Chapter 2 #2
Nothing crazy, just . . . more: a silk tie restraint, domination, anal play, adding a little pain to enhance the pleasure. Something. Anything. Those things even make me nervous but aren’t nerves the first step in knowing you’re alive?
A slow ache coils in my lower belly as I imagine how hard I’d come if Anderson would dare to experiment with me. It’s the ultimate trust in your partner to want to share that. Clearly I haven’t done a good enough job of explaining that to him.
That or he simply doesn’t care.
It’s all harmless to think about. Fantasies are much safer in my head than anywhere else. I’m not looking elsewhere for it. I’m looking at him. Doesn’t he get that?
God, I’m pathetic. I have a good life. A great husband. So what if the sex is a little lackluster? A million other people probably feel how I do.
Whenever Anderson walks into a room I still want him to seek me out over everyone else and give me his time. At over six foot and physically fit from his daily workouts, he still takes my breath away. His combination of dark hair, pale blue eyes, and dimples when he smiles still make me swoon.
How do I communicate that it’s only him I have both my eyes and heart set on?
That my desire for more isn’t because I find him lacking, but that he could do no wrong? Except not try.
I have no desire to look outside our marriage for this fulfillment—none—when so many other marriages meet their demise that way. I want my husband. But I also want him to tune back into me and my needs and make me a priority.
And that priority just might be to respect and love me outside of the bedroom, but challenge me inside of it.
The hollow sound of my chuckle rings more pathetic than cheerful. I need to accept facts as facts—Anderson isn’t going to change or experiment.
“Yep, you’re losing it all right, Lil.”
Am I slurring? I don’t slur. Yet . . . my voice sounds odd—off—as it hits my ears. I narrow my eyes, scrunch my nose and try to focus. The ground blurs and the walls on either side of me feel like they’re moving.
Did I really drink enough to feel this woozy?
I give a quick shake of my head but it only serves to make the world spin around me more fiercely.
There’s a faint bitterness lingering on the back of my tongue that isn’t wine. I try to swallow the taste away but even that makes my stomach twist and turn.
I’ve never felt this way after three glasses of wine before.
You’re fine, Lil. Pathetic, feeling sorry for yourself, but fine.
The sob comes out of nowhere. It’s out of place and unexpected—maybe it’s the alcohol hitting me harder than it normally does—but I miss Anderson.
I’m angry at him but I miss him.
Memories hit hard.
They flash like a slide show through my mind. Especially those first five years when life seemed easier. When we were the center of our own world without all of the demands that pull at us now.
We were adventurous. Imaginative. We made sure no surface was left unchristened and orgasms were mutual.
Kitchen counter, his desk at work, the back seat of his car parked behind the diner where we had our first date.
There was a thrill in knowing we could get caught.
I smile forlornly, thinking of when I used to give him spontaneous blow jobs while he drove us home or how his hand would wander underneath my skirt at a restaurant and test if I was wet enough.
And if I wasn’t, he’d order desert and sit there, draw out the meal, his fingers idly playing between the juncture of my thighs.
Where did that man go? Is he just as lost now as I was then? Has the stress of work and being the head of our family stripped him of that carefree ease he used to have while the years have encouraged mine?
Now it seems like the only time his hand lingers on my thigh in public is when he taps it to ask me to pass him the salt.
My stomach growls.
Food. I haven’t had any. That must be why I’m so woozy.
Chocolate-covered strawberries.
There are some in my room.
The bellhop delivered them just as I was leaving. No doubt the card sitting tucked in the top of them is from Anderson. An apology for his absence. An I’ll make it up to you.
But strawberries can’t bridge the distance that’s grown between us.
My head’s fuzzier now. I struggle to concentrate on anything as I run a hand along the wall to help me keep upright.
Somewhere in the dark, footsteps scrape, light and measured. Not close enough to cause panic but near enough to make me pick a direction. Or rather, try to.
“Bellisima?” The deep timbre of the accented voice startles me.
I turn toward the voice as black seeps in the corners of my vision. Does he mean me? He can’t mean me.
More footsteps.
One.
Two.
They move closer. Then stop.
My body is aware of him. The soft sound of his breathing. The faint scent of his cologne. And . . . peppermint? Something smells like peppermint.
Another shake of my head. My heart hammers against my ribs. My feet refuse to move.
Hands slide around my waist from behind me. My hands go to push them off me but instead I’m tugged against him. His body is warm against mine but the chill of his grip cuts through my carefree sense of safety.
Fight back.
The words are there in the haze of my thoughts but don’t relay to my limbs.
The cologne. It’s the man from the bar.
Why? What? I open my mouth but nothing comes out.
The stubble on his chin scrapes over my bare shoulder and the warmth of his breath feathers over my ear and cheek.
My stomach pitches.
No. The word screams in my head but nothing comes out of my mouth as I resist him.
His palm is rough as it slides over my mouth and prevents me from doing either.
“Bene. You are mine, then.”
A shiver of terror ricochets through me.
Then the darkness hits, pulling me under its welcome tide.
It consumes me.
It owns me.
My world slips away.