Her Fantasy

Chapter 1

Chapter One

The keys slipped from my hand and fell to the porch as I balanced the cumbersome grocery bags in my arms. “For fuck’s sake,” I said much too loudly for this quiet suburban neighborhood. I kicked the bottom of the door, and my husband opened it from the other side, his lips set tight.

“Why do you always try to bring them all in at once?” he asked.

“Take one trip or die trying,” I said through clenched teeth, my arms tired and straining. That was a motto I lived by for most of my adult life.

After he relieved the burden of most of the bags, I picked up the keys and headed inside.

“You’re so stubborn.” He smirked at me as he placed the bags on the counter. I knew I was. I shaped my entire life around it.

I looked around the kitchen, which I kept immaculate at my own expense.

If I wasn’t working, I was cooking or cleaning.

No one told me adulthood would be so repetitive and mundane.

The sunlight gleamed off the white quartz countertops.

Brown coffee stains glared at me from the counter by the coffee pot, and I fought the urge to clean them.

I had more exciting things on my mind. I’d received an email telling me a long-awaited package had arrived that morning, but as I glanced around the kitchen, I didn’t see it anywhere.

“Did I get a package, babe?”

Michael began pulling items from the bags and putting them away. “Yeah, I think it’s still in the mailbox.”

“Gee, thanks.” I rolled my eyes as I trudged back outside and pulled the brown-paper box from the metal mailbox.

My heart always raced a bit too fast when I got a new package, especially when it held something I was so excited about.

I ripped open the top and pulled out five new paperback books, grazing my fingers over the spines as I went back inside and closed the door.

“Are those your smut novels?” Michael asked with a roll of his eyes.

“Damn right they are,” I said as I spread them on the counter. The covers were magnificent. Each showcased dark themes with a gorgeous contrast of colors, and men were the centerpiece on each one—delicious men.

Michael leaned over and looked at them for a moment before curling his lip.

He lifted one of the books, flipping it back and forth in his hand for a moment.

He pulled his glasses from his breast pocket and perched them on his nose before silently reading the back.

“A toxic, dark Cosa Nostra duet.” He dropped it on the counter and pushed it away from him as if touching it had somehow soiled his fingers. “Why do you read this garbage, Zo?”

I hated when he called me Zo. That was the name he used when he thought I was being ridiculous.

I was not being ridiculous. It was my hobby, and it made me happy.

These books were art, not garbage. Masterpieces.

I scooped my books into my arms and cradled them against my chest as I made my way to the living room without giving him a response.

I was done with his negativity. He would never understand what these books meant to me because he couldn’t wrap his mind around the lives they let me live.

I sat on the couch with a huff. “Do I say anything about the sports or video game books you read?”

“At least those things are real.”

That was true. Each book I read immersed me in a world and relationship I would never experience.

Whenever Michael rubbed my back while we watched the newest Netflix series, I would daydream about being taken on the kitchen counter or followed ruthlessly by a hot stranger.

The stark contrast between our mundane relationship and the passion in those stories was hard to ignore.

“Games aren’t real. I see no difference between you playing in a fake world and me reading one.” Checkmate.

“Fair point,” he said with a smile as he brushed his hand through his blond hair.

This was the marriage I needed to have. A healthy one.

I once sought men who needed extensive therapy, requiring me to be their parent instead of their partner, which was a whole different problem.

Michael was different. He was a kind, hardworking, and handsome partner.

He only lacked things I selfishly desired for myself—he wasn’t very affectionate, spontaneous, or open-minded—but his pros fully outweighed his cons.

We were perfect for each other . . . outside the bedroom.

In the bedroom, the differences between us equated to the distance between Mars and Jupiter.

We were from different planets. If he’d only read one of those stories, he would have understood what made me tick, things I couldn’t find the courage to mention myself.

I ragged on Michael for things I didn’t give him a chance to change, but I wasn’t the maestro of sex, either.

I was too insecure about my thick thighs and the bit of chub beneath my shirt.

I wasn’t some model or porn star, and I felt that at my core when I had sex.

Fuck me, but don’t look at me, please. Every jiggle of my fat pulled me away from an orgasm.

How could I come when I couldn’t stop thinking about what to make for fucking dinner tomorrow or that I’d gone up a pants size again?

I was sick of thinking. I wanted to be ravished so roughly that I couldn’t think if I wanted to, but I loved Michael so much.

If we synced up in the bedroom, we’d be perfect.

Michael finished putting the last of the groceries away and came toward the couch.

He leaned over me, planting a kiss on the top of my head.

It bugged me a bit because I wanted a real kiss.

