Do it for Love
*
You’ll always love me, right?
The next few days blurred together—a relentless cycle of work meetings, video calls, and evenings spent shoveling cereal into our mouths for dinner.
Robert and I exchanged weary nods; our connection was stretched thin by his preparations for graduation and my overwhelming workload.
Our marriage felt like two ships navigating the same narrow canal, always moving but never crossing paths.
Four days had passed since my mother’s announcement about her cancer. I hadn’t called her. I told myself she needed space, but the truth was, I needed time to sort out my thoughts before wading into the emotional storm she’d unleashed.
Robert sat cross-legged on the floor between the couch and coffee table, surrounded by papers marked with red ink.
His laptop balanced on his knees as he edited his dissertation.
I squinted at the screen and caught a snippet of academic jargon: “Sherd placement in Oklahoma Red #15 site suggests ceremonial purpose.”
“You’ve got a typo,” I mumbled through a mouthful of cereal.
In the past, Robert had relied on me to proofread all his papers. He’d practically beg me to catch mistakes, riddled with self-doubt. Now, instead of looking panicked, he smirked and arched a brow. “Where?”
I pointed at “sherd,” expecting him to fumble, but his eyes lit up with amusement.
“What?” I asked, confused by his reaction.
“For once, I get to teach you something,” he said with a grin. “Sherds are what archaeologists call broken pottery pieces.”
I rolled my eyes, unable to hold back a smirk. “Why not just call them shards?”
He shrugged, chuckling softly. “No idea. But I’m not wrong.”
Warmth spread through me as I watched him. His confidence had grown so much over the years. The Robert I first met would’ve called himself an idiot over a typo. Now, even if he’d been wrong, he would’ve just shrugged it off as an easy fix.
I reached forward and ran my fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck.
He tensed briefly before relaxing into the gesture.
I could almost hear his unspoken thought: What is Bree up to?
He never voiced it, but our silence spoke volumes about the distance we’d allowed to creep in.
It struck me how unfair it was that my husband questioned the motives behind my affection—and how deeply I knew I’d caused it.
I squeezed his neck lightly before leaning back onto the couch.
He turned and grabbed my ankle playfully, pressing a quick kiss to it.
As he returned to work, I batted him away with my foot, smirking.
In the background, an old war movie droned on, the dialogue blending with the quiet hum of our suburban evening.
After finishing my cereal, I set the bowl on the coffee table and grabbed the game controller. For a fleeting moment, I half-expected Robert to reach for me, to suggest something more intimate. But nothing happened. The quiet enveloped us again, calm, predictable, and suffocating in its monotony.
An hour later, Robert stretched and groaned, setting his papers aside. It wasn’t late—just past eight—but I saw an opening. I hadn’t done much work on myself or my therapy homework, but I felt ready to try something new.
I wanted to have sex. And this time, I wasn’t going to wait for the stars to align or for some romantic spark to appear magically. I was going to ask for it.
“Are you done?” I asked, keeping my tone light and teasing.
He nodded, pushing his papers to the side. “Yeah, at least with this round of edits.”
“Do you want to have sex?” I asked, my voice steady despite the nerves swirling in my stomach.
Robert blinked, then laughed—a quick, surprised sound. His brow lifted as he studied me. “No flowers? No dinner? No romantic musings or foreplay?”
His teasing tone hit me harder than I expected. I knew he didn’t mean to wound me, but the vulnerability of asking had left me raw. Why was it so hard to ask for what I wanted? Why couldn’t he see how much courage it took to try?
His expression softened, concern flickering in his eyes. He reached out and rested his hand on my leg, his touch warm and grounding. “Bree, I’m not trying to reject you,” he said gently. “You just caught me off guard.”
I scowled, frustration knotting in my stomach. Why did it feel like wanting sex was some unexpected twist? The couch seemed to pull me deeper into its cushions, suffocating me with the weight of my insecurities. I avoided his gaze, my mind racing with thoughts I couldn’t articulate.
“Bree, talk to me,” he said softly. “What’s wrong?”
I inhaled deeply, forcing myself to confront the swirling emotions. “I wanted to be upfront about wanting sex. I didn’t want to manipulate or pretend to be someone I’m not. I’m trying to be more honest, and I know sex is part of that.”
