Best Women's Erotica(52)
Downstairs I sip coffee and look out at the sea, making a mental checklist of things to do. Put the washing on, do the dishes, buy groceries, job hunt. It’s been three months since we arrived on Skye, and “job hunt” has been on my To Do list every day since then. Rory was fine; mechanics are needed everywhere and he got a job in days.
But there’s not much call for events organizers on an island with only a few thousand people. I’ve been turned down for work as a waitress in a seafood restaurant, secretary at a golf range, and ticket-seller for boat tours. I’d thought my long red hair and blue eyes would go down well in public service here, but apparently my London accent doesn’t sound very pretty to the residents of Skye.
“Any plans for today, love?” asks Rory as he fills his flask with coffee.
“Just the usual.”
“I know it’s a bit shit just now, but you’ll find something. There’s not a lot out there. It’s only a small island.”
“It’s been months. I’m getting bored of waiting around.”
Rory kisses me on the top of my head. “I know, love. I’ll bring you some paperwork home, that’ll cheer you up.”
I swipe a play-kick at his retreating rear end. He chuckles and pulls me in for a hug; I smell clean skin and a hint of oil from his work clothes.
I finish my coffee, kiss Rory good-bye, walk him to his car for another kiss then come back inside and decide which chore to do first. The ticking of the clock is irritating me and making me feel restless. The housework is waiting, but it will still be there after I spend a few hours having a nice long bath. And if I feel like a little self-love while I’m there, all the better for my motivation. I get my favorite bath oils, turn on the hot water and think about the girls on the sand.
By the time Rory gets home from work, all I’ve managed to do is masturbate twice, wash a few plates and confirm that there are no new job postings since yesterday.
“Pasta and cheese for dinner?” I ask as he hangs up his jacket.
“I know you so well.” He pulls a plastic-wrapped block of cheddar out of his jacket pocket, puts it in my hand and kisses me.
Two hours later, we’re cuddled on the couch, full of cheese and wine.
On the television, a man is investigating some sort of crime with the aid of several outlandish forensic techniques. I snuggle in under the weight of Rory’s arm, putting my feet up next to his on the footstool.
The girls from the beach flicker through my brain: slick pale skin and whispers floating across the sand.
“Hey, Rory.” I tilt my head up and press my lips in a kiss on the underneath of his chin.
“Mmm,” he says.
“Do you think you might feel like…” (I recall the girls’ soft skin, the throb of my orgasm, my heels pressing into the sand, and oh, how I want him inside me), “…uh…like some ice cream? I’ve got a craving.”
“Sure. I’ll get it.” Rory ambles off to the kitchen, and I lean my head back against the couch. I appear to have forgotten how to seduce my own husband. We’ve only had sex twice in the three months since we moved here, and I’m not even sure why. I’ve desired Rory since the moment I pushed in front of him at a crowded bar: his broad shoulders, his dark blond hair, the way there’s always a smile caught in the corners of his mouth. I took him home that night, and we’ve barely spent a dawn apart since. I don’t even know how many hours I’ve spent pressing my skin against his, sliding up his body to dab kisses along his jaw, pressing my breasts against his chest and feeling his hardness against my lower belly. We could spend the whole night like that, enjoying each other’s bodies, climbing slowly to orgasm after orgasm.
Lately, though, it just hasn’t been happening. There’s something about this island; I feel foreign here, uncomfortable, like I don’t know how to find my way home. I want to love Rory again, but I’ve forgotten how.
Another night of watching the moon, turning over in my restless bed, and glancing jealously at Rory’s sleeping shape. Every one of my breaths comes out as a sigh. My clitoris feels swollen and my heart is thumping too fast. I throw the covers off and pad downstairs, pulling on Rory’s waterproof jacket and Wellington boots. The night sounds of distant birds and the whispering sea press tight around me. I can smell salt on the cool air.
Before I realize where I’m going, I’m on the path down to the sand. It must still be hours before dawn, and I am the only person on the vast silver shard of the beach. Lit up by the moon, everything looks two-dimensional, like paper cutouts. A thought slips across my mind: perhaps I fell asleep in bed after all. Perhaps none of this is real.