by Tanya Chris
I jerked my hips, trying to guide him in the right rhythm. He glanced up at me, checking to see if it was working. I found myself slipping into my old ways of faking what I wasn’t feeling.
Damn it, Nate, I thought. You made it all seem so easy.
Feeling my wetness recede beneath his awkward movements, I sat up, pulling him with me. I smiled at him like I was feeling a lot of things I wasn’t feeling and took a deep breath.
He was still beautiful— kneeling naked with that bold cock extending out in front of him, a little drop of clear, sweet pre-come glistening at the tip. I leaned down and licked it up, turning my head to smile at him. He brushed my hair back from my face.
I spent a few minutes going down on him for both our sakes. With my eyes closed and his cock in my mouth, the sensuality of the moment filled me until my pussy started running again. He might not have talented fingers, but he did have this golden dick which I’d only gotten a sample of earlier.
“Way past fifteen seconds,” Derek said. “Come here before I run out of control again.”
I was less wet and he was less desperate, so the slide was slower. He pressed all the way in—deeper, I was sure, than he had the first time. So, so deep.
He bent his head to kiss me, his tongue hard and hungry against mine. Then, rising to his knees, he leaned back and lifted my legs and began to move. This wasn’t a position that normally did it for me, but Derek was having an unexpected effect.
“God.” I closed my eyes, my head dropping back involuntarily. “God. Derek.”
“Mm,” he answered, moving faster.
“Jesus, God.” My body fractured beneath the strength of his strokes. Never had sex felt like this. My hands clawed at the bedspread, my back arched up, my eyes rolled towards the wall behind me, seeing nothing. Wave after wave of near-orgasmic pleasure slammed into me without separation or mercy.
“I can’t,” I mumbled. It wasn’t just the bigger cock brushing against every inner inch. It was that angle, the way it ground his pubic bone against mine.
“More, more,” I corrected when he slowed his pace. “More, more, more,” I repeated until he leaned back impossibly further. I screamed when I came. His hands gripped my hips as he came with me.
More, more, more, I thought, my head still shaking left to right against the bed. More, God. His body on top of mine was a dead, heavy weight against which I had to force myself not to grind my clit.
“Better?” he asked, rising up on his elbows to look at me, his voice and expression smug.
“Good enough.” I lost the battle I’d been having with myself and pressed my hips up into his. “Can you do better?”
“I might need more than ten minutes.” He sat up and swung his legs off the bed to remove the condom.
“Take all the time you need to get it right.” I brushed a hand along his back, feeling the muscles passive now beneath his skin. “Maybe I could be your new project.”
He dropped the used condom on the nightstand. “You want to keep this up?”
I scrambled to sit up, hugging him from behind. “Yes. Yes! Did you think I only wanted you for a night?”
“The way you were talking ...”
“Because there’s someone else doesn’t mean I don’t want you.”
“How does that work?”
“It’s like this—we’re friends, right?”
He nodded.
“But you’re not my only friend. We’re climbing partners, but you’re not my only climbing partner. We’re lovers—”
“But I’m not your only lover,” he finished. “I get it.”
“You wouldn’t really want me to be your girlfriend. Do you want to bring me home to Mom and Dad? Take me out on double dates with your friends?”
He grimaced. “If I say no, I sound like an asshole.”
“You don’t have to say no, because I’m not asking to be your girlfriend.”
Any other guy would be jumping at what I was offering, right? I had to find the only sexually conservative twenty-five-year-old climber in the history of sex and climbing.
“So just this?” He gestured at the condoms.
“This and everything we already had.”
“This was nice.” He came to me, pulling me down onto the bed so I lay against his side. “I don’t mean to sound like I’m complaining. I didn’t like drunken sex with strangers, but ...” He sighed. “I seem to be sober, and you’re not a stranger, and I liked this very much.”
“So did I, especially that last time.”