He stared at me momentarily with an expression I couldn’t place—something unfamiliar yet comforting. My first instinct was to label it as pity, but as he shifted to sit before me and cupped my face in his hands, I realized it was something else entirely.
It was love.
His lips brushed mine, and my chest tightened with a familiar thrill. He deepened the kiss, his fingers threading through my hair as he pulled me closer. The rest of the world faded, replaced by the heat between us.
A soft moan escaped my lips as his hands found their way to my blouse, unbuttoning it with slow, deliberate movements.
The crisp fabric fell open, revealing my pale pink bra—simple, worn, and anything but sexy.
Yet, when Robert’s lips trailed down my chest, dipping into the valley of my cleavage, the guttural sound he made sent shivers down my spine.
In his eyes, I was irresistible. My worn-out bra be damned.
I chuckled, reaching for his T-shirt and quickly pulling it over his head.
He leaned back for just a moment, fighting with the buttons of my jeans, his brow furrowed in playful frustration.
I watched him, admiring how his body had changed over the years—once skinny and toned, now softer and fuller.
The firm abs we’d both boasted in our early twenties had softened, replaced by something real, something comforting.
We’d both changed. But here, laughing as he tossed my jeans across the room, we were the same people we’d met seven years ago.
Yet, somehow, we were also completely new.
For the first time in a long time, it wasn’t about being some version of ourselves. I wasn’t “Suburban Briana,” and he wasn’t “College Man Robert.” We were just us—stripped of any pretenses, both literally and figuratively.
I pushed him back onto the floor, straddling him as I worked at the zipper of his jeans, my hands confident and sure.
As I freed him from the denim, I realized something important: I could be better, but not in the way I had always thought.
I could just be me. Robert wanted me—my softer middle, my grown-out roots, my old, unsexy bra.
He didn’t care about the layers I used to hide behind.
With a smooth motion, I guided him to my entrance, pushing my panties to the side, feeling his hands grip my hips as he pulled me down.
After seven years and countless times together, it was almost second nature, the rhythm of us.
But this time felt different. The cheap carpet beneath my knees dug into my skin, but it didn’t matter.
The way his fingers dug into my hips, anchoring me as I rocked against him, made everything else fade into the background.
I could feel my orgasm building as his hand slipped down, his fingers finding the sensitive spot between my legs.
The sudden burst of pleasure made me squeal, and Robert chuckled, his laugh deep and warm.
I kissed him, letting the moment sweep us both up, but before I could fully recover, he wove his hand into my hair and squeezed my rear with the other, flipping me onto my back.
I smirked up at him, breathless, as he plunged back in, our bodies falling into a perfect, primal rhythm. The groans we shared filled the room as I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him closer. His movements grew more urgent, his abdomen tightening as he approached his release.
When he finally climaxed, the sound he made—a deep, rumbling growl—sent tremors through me.
He continued to thrust, riding out the last waves of pleasure until he was entirely spent, his body collapsing onto mine.
He pushed the coffee table away with a grunt and then fell beside me on the floor, both of us panting, laughing softly.
I grinned, resting my chin on his chest as he closed his eyes. His hand searched for the throw blanket on the couch. He found it, draping it over us as we lay there, tangled in each other. His lips brushed my forehead, and he took a deep, contented breath.
I started to close my eyes, feeling the warmth of his fingers tracing lazy patterns along my back. But then I winced, a sharp sting pulling me from the moment. Robert opened one eye, his brow quirking in concern as he saw the angry red welt on my back—a souvenir from the rough carpet.
“Well, that’s going to hurt tomorrow,” he mused, a lopsided grin spreading across his face.
We both broke into laughter, the kind that comes from shared understanding, from being so comfortable in each other’s presence. Our married life was the type of relationship I didn’t know could exist.
Growing up, all of the relationships I had witnessed had a purpose. You marry to have children, you marry for financial stability, and you marry for attention. But this? I’d married for freedom and hadn’t needed Robert over the years.
I just wanted him.
I laughed, the sound light and unrestrained. At that moment, I realized something profound. I hadn’t needed Robert to fix me. I hadn’t needed him to make me whole. I had chosen him not out of necessity but out of love.
For the first time in what felt like forever, I felt like Brianna—just Brianna. And that was enough.
I could get used to this , I thought.