by Roxy Harte
Chapter 6
Jameson
I have just finished making the boys pancakes when I hear someone at the front door. They sit at the table eating, watching rain fall through the large kitchen window and pointing with glee at each long streak of lightning that cuts through the gray sky. Together they count loudly, “One and two and three,” timing the length between flash and crash.
A soft rolling boom rumbles over the house as I open the door to find Emma. “Ah, hon, you’re about three hours early.”
“Dad!” Tom yells from the kitchen. “Three miles! I think it’s getting closer.”
“Awesome! Keep counting!” I tell him. Tom is my oldest, at ten.
“We need to talk.” Emma steps into the foyer, behind her it is a dreary day, rain falling in sheets. She demands, “Is she here?”
I shake my head, this power match too exhausting to endure much longer. “Bianca doesn’t spend the night when the boys are here.”
“Good. I believed you when you said that.”
I laugh. “No, you didn’t, that’s why you’re here—to check for yourself.”
“Mommy?”
“Hi, Mick. Give Mommy a hug and then go watch TV while I talk to Daddy.”
I watch my middle son hug his mother and a sudden longing fills me. I miss Saturday mornings as a family, all of us eating pancakes and laughing…and loving. I try to remember when the fighting began and what spawned it.
“I was eating pancakes,” he tells her.
Her eyes meet mine over his head. “Pancakes?” Her eyes fill with sadness, and I know she misses our traditional weekend routines as much as I do. “Well, you go finish your pancakes while I talk to Daddy, because in a little while we’re going to go do something really fun, okay?”
Mick does as he’s told and much whispering ensues in the kitchen, followed by the other two boys coming into the foyer for hugs and kisses from Mommy before being sent back to the table to finish their breakfast.
“Okay, you boys stay in there while the grown-ups talk about grown-up stuff, got it?” I demand in the strong daddy voice. I wait to hear their reluctant mumbles of agreement. I point Emma to the stairs that lead to mine and Bianca’s bedroom.
She shakes her head. “I am not going up there.”
“Look, Emma, it’s a tiny cottage. Your choice is bedroom or bathroom. It isn’t going to get any better, and I think you’ll agree that anything we need to talk about this early in the morning needs to be said away from curious ears.”
“I agree,” she answers reluctantly and mounts the stairs. Once we are in the bedroom, she just stands there, looking around. I don’t know what she expected. The bed is unmade, Bianca’s bright yellow silk nightie lays on the floor where it was tossed several nights ago, and her multiple perfume bottles form a scattered cluster on top of the long chest of drawers.
When Emma faces me, I can see the hurt in her eyes, but I also see the need. She came here for sex. She probably also needed to make certain Bianca didn’t stay last night, but mostly she wants to assert her claim on me. The thought should bother me more than it does.
She wants to fuck me in Bianca’s house.
I laugh as I go to her, wrapping my arms around her. “God, you make me crazy, Emma!”
I lift her and she wraps her legs around my back as I walk toward the bed.
“No! Not there!”
I spin around, thinking chair, table, but what happens is her back colliding with the wall, her long, ethnic print skirt shimmying around her waist, and my gym trunks sliding down, just enough to do the job, and then I am thrusting inside of her. Her hips pound into the wall, and her legs wrap tighter around my waist to hold on. I feel like a man who hasn’t eaten in weeks. I cannot get enough of my wife. She cries out, and I know that she is coming.
She covers her mouth with her hand, she’s always been afraid the boys will hear, and in the silence of her held breath, I whisper against her face, “God, Emma, I’ve missed you.”
I take her down to the hard wood floor and pull my sweatshirt over my head to cushion her knees as she rolls onto all fours. I enter her hard and fast. I feel myself hit against the barrier of her insides as I hold onto her hips for leverage, pulling her into me hard as I thrust deep. She cries out again and again; I feel her sob building, this fucking is emotional, unexpectedly hard on me too.