I wanted him to press his lips against mine with a hunger that said he needed me.

But that wasn’t real. We never fed a dangerous fire built from passion that risked burning everyone around us. We were just a smoldering glow.

“How was work?” he asked.

“Exhausting, as usual. I’m beginning to think I don’t belong in customer service,” I said with a sigh. “You?”

“Busy. The sweet embrace of death can come for me at any time.” He flopped down beside me and grabbed his tablet from the coffee table.

“We are such positive people.” I laughed. “Who wouldn’t want to be around us?”

That’s what our marriage looked like. Me with my nose in a book and Michael flicking away on his tablet.

The raw and uncensored version of what it meant to be comfortable.

I made it sound terrible, but I wouldn’t have traded Michael for anyone, not even one of the men in my novels.

Book boyfriends couldn’t be your husband.

Michael kissed my lips before following a path down my chest. He was hard against his boxers, and I felt it through my cat pajama pants.

So attractive, I know, but they were fucking comfortable.

He fumbled with them until they slid off my legs—he’d never been the most graceful person—and his lips grazed my thighs.

For a moment, I thought he would go down on me.

Instead, he came up to kiss my lips once more.

When was the last time he ate me out? It had to have been on my birthday . . . two months ago. Why was I thinking about that? Focus.

He drew me back into the moment as he rubbed his warm cock against me.

I didn’t even realize he’d removed his boxers.

Shit, that was terrible. His fingers rubbed between my legs, but I wasn’t anywhere near wet enough for what he wanted to do.

I looked over at the lube on the bedside table.

It was just out of reach, and I was too tired to get out of bed to get it. I was too exhausted to care.

Somehow I managed to get wet enough from the half-hearted touch between my legs, and he pushed inside me with a groan.

He fucked me but my mind wandered instead of focusing on the motions of his hips against me.

I moaned softly. He still felt good, filling me just right, and he wasn’t bad at sex.

I was just bored. I couldn’t blame him for that, and I wasn’t exactly helping in the arousal department.

I had stopped trying to look good for him, and I hated myself for it.

Even though I disliked myself for doing that, I still didn’t have the motivation to change it.

When had this become such a job for me? Something that felt like it had to be done to truly be husband and wife?

When had I become such an old lady in a twenty-five-year-old body?

I used to be wild and insatiable. I still was, but now those traits inhabited my brain, lurking through the shadowy places in my mind.

My thoughts wandered again, revisiting every book boyfriend I’d ever had.

I closed my eyes and imagined their strong, fiery hands racing over me—a touch overflowing with desire as harsh words left their lips.

Every thrust made me feel like I didn’t matter while also making me feel as if I was the only one who mattered.

Guilt filled my chest. This is wrong. Fictional or not, it’s wrong.

I opened my eyes as Michael leaned down to bury his face in my neck. His thrusts slowed and pushed deeper inside me. He groaned and sent a warm breath rolling over my skin, leaving a longing inside me as he pulled away.

I cleaned myself off with a towel I kept by the bed and thought about the lack of clean-up in the books I read. No running to the bathroom. No tightening of muscles to keep come from dripping down their thighs. Just lying in the embrace of their lover, filled and happy.

I got up to pee. As my footfalls landed on the soft carpet on my way to the bathroom, my eyes roved over all the things that made this house a home.

Our home. I worked, but he worked harder and for longer hours.

He was the reason we had what we had, and I was being an ungrateful shit.

But I couldn’t stop myself from wanting more.

I firmly remind myself that my books weren’t reality. My reality was boring, but that was what I needed. That was normal.

But sometimes I wanted more than normalcy, and that's where my books came into play. There was nothing average about any of these stories or the people within them. Their lives were full of angst and fast-paced drama. As hot as it was, that would be equally exhausting after a while. The men in the books weren’t good for anyone.

They were morally gray in all the sexy ways that made me melt, but they would have made my real life hell.

I washed my hands, returned to our room, and crawled into bed beside him. He’d already turned over and fallen asleep. I wished I could fall asleep like that.

I forgot to take care of that thing at work.

The meat in the fridge has a best-by date of . . . tomorrow.

Remember when my boss saw one of my books on my desk three years ago?

Oh, remember that kid in high school who tried to stealth me while we were having sex? Dude wasn’t very fucking stealthy.

My thoughts drifted from the boy in high school to my first boyfriend, the boy who took my virginity. I became stuck in a haze of memories, recalling the excited hands of teenagers getting to do something they shouldn’t do. The risk. It was all so electrifying.

My thoughts wandered even further down a rabbit hole of darkness. After replaying all the embarrassing moments from my past, I finally drifted into a well-earned sleep.