Chapter 6
CHAPTER 6
T wo hours later, I arrived home to a shambolic kitchen and Rupert lying on the good sofa (forest-green velvet – an impractical choice, given my homelife) chewing my half-read Anita Heiss novel. And though the kids and Matthew were asleep, every light in the house was shining. Dimmers and off switches be damned.
Matthew hadn’t waited up to ask how my first day had gone. We’d barely nodded to each other earlier this evening as he arrived home just as I was leaving.
I was so hyped I knew I wouldn’t sleep – though tonight’s conversation had been boring enough to put most people into a coma – so I wandered into the study, and pulled out a collection of prints I’d taken in New York the summer I won the scholarship. My favourite was a black-and-white photo of an elderly couple sitting on a park bench. I thought back to that day. Central Park had been frantic with activity. Roller bladers zigzagged between bike riders, kids played tag, and dogs barked and chased squirrels. Through it all, the couple had sat together holding hands and smiling, oblivious to the bustle around them. They were gorgeous. And content. Satisfied. Together .
In bed forty minutes later, I studied Matthew, who was crashed out and snoring, and wondered if we’d be like them in our old age – content? I hoped so, but right now, we were like two icebergs slowly drifting apart.
When I first met Matthew, I didn’t need to indulge in fantasies about other men. Matthew was my real-life fantasy man, my escape. And now? Well, he was still handsome, clever and hard-working. But he wasn’t the man I married. The man I married was wild, gregarious and funny. These days, Matthew was too busy working to have fun.
But he was also thoughtful, kind and great with the kids. All things considered, Matthew was solid. So I didn’t know why I lay awake at two in the morning most nights agonising over inconsequential stuff like the lack of sex and laughter. We had a great marriage, except… for the loneliness. I guess as the years had sailed by, life had become predictable – busy but mundane. And there was never enough time for the two of us. Sometimes it occurred to me Matthew might not be in love with me anymore, that he no longer desired me. Perhaps that part of our lives was over. If so, what were we? Flatmates who shared a bed? The thought was so depressing at times I could barely look at him.
Finally asleep, I dreamed I was hosing the garden, lost in reverie, enjoying the sun, the water, the quiet. My hands moved along the rubbery hose, almost caressing it. Suddenly Arnaud appeared behind me, grasped my waist and murmured in my ear in his so-sexy French accent he couldn’t wait to have me. He wanted me now, here.
The children! Matthew!
My protests were weak. He laughed and kissed me behind my ear, savouring the sweat that had collected there, told me I tasted of the sea, then wrapped a blindfold around my eyes, warning me not to make a sound. He picked me up in his arms. I struggled, but didn’t mean it, and he laughed again, low and throaty.
He carried me into the house and up the stairs and lay me on the bed.
Don’t move , he warned, stripping off my clothes. I tried to turn away. He shouldn’t be here! This was wrong! What if the kids came home? What about Matthew? Arnaud held my arms above my head, pinning me to the bed, and lowered himself over me, kissing my neck, my nipples, my ribs. He smelled of the mountains, woodsy, fresh and more than a bit dangerous. His tongue left blazing trails of fire as he held me immobile.
I gave myself over to wanting him, needing him, demanding him. As he entered me, I arched up to meet him. I was deep within the throes of ecstasy when I woke, exhausted, hot and sweaty in a mess of tangled sheets.