“I want you, Emma. I want you back in my life. Every day. Not just twice a week.”
My orgasm explodes, and I feel that she is coming a second time so even when I want to stop thrusting because my pleasure has changed to sharp bursts of pain with each stroke, I keep moving…until I feel her stop shuddering. Until she says the words, “Stop, stop! I can’t take any more.”
I collapse on her, and she folds flat against the hard wood surface, Bianca’s yellow nightie trapped beneath her cheek. I don’t say anything. What would I say? Besides, I don’t want to break the spell of whatever just happened.
Until this moment, I had no idea how badly I wanted my wife back.
I feel her struggle beneath me, trying to roll over. I lift my weight enough to make that happen, and then we are lying face to face. She pushes my bangs away from my eyes, and I kiss her forehead before looking down at her, trying to find in her eyes some spark that indicates love is coming back and this wasn’t a mistake.
“Did you mean what you said?” she asks.
“Which part?”
“The part about wanting to be back in my life full-time?”
I kiss her forehead again and then each eyelid. “I never wanted to move out in the first place.”
“I made it impossible for you to stay,” she says, and it is a statement, not a question, so I refrain from comment. She starts to cry.
“What is it?”
“I was stupid. I wanted you to choose. I never thought you’d pick her…over me. Over our children.”
I wipe her tears, reminding her, “That isn’t exactly the way it happened.”
She nods her head, hard and fast. I know her well enough to know that a fresh bout of tears is on their way. “Yes, it was exactly like that.”
“Please, please, Emma, I don’t want to have this same fight.”
“Neither do I,” she insists, pulling me down, kissing me like a woman savoring her last kiss, and I don’t want it to be the last kiss we share.
“Tell me what to do, Emma.”
“Come home. Come home today.”
I pull back and look into her face, trying to figure out exactly what she is asking of me.
“I don’t even care if you see Bianca, just don’t rub my face in the fact that you are…and I don’t want the boys to know about her.”
I pull up into a sitting position, my weight on my knees, still straddling her. I push my hair out of my face, deciding I need a haircut, badly. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Just say yes.”
“What’s happened, Emma? You’re saying that you want things to go back to the way they were before I moved out, but the way things were made you miserable. What changed?”
I do not expect to hear the next words that come out of her mouth.
“I’m pregnant.” Her hard gaze into my eyes is like a burning brand. She challenges me to deny her. I especially know this is true when she adds, “I don’t want to raise our children alone…and I don’t want to do it with another man—I want you to step up to the plate and be the man I know you to be.”
The room fills with sudden, bright light and a loud boom rattles the glass. “Fix your skirt,” I tell her, pulling my sweats up just as the boys fill the room.
“Dad! I think that one hit something!” Dave announces. At six, he is quickly growing up, and until a minute ago, he was the baby of the family.
I ruffle his golden hair and pull him down into my lap, because he is still young enough to appreciate hugs and kisses from Dad. “I think you’re right, son. I think you’re right.”
Chapter 7
Bishop
My mind takes a snapshot of the intoxicating view in front of me, it is a scene I don’t ever want to forget. Bianca stands pressed against the window, eyes closed, an erotic vixen. My gaze lingers on her stockings and stilettos. If I’d known just how incredibly sensual she was under her plain black raincoat, I wouldn’t have dallied over coffee.
A ray of sun lights her face but beyond, rolling in from the sea, is a bank of dark clouds promising a storm. She wears a mask of angry determination, a challenge. It is a perfect expression against the natural backdrop.
I smile, thinking that I put that look on her face. She is such perfection.
I lift her, and she trembles in my arms. I want to believe it is because she recognizes something special is happening between us. I carry her to the bed and lay her down gently. She looks at me with an undisguised lust that makes my blood boil. Yes, she is a well-rehearsed temptress.
