It seemed like all I did was clean and organise the house around my husband’s schedule. Kept everything in order. It was like I’d been transported back into the 1940s. All I needed to complete the ensemble were a few curlers in my air and a pink ruffled apron.
Oh, and maybe a cigarette trapped between scarlet red lips… I could kill for a cigarette. But I wasn’t allowed, they were off-limits, as was any sort of alcohol. Well, except for the bottle of cooking sherry that I had to keep hidden away, just in case. At least he didn’t restrict my food indulgences, yet I had a nasty feeling that was on purpose.
At the sink, the bowls clean, I kept my hands in the warm water. I was mesmerised, watching as the clear stream coated the backs of my hands and trickled down my wrists.
It felt good.
The sound of Eric’s footsteps from upstairs echoed throughout the house. I closed my eyes and followed his path from the bedroom to the landing, and finally as he galloped down the stairs as if he couldn’t wait to get out of the house.
To get away from me…
His aftershave drifted into the kitchen before he did. Predictable, that’s what the scent should’ve been named.
I nearly gagged.
I waited for him to speak, but when he remained quiet I looked over my shoulder.
He was dressed in his usual attire: dark pants and a sky-blue shirt. The sleeves were rolled up his thick forearms. I could see a couple of strands of his brown hair sticking up at the wrong angle at the crown of his head. I didn’t let him know that he should comb it.
“I gotta go,” he said absent-mindedly, rushing as he slipped a tie around his neck. Our eyes met, and I turned away.
“Already?” I mumbled. A quick glance at the kitchen clock in the shape of a cat told me it was too early.
I wanted him to walk forward, to slip his arms around my waist. God, I needed him to do something out of the ordinary for a change.
Why couldn’t he lift my robe, slip his hand in between my panties and make love to me against the kitchen sink? My legs parted slightly just thinking about it.
After another argument the night before we’d gone to bed angry once again.
“Don’t ever go to bed angry,” I heard my mother’s voice chime in my head. Yeah, what would she know? She’s already on her third marriage. But maybe there was some truth to the saying.
One good love-making session was what we needed. I was sure of it.
But he would never do such a thing. Never in the morning.
That would be too improper.
But then again, it never happened in the evening, either.
“Can’t be helped,” he said from the kitchen doorway. “I have to pay for all these nice things you keep ordering.”
My teeth mashed together, and I kept my head faced forward, trying my best to ignore the snide comment. My temples pulsed as I bit my tongue. Why did he have to bring that up? He couldn’t just let it go.
He acted as if I maxed out our, sorry his, credit cards on a regular basis.
He grunted as if my silence meant he’d properly chastised me. I shook my head and sighed; we couldn’t go on like this.
“Wait,” I said as I turned, my back leaning against the edge of the counter. I was desperate to be touched, to be loved, but my legs were cast in cement, unwilling to move towards him. I wasn’t going to be the one to make the first move. He’d have to come to me if he wanted me, if he wanted to make it up to me for screaming into my ear last night about the clothes I’d ordered but would now have to send back, because he didn’t like the look of them—too revealing, too young. He preferred me in my old chunky sweaters and baggy sweatpants. It was a wonder he hadn’t taken away my satin robe and replaced it with a hideous terry towelling dressing gown.
Eric was in the process of grabbing for his briefcase as I let my dripping wet hands reach for the satin belt at my waist. The peach blush of the thin robe darkened to a dusky hue as droplets of water were quickly absorbed into the fabric.
I undid the loose knot, careful not to break eye contact with him, urging him to take notice, and then slowly I allowed the material fall away. The curtains of the robe caressed my bare sides and revealed my creamy, if not a bit pudgy, skin beneath.
I was all but naked, except for a clean pair of white lace panties.
My full breasts were on full display for him, my nipples beading into hard little nubs the longer they were exposed to frigid air surrounding us.
“Stay,” I whispered. I arched my back a fraction, the movement causing my chest to expand, my tits to swell.
For a fleeting moment I saw his indecision. The thick bob of his Adam’s apple and the rapid blinking of his eyelashes beating furiously in shock as if he’d never seen his own wife naked before. Come to think of it, I couldn’t remember a time when I’d been naked in my own kitchen before now. We’d never fucked on the kitchen counter like you’d see newlyweds do in the movies—going from room to room, christening every nook and cranny, not caring who heard them, just enjoying each other.