“I thought you liked it.” He grinned like any healthy red-blooded American male who’d made someone scream with pleasure would.
“So we’re OK?”
“It’s that guy, isn’t it? The one you brought to the gym that day. I saw how he was touching you.”
“Nate, yes.”
“Don’t need to know his name.”
“You already knew it.”
He shrugged.
“I think I told you that I’m separated. You don’t need to know my husband’s name if you don’t want to.”
“You sleeping with him too?”
“Definitely not.”
“Any others?”
“I didn’t do this on purpose.”
“Oh, really? That felt on purpose.” He didn’t sound angry. His hand stroked my stomach lightly, his cheek nuzzled against the top of my head.
“Well, yes, that I did on purpose, but getting involved with two guys in the first place was more of an accident. I like him. I like you.”
And I can’t have either of you for real, I thought.
“If you want me, you can have me,” Derek kissed the top of my head. “How can I say no?”
Chapter 16
My eyes were gritty, my shoulders sagged. It had been a long day at work following a late night. Derek hadn’t left until two or three and even then my mind had refused to settle into sleep.
I kicked off my heels as soon as I walked through the door, tossing my pocketbook on the table in the entryway. Pulling free the clips that held my hair off my face, I headed upstairs to change. My plans for the evening included a bubble bath, a romance novel, and an early night.
The doorbell rang behind me. I paused mid-step and considered ignoring it. Jehovah’s Witnesses? Someone who happened to be in the neighborhood repaving driveways and would do mine for half price while they were there? Shirley from across the street with flyers for the annual block party? Whoever it was, I wasn’t interested. As I resumed my trudge up the stairs, the bell rang again.
With a sigh I turned and headed back to the door, my quads screaming with every step down. All that walking uphill with a pack that I’d done that weekend had translated into pain when walking downhill today.
I opened the door, a frown already in place for whoever was keeping me from my bubble bath. On my porch stood a man in brown slacks, a white button-down shirt, and a tie that was too short and too fat for the last twenty years.
“Melissa Wells?”
I agreed warily, waiting for the sales pitch to follow. Without another word, he handed me a manila envelope and turned and left.
I carried the envelope into the living room where sunlight streamed in through the picture window. Inside were a handful of pages stapled together, the first page of which was titled Summons. I was being sued. Confused, I flipped to the next page. Divorce Complaint.
Alex had filed papers. He was suing me for divorce.
I sat down, my hand groping blindly for the arm of the couch to guide me as my eyes scanned the other pages—five sheets of paper that laid out the end of my marriage. A divorce is being sought because, the form asked. Alex had checked the box labelled This marriage has broken down irretrievably. My marriage had broken down irretrievably.
I leaned back into the couch, its overstuffed cushioning swallowing me like a hug. I pulled my feet up and wrapped my arms around my legs, resting my cheek on my knees. Outside, someone was mowing their lawn, the buzz of the motor
approaching and then receding.
Our lawn service came on Tuesdays during the day, every Tuesday like clockwork. Good people. One of Alex’s co-workers had recommended them, the one with the tattoo curling up out of the neck of his dress shirt. Odd for a lawyer to have a visible tattoo. Sometimes people got them when they were young and came to regret them. I didn’t have any tattoos. Alex either. Nate either, which was unusual at his age, maybe because he’d have to cover them on stage, or maybe due to a characteristic lack of commitment. Derek had a dragon wrapping around his left calf and some sort of Asian character on his right shoulder. I’d have to ask him what it meant. I supposed I’d see him climbing tomorrow. We hadn’t really discussed next steps.
Next steps.
My stomach growled. I picked my head up and looked out the window. The sun was setting; a dim orange dusted the horizon. The lawn mower had stopped. I lowered my feet to the floor and felt blood rush back into my legs. I turned on the lamp on the end table next to me. The light reflected off the papers I’d let drop there. I looked away from them, back to the setting sun. It took a long time for the sun to set, not like a light snapping off—a patient, progressive settling.