She’s a woman who has obviously been around the block, had a number of lovers. I hate to even consider how many since she is currently involved with two men and I am the stranger she went home with. Not that I am casting stones, because God only knows how many strangers I’ve had sex with. I only consider her experience as favorable because I am counting on her having had enough experience to know good sex from mediocre sex—and identify what is happening between us as something more along the level of stellar.
However, despite her experience and reported soreness from the excessive use of one of her two men, she seems to be in need of what neither of her current lovers can give her. I wonder how it can be that not one, but two men, can share a life with the woman lying before me and neither retain a clue what to do with her. She is like an exquisite gift, a brightly wrapped package on Christmas morning. The shame is that she has never been opened, but rather left tightly contained, the mystery of her true value hidden. I have no intention of leaving her in the condition I found her. She deserves better than that. She deserves to know how remarkable she is, and if either man was making her feel emotionally, physically, and spiritually complete, she wouldn’t be here with me.
I sit beside her, my gaze lingering on her luminous beauty. I lift her hand to my lips and kiss it. She pushes up onto her elbow, wrapping her other hand around my neck, and makes an attempt to pull me in for a kiss, a kiss I know I will get lost in, perhaps lose control over, so I resist.
“I want you,” she tells me. “Please.”
I reach behind her and unfasten her bra. She has magnificent breasts. I love the way she shudders when I tease my tongue along the edge of lace. The straps slide off her shoulders, but I am slow to pull the bit of lace away from her body. I kiss the tops of each breast, teasing my lips along the edge of lace until I hear her moan. I look at her face and see her head tipped back, her eyes closed, lost in the sensation of the moment. I draw the lace down, and her nipples pop free of the fabric. I take one of the nipples into my mouth and tease it into an even stiffer peak, licking, sucking, nipping.
Her lips lift off the bed as her back arches with pleasure. I toss the bra to the floor, trying to maintain the slow pace. I slide my hands over her breasts, cupping them, squeezing them, tweaking her nipples before lowering my mouth to suck them, pushing her breasts together to pull both of her nipples into my mouth at the same time. She cries out, her need apparent.
I am not gentle in my attention. I suck hard, nip playfully.
I will not leave her wanting, but rather well sated. By the time I am ready to move from her nipples to other places, her panties will be soaked with her desire. Although I doubt she would be impressed to know that my pleasure skills come from spending so many hours deliciously torturing Hiroko, who isn’t always able to have sex in a traditional sense. We improvise, and I’ve learned every erogenous zone and the techniques meant to make the most of those wonderful sensitive spots.
I hold her where I want her with one hand over her stomach. When she arches up, I press her back. She wants to rush this, because that is what she knows. I am going to show her the height of rapture patience will bring.
“Oh God, Bishop. I am not a patient woman.”
“Are you always in such a hurry?” I tease, sliding my hand between her thighs, feeling the raging heat coming from the furnace of desire inside of her. I sit up and when she would have risen with me, still trying to unbutton my shirt, I hold her down with a hand over her ribcage. I make her wait. “Uh-uh-uh, patience has its rewards.”
I turn my attention to her garters, detaching her hose and sliding them down the length of her legs, letting my fingertips trail over the bare skin as it is exposed. Her hips are lifting off the bed by the time I have her completely bared.
“Please, take off your clothes.”
Smiling, I wriggle my eyebrows. “You want me to take off my clothes?”
“Yes,” she says exasperatedly.
I chuckle and wink. “Now that I finally have you nude, I think I can manage that request.”
“Finally?” She lifts her brow. “You took your time.”
I shrug and stand, backing away enough that she will have the full show as I remove my clothes. I’m not shy about it. I work out in a gym two hours a day, and my body is in good shape because of it. I’m no Mr. Universe, but that’s the point, I have no desire to be overly bulked, but what I have achieved in my calculated workouts is an equally balanced layer of solid muscle. I’m thin, but in a very good way, which is not to say that I am arrogant about my looks, the strength I’ve developed was for one purpose, to help my wife, no matter how weak she becomes, or how old I become in the process. I need to be able to lift her and carry her. I need to be the one who takes care of her as long as we are both alive. The beauty of my body is an incidental. It happened and it doesn’t shame me that I look good.
