Chapter 43
Imiss Arthur.
That’s strange to me. This missing. When I was with Daren, I enjoyed spending time with him. I liked falling asleep at night with his body beside mine and waking up with him in the morning. But I also craved alone time. When I went to visit my mother, those weekend trips were a relief. A break.
Why did I need a break?
When I was on my own, I was happy not to go out to the bar or have to host friends at our house. No need to fill the hours with energy and enthusiasm even if I was worn out from a week of work. No need to entertain my boyfriend.
Oh my God, is that what I was doing?
Thinking back now, yeah, kind of. Daren is the opposite of an introvert, and I can’t recall any hobbies he has that are solo. People are drawn to his charming life-of-the-party attitude. But that attitude never really shuts off.
And it can be exhausting, especially when I needed to just zone out or quietly work on my online courses. There were times when I had to quarantine myself in our bedroom to finish a paper while he had buddies over to loudly watch a football game in our living room.
If Daren went on a trip for work or with his friends, I would sprawl across our bed, turn on a show I liked, and treat myself to a bottle of wine and a frozen pizza.
Like a slumber party with myself. I loved those lazy nights.
Now, back from Lexington, I’m trying to do the same thing without Arthur here. I’m in my bed, glass of wine in my hand, plate of pizza in my lap, the latest John Wick movie playing.
And . . . I’m lonely.
“No,” I say to the empty room, “I’m not. I don’t need anyone.”
Even in the beginning of my and Daren’s relationship, I don’t remember feeling like this. Horny for him, sure. And I’m horny for Arthur too. But it’s more than that.
I want his large, warm shoulder against mine. I want to make jokes and hear his grunt and see his beard twitch as he tries not to smile. I want to coax words out of him. I want his piney soap scent in my nose and my lungs.
When my pizza is gone and half the bottle of wine is finished and I’m not feeling the least bit sleepy, I grab my drink and pillow and abandon my bed. Arthur’s is comfier, even with my new pillow topper. He just doesn’t have a TV in his room.
The space is quiet and seems too cavernous without him. I plop my pillow down, set my glass on the bedside table, and shimmy under the covers.
Here, at least I can smell him, and I breathe in deep, dragging his pillow closer to my nose, like a weirdo.
My phone is in the pocket of my sleep shorts, and still looking to drive away the loneliness, I slip the device free and pull up my favorite web comic app. I read some stories as I finish my wine, hoping the alcohol will make me sleepy enough to ignore the continuing ache of Arthur’s absence.
It doesn’t.
I’m picking him up tomorrow. Less than twenty-four hours till I see the big bear again.
The reminder doesn’t help. I want him now.
Every nerve in my body tingles with hot wanting. My tongue is saturated in wine when all I want to taste is him. Rolling over, I bury my face fully in his pillow, trying to smother myself in his evergreen essence.
Mistake. Now, I miss him more. My pelvis presses against the mattress, hips rocking, horniness skyrocketing.
What’s the point in denying myself?
I slip my hand past my waistband, discovering I’m already wet. I let out a whimper when my fingers graze my clit.
Feels good. But not as good as when Arthur does it. Now that I’ve shown him exactly how I like to be touched.
God, he was so eager. So diligent.
“Damn it,” I mutter, feeling sorry for myself in my drunken missing-Arthur state.
Does he miss me?
Maybe . . . I can make him miss me.
An evil thought surfaces through the lusty wine haze in my brain. I flip on my back, continuing to stroke myself, and reach for my phone with my free hand. It takes a couple of tries with my nondominant hand, but eventually, I get the text screen open.
Not trusting my ability to type individual letters, I tap the voice-to-text option.
“I miss you,” I say and send. Then, I frown at how vulnerable and whiny that sounds.
Not sexy enough.
“In bed,” I clarify. Send.
“I’m texting this one-handed.” Send.
“The other one is busy.” Send.
“I want your cock.” Send. But my phone changed cock to rock, so I pause my masturbating to retype the correct text to make sure he doesn’t misunderstand my dirty talk.
Send.
For the next however long it takes me to find my release, I text Arthur all the best parts of having him in bed and what I wish he were doing to me.
“Oh fuck. I think I’m . . .” I can’t finish the message, my phone dropping from my hand and landing with a thwack on my chest as the orgasm clenches through me.
The pulses of pleasure are good. The release relaxing. Nothing compared to the magnitude of what I’d reach if Arthur’s body pressed me deep into the mattress.
But this was what I needed for tonight to finally wear me out. I fall asleep with a smile on my face.
And forget to set an alarm.
Which means I wake up an hour later than I meant to, and in the rush to get clothes on, hearing aid on, teeth brushed, and out of the house so I’m not late to pick up Arthur, I completely forget what I did the night before to lull myself to sleep.