s handsome as ever, but also irritated, which is a step up from indifferent and a giant leap up from that fake charm of his.
“I thought we talked about this.” He gestures to my body.
“Key lime pie?” I raise the plate in my hand.
“Wearing a fucking robe.”
I smirk. “I am wearing a robe.”
“Eleanna, so help me…and who the hell is bombarding the phoneIbought you?” He takes huge angry steps behind the island to where I stand. I’m so focused on how Mark is totally losing it—yes!—I didn’t even notice my phone.
“Ty?” He grits out holding my phone so tightly his knuckles are white. He turns to me as if in slow motion, like he’s trying to keep himself from combusting. “Lots of messages between you and my chef,wife.”
“It’s just recipes and—“
“And dick pics?”
“What!”
He throws my phone on the counter and steps into me, his torso shoving the plate between the two of us, digging into my ribs and probably his too. “Is yourrobefor him?”
“Mark, no! Are you insane?”
He seethes at me, his blue eyes as dark as his navy suit. “I don’t know what you do when I’m not here. What if you needed to betouched?”
I look away, embarrassed at what I said. How much I begged him last time. How needy I was. How needy I am right now. “I didn’t.”
“Did he touch you, Eleanna?”
“No!” I look up into his eyes. “No, Mark. No one has touched me.” He’s panting down at me, icing and pie filling mussing up his shirt. “No one but you.” I manage to whisper. He looks like he wants to kill me. But he also looks…frozen? Warring with himself maybe. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He’s just watching me. “Are…are you hungry?”
“Fucking starving.” He says, still glaring. “Get on the table.”