As I unbutton my shirt and allow it to fall open, her eyes widen and her lips part. She is pleased by what she sees, and I haven’t even taken off my shirt yet. I take my time giving her the full reveal, not a striptease, but a slow unveiling. I slide the shirt off and let it fall behind me. I unbuckle my belt, unfasten my slacks, and unzip, knowing that a low fire is building inside of her.
Taking a moment to pull a wrapped condom from my pocket, I drop it onto the nightstand, leaving no doubt between us where this is headed.
She bites her lower lip as I slide the pants off my hips, revealing modest, dark gray jockey shorts beneath. I step out of my shoes as I step out of my pants. I think for a second that there is no subtle way to remove socks, but then I realize that she isn’t even watching as I remove them. She is waiting to see what is under the Calvin Klein’s. I don’t keep her waiting, I am hard, my balls aching and tight from the confinement. I have been erect since I first laid eyes on her. I’m not certain how I would have gotten her attention had she snubbed me in the Chinese theater line. I just knew I had to have her. I never expected to take so much time with her, to be so careful with her, but then ever since we sat down with our coffee, she has been one pleasant surprise after another. I find myself curious about her…already caring…and I only met her four hours ago. I refuse to overanalyze this.
I have no plan other than the next minute as I climb into the bed beside her, my weight making the mattress sag a bit. She reaches out to touch my chest and this time I let her, allowing her hands the free roam that she so graciously allowed my hands on her body only moments before. She rolls onto her elbow, elevating herself to look down at me. Her mouth follows the path of her eyes, and I find myself covered with her kisses. She kisses a trail down my chest and over my stomach. Her long hair tickles as it bathes my body in a sensual caress.
My erection tightens, recognizing her intent. I have no expectations as she explores the tip of my penis with her tongue. I find most women to be sorely lacking in their fellatio skills, but as her tongue slides down the shaft, I start to think that maybe I have underestimated her abilities in this area. When her mouth returns to the head, she sucks the tip between her lips and bites down just a bit, before focusin
g on a series of rapid sucks that leaves me no longer doubting that a man somewhere along the way has coached her on how to give an amazing blowjob.
She takes me to the edge, alternating rough with soft, and at the moment I am about to blow, she releases me and slides back up to the pillow beside me. I close my eyes so she will not see they are rolled back into my head. Tit for tat, is it?
She cups my testicles in her palm, rolling them gently, her soft squeezes pushing me toward climax even though she has stopped sucking. “Was that okay?” she asks shyly.
I roll up and over her, taking her by surprise. She gasps, taking most of my weight as I shift. “I think you know that it was quite better than just all right.”
She giggles as I straddle her. I lift up, a one armed push-up to take the weight off her chest, while I part her legs with my other hand. I rearrange until I am straddling only one of her legs, leaving her open and exposed to my exploration. I slide my finger through her wetness, and she winces. So she really is tender…
“Do you always play so rough with Jameson?”
She ducks her head, embarrassed. “No. I was a bit surprised myself. Sometimes it happens with Adrian, but that’s when I get over zealous on top, enjoying the rub, the friction…Jameson is usually fairly gentle.”
“Did he purposely sabotage your date with Adrian?” I ask, not trying to be subtle.
“No!” she exclaims, seeming shocked that I would suggest such a thing, but I also see a register of doubt in the depths of her eyes. “He wouldn’t do that.”
I lift my eyebrow, challenging her claim.
“I’ve been seeing Adrian for almost a year, and this is the first time something like this has happened.”
“A fluke then?” I ask.
“Yes,” she agrees.
“When he made love to you yesterday morning, it was missionary position?”
She blushes all over and in doing so makes herself even more enchantingly beautiful. She rolls her eyes and hides them behind her hands.