“I’m not sure we should be married anymore,” Alex had said, standing next to that same window. The sun streaming through it had sparkled in his still-damp hair. It had been three days before his birthday, four days before Valentine’s Day. I’d already bought the presents, wrapped them, stashed them—a high-tech running watch for his birthday and his favorite socks for Valentine’s Day. The gifts lingered unopened in the back of my closet still, one in blue paper, one in red.
I’d sat here—this cushion of the couch, the one that was mine when we watched movies together, Alex on his end of the couch, me on mine, perhaps a bowl of popcorn balanced on the cushion between us. I’d sat here—this cushion of the couch—and Alex had said he wasn’t sure we should be married anymore. That was the day the divorce started, not today.
My stomach gurgled more insistently. I went into the kitchen and opened doors randomly and was confronted by dusty cabinets and a cavernously empty refrigerator. Grocery shopping was a mundane chore, easily overlooked in the excitement of seduction.
In the freezer I found a frozen dinner left over from a previous diet attempt. Five and a half minutes later I was shoveling two hundred and fifty calories of spongy spaghetti and spongier squash into my mouth with an enthusiasm born of hunger. Having disposed of that, I browsed through the cabinets a second time and located a dusty box of protein bars—one of Alex’s former health kicks. After two bars, my stomach was no longer the part of me that hurt the worst.
Wishing there was wine in the house, I made myself a cup of tea and carried it up to the bathroom for that bubble bath I’d been looking forward to, my feet dragging on the stairs. As I waited for the tub to fill, I stripped, catching sight of myself in the bathroom mirror.
My cheeks and nose glowed red from the weekend sun. My bangs had grown long enough to tuck behind my ears. My face revealed my weight loss through a narrower chin and more sharply defined cheek bones, and when I lifted an arm to reach towards my face in the mirror, a slight ridge of muscle raised along my shoulder. A healthy, fulfilled Melissa looked back at me with sad eyes.
Maybe Nate would come over, I thought. I ran back down the stairs, not bothering to grab a robe, my thighs complaining about the quickness of my steps. I found my phone and pulled up Nate’s number. When his voice mail recording kicked in, I hung up. Nate wouldn’t listen to a voice mail, but he’d see I called.
I sank into the hot water, the phone close enough to reach but out of danger. I leaned my head back against the spa pillow Alex had bought me for Christmas a few years ago. We’d always intended to redo the bathroom someday so that I could have a real spa. The pillow was meant to bridge the gap until then. Children, a spa. I’d put off someday too late.
Where are you Nate? I need you.
The phone rumbled against the tile floor, wind chimes playing. I picked it up and read his message: “Rehearsal. Call after.”
I tried to appreciate that he’d taken the time to acknowledge my call, but words on a screen couldn’t begin to ease the ache. I needed physical presence, a man’s arms. A hug. I needed a hug.
I wrapped my arms around myself, my hands feeling the unaccustomed strength of my own biceps.
Derek, I thought. I sat up and grabbed for my phone. My thumb reached for the Contacts icon to look up his number even as I realized I didn’t have it. I’d slept with a man whose phone number I didn’t know. Whose last name I didn’t know, if it came to that. Only Katrina and I had linked to each other on Facebook. The others were no more than first names and climbing resumes to me.
I picked up my tea and closed my eyes. Derek would come if only I could summon him. I summoned him mentally, fixing my mind on the image of him kneeling naked beside the tub, rubbing my feet, his serious brown eyes looking up into mine.
The phone rang. I scrambled for it. Nate. Maybe Derek—he’d figure out how to find me. I accepted the call faster than my mind could process the name on the screen.
“Hey,” I said, pushing warmth into my voice.
“Hi,” Alex said warily.
“Oh.”
“Not who you thought it was, I guess.”
“I didn’t look,” I admitted.
“I thought we should talk.”
I sighed. Might as well get it over with. The tub hadn’t been working anyway.
