Chapter Thirty-Two
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
I run for the bathroom.
Unceremonious, I know. But I panicked, okay?
After I spit into the sink, gargle, and rinse, I find myself staring into the mirror, trying to catch up with what just happened. My cheeks are flushed, lips definitely swollen, and my hair is a total mess. I got a little scared at one point when Anton grabbed me—I thought I was going to suffocate or gag for a couple of moments. But I didn’t. And when I caught the look on my husband’s face...
I close my eyes, tuning in to the slowing thrum of my pulse. And as I look up again and glimpse my reflection, there’s something new there, almost like a glow.
When I woke to Anton’s touch this morning, I didn’t know what to do. How to respond. I felt like I owed him—it was his turn , of course—but I wasn’t sure how to proceed. After my experience with the rabbit, it felt like I should do something different. Try harder. I wished I’d asked the girl at Playful Pleasures for some tips, but since I hadn’t, I freaked out and ran from the room to get my phone.
From the safety of our bathroom, I managed to pull up an article titled “The Classic Guide to Blowjobs,” which...did seem like the perfect response to what he’d done with the rabbit. I’ve given them before, but never really knew what I was doing, so I took a moment to run over the major points. It seemed pretty straightforward: focus on the head, make sure not to go too fast , keep him slick and wet, make eye contact, etc. But the article’s number one bit of BJ advice caught me by surprise: be enthusiastic .
Huh.
Obvious, and also something I’d never really considered.
So, I went for it, putting on a big smile as I got started, trying to act like having his dick in my mouth was what I lived for. On a basic level, the whole concept of sucking another person’s genitals seems so...odd. Pleasurable to be on the receiving end, I had to admit, especially after last night, but how could that be fun for the giver?
Except this time was different.
As I went along, grinning and pretending my husband’s rock-hard dick was the best thing I’d ever tasted, I started to kind of get into it. I think everyone’s heard of those studies where forcing the facial muscles into a smile supposedly sends a message to the brain that can convince it you’re happy. Well, maybe the same holds true for blowjobs? I started out simply going through the motions, checking boxes off the guide in my head—with a smile—but the longer I worked at it, the less it felt like a chore. And, if I’m honest, it has always felt like a chore. After a while, I even started getting into what I was doing, paying attention to Anton’s responses. I was interested to see what his face looked like when I changed position or speed. The way he gasped when I popped off the tip. A little thrill even rose up in my core at the sound of his groan when he came—and not just because it meant we were done.
Now, staring at myself in the mirror after getting him off, I have this giddy sense of satisfaction. My whole body feels weirdly awake and alive. Even though I’m not the one who had an orgasm.
I almost, kind of, want to do it again.
All because I smiled?
After I finish cleaning up, I’m wrapping myself in a towel when I hear my phone playing the theme to Gone With The Wind . Scarlet’s calling—on a Sunday? My brain shifts quickly into business mode, and I dash back into our room to answer, giving Anton an apologetic wave when he looks up from the bed .
“Hello? Scarlet?”
The distinct sounds of sobbing meet my ear. “Lydia,” she says. “I broke up with Trent.”
“Oh,” I say, trying to come off sympathetic, but this is also weird. Scarlet has worked for me for three years, and while we have a great professional relationship, we don’t share much personal stuff. “I’m sorry to hear that, Scar. Do you need to take a few days?”
“No.” She bursts into sobs all over again. “I called to let you know I’m moving back to California.”
I blink, but she keeps going before I can figure out how to answer.
“I know I ought to give you two weeks,” she says, voice quavering with apology, “But my lease is up in a week. I leave Saturday.”
Whatever was left of my glowy feeling fades. I wander out of the bedroom, resting my head against the bathroom doorframe. “Your schedule’s booked out six weeks,” I mumble.
“I have a friend who’s looking for a job. She said she’d call you.”
I close my eyes. “Okay, give her my number.” Decent groomers are impossible to find. I’ve been lucky to have Scarlet this long. “Is there any way you’d consider staying on another month?”
“I’m moving in with my mom. I’m so sorry, Lydia.”
After we hang up, I sink back against the wall, trying to wrap my head around how to run two businesses, launch a third, and groom a full schedule of Scarlet’s dogs. I glance back toward our bedroom. Not to mention make time for my marriage.
When I return to my husband, it’s pretty clear the prior moment has passed. Anton’s at the edge of the bed, shirtless in his joggers. My heart sinks when he doesn’t look up. I bite my lip, watching him shove his feet into his sneakers, realizing too late, again , that I made the wrong move. Things were starting to feel different between us for the first time since the hotel. Why couldn’t I just stay in the moment? Let the call go to voicemail?
Then again, it’s not like I totally skipped out on him. What we did—this morning, last night—that should still count.
So why does it feel like I blew everything?
I pull the towel more tightly around my naked body and sink next to him on the bed, but just as I do, he stands and starts pulling on a shirt. The air seems thin. Maybe there’s a storm system moving in. Or the air pressure is simply dropping in this room.
I open my mouth to say something about that. The weather. That’s a good, safe, stupid topic. Perfect for everyone from strangers to people married for seven years. But then he grabs his phone and heads for the door. All I want is to tell him about Scarlet, acknowledge what we did , and maybe lean my head on his shoulder and cry about how hard everything is. Instead, I manage to blurt something else important.
“Someone wants to buy the Pooches.”
He stops, fingers curling at his side, the muscles in his arm and chest standing out with the tension. He looks back at me, and a flicker of something—confusion? surprise?—passes over his face. He still doesn’t speak, but he turns fully toward me.
“One second.” I hold up a finger and dart from the bed, still clutching the towel around me. I return with my laptop, glasses perched on my nose. Anton tenses at first, until I shove the computer in front of him. I pull up my current business plans for both The Pooch Park and Ooh La Pooch, and my balance sheets for the past two years. Then I click over to the written offer Charlotte forwarded from ABizCorp, LLC .
Anton takes the computer from me and settles back against the headboard, scrolling down, his eyes flashing over the text as he absorbs the pages of legal language I have only skimmed. This is something he’s really good at; he always makes sure he understands the fine print. I scoot out of the way, nearly losing my towel in the process. He must catch the movement because when I look up, his gaze burns so hot I expect the towel to burst into flames. An echo of sensation from last night heats up in my core and spreads through my body. For half a second, I’m convinced he’ll shove the computer aside and pull me back into his arms.
But he doesn’t. He clenches his jaw and drags his eyes back to the screen.
“I—I’ll go make coffee.”
In the kitchen, my chest flutters with a mix of regret and relief. About what happened last night. And this morning. Why things got weird. And finally being able to talk to him about this huge business decision.
I’ve just poured us each a strong cup of my favorite dark blend when he comes into the kitchen and places the computer on the counter. He takes the mug I offer with a nod, sipping it black while I add cream to mine. I’ve replaced the towel with my more practical robe, but somehow I still feel naked with his eyes on me. I adjust my glasses, straightening a little, trying to focus all of my attention on the screen, ready to hear his steadfast professional analysis of the offer we’ve received. He will lay out the pros and cons, maybe plug some figures into Excel, and we’ll discuss data projections and other things he understands and can explain much better than me. I will listen attentively, careful to consider everything he says, before I get around to telling him I’ve already made my decision.
But when our eyes meet, I falter. The lines that recently started crossing his forehead are missing. His shoulders have straightened. And there’s a light in his face I can’t remember ever seeing.
He glances at the screen, then raises his eyebrows. “Seems like a great deal to me.”