“I’ll call you back in five minutes.” I’d be damned if I was going to discuss our divorce naked in a bubble bath.
“Melissa.”
“I will,” I insisted. “I need five minutes.” I hung up on him before he could argue.
Out of the tub, dried and cozy in pajamas, I wished for the second time that there was wine in the house and made a second cup of consolation tea. I curled up in one of the easy chairs—intentionally avoiding the fateful couch cushion—and called Alex.
“Thank you,” he said when he answered.
“I’m sorry I’ve been ducking you.”
“I’m sorry I had papers served on you without warning.”
“Well, you did tell me to get a lawyer.”
“Yeah.”
We were both quiet for a moment. I didn’t want to get a lawyer. I didn’t want to fight Alex.
“I don’t really want you to get a lawyer,” Alex said. “I don’t want to fight you.”
“I don’t want to fight you either.”
“I was mad about ... the condoms. Not mad. Jealous.”
“You—”
“I know, Melissa.” His voice was heavy and tired. “I know. I was still jealous, OK?”
“OK.” I wished we could comfort each other the way we always had after a fight—Alex would draw me into him, his broad chest covering mine, his cheek resting on the crown of my head. I’d wrap my arms around him, my hands reaching up to spread over his shoulder blades, my cheek against his collar bone.
I comforted him as best I could by phone. “I’m sorry about what I said the other day. I was angry, so I was mean.”
“Yeah.” He didn’t deny that I’d been mean. “Did you ... ? No, never mind.”
I let it drop. Whatever he’d been about to ask was best left unanswered. There was nothing about Nate or Derek I could honestly tell him that would lessen his jealousy or soothe his ego.
“We need to figure some things out,” Alex said after a moment. “Financially.”
In all this time, nothing had changed. My paycheck went into my bank account and Alex’s went into his. Automatic transfers moved money from our individual accounts into a joint account and other automatic transfers paid the common bills—mortgage, utilities, landscaping. For four months I’d been the only one living here, but we’d both been paying the bills.
“I can’t keep paying double rent,” he said.
“I don’t even know where you’re living.”
“I have a studio on the o
ther side of town. Small, ugly, and loud, with no off-street parking. I figured it’d do for the short term, but this isn’t going to be short term, is it?”
“I guess not.”
“I’d like to upgrade, and even this place is tough with half my paycheck going into the joint account.”
As a couple, Alex and I led a financially comfortable life. We’d married the summer after our graduations—mine from undergrad and Alex’s from law school. Although we carried masses of student loan debt between us, our starting salaries made even those early years reasonable, and things had only improved from there.
After a few years, we’d bought this house. No starter house for us. This one had everything we needed to raise our two point five children: a fenced-in yard in a safe neighborhood, four bedrooms, and a finished basement for a playroom.
“I can’t afford this place myself,” I said, working through some quick math. As a couple, we were well-off. Individually, the situation was trickier.
“I know. That’s why I haven’t changed anything up to now.”
“I’ve got to move.”
“We don’t have to decide anything tonight. I’m sorry. If there was a way to keep you there ...”
“But there’s not. Not on my own salary alone.”
“Look, don’t do anything drastic yet. What I’m proposing is we use savings to pay the mortgage until the divorce is final. It’s fair that our joint money pays the mortgage because when we sell the house, we’ll split the profit.”
“I guess so.” I hadn’t thought that far ahead—an actual divorce, the actual splitting of assets—mine and his as separate piles. “I mean, technically, you’ve always paid more into the joint account.”
“That’s what a marriage is, Melissa. What we own, we own together. Let’s keep it simple. We’ll split the house and the savings. You keep your 401k and your car and I’ll keep mine, and that’s about it, I guess. It really is simple,” he concluded, sounding as surprised as I felt.
I ticked off our shared life on my fingers: one house, one joint savings account, one joint checking account. Divide down the middle and walk away.