Chapter Twenty-Nine
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The back door slams, sending an unexpected jolt between my legs. I hear Anton throw the lock, and then he’s shuffling around, doing something at the sink. Moments later, the sound of Heartthrob guzzling water echoes like a metronome from the kitchen, mingling with the clinking of a few dishes and mugs as Anton unloads the dishwasher.
God, he must be dreading coming in here as much as me.
Heartthrob comes down the hall, greets me with a tired tail wag, then circles and curls into his bed. I stare at the empty doorway, wondering if my husband will follow.
The black plastic shopping bag crinkles loudly in my hand, and I resist the urge to run outside, to throw it and everything inside it in the trash. What am I supposed to do, whip out the hot-pink vibrator and just present it to him? Hey, I know we’re having trouble in the bedroom, so here’s something I bought for me. I haven’t forgotten what the salesgirl said about it helping both of us. But I can’t help second-guessing everything now that it’s time to actually use it.
He moves from the kitchen to the living room at a slow pace, and I carry the bag to my side of the bed, my limbs like tight rubber bands. What if he doesn’t come in here at all? I listen for the sound of him picking up his keys, opening the front door to leave. He’s probably gotten impatient and found someone else on Unmatched over the last two weeks.
Except he promised.
And after a while his footsteps start down the hall.
I look down at myself, and my heart leaps in my chest. I’ve been so worried about the stupid vibrator, I haven’t thought about anything else. I’m still in my work clothes, hair a mess—not exactly super sexy. Before Anton can round the corner, I toss the shopping bag on my nightstand, dash past him into the bathroom, and lock the door.
“I—I just need a moment to freshen up,” I call, then immediately grimace. What am I, a character from some old-fashioned movie?
He pauses outside the door, then continues into the bedroom, saying nothing in response. But that isn’t surprising. Our conversations haven’t been super verbose this week. I turn on the water in the sink just to drown out the sound of my roaring thoughts. My pounding heart. I grab my toothbrush, brush my teeth, floss. Neaten my hair. But unfortunately, without going into our room, I have nothing more attractive to change into. I consider just taking off all my clothes and throwing myself at him nude, but that feels too much like my last few unfortunate attempts at intimacy, the memories of which tie my stomach into knots. In the end, I remove my shoes and bra, but keep my leggings and T-shirt. It’s a starting point, I guess.
My phone pings in my pocket as I reach for the door, and I pull it out to see who needs me. But it’s just my mom sending a gazillion more pictures of my happy sister and her happy baby. My mind spins down a rabbit hole, and I find myself wondering if Celia enjoys sex. That’s not the sort of thing we’ve ever talked about. I cringe, trying to shake images of my sister and her husband in various positions, then I clench my fists, annoyed that I’m in here thinking about them naked when I should be naked with my husband. I silence my phone and leave it on the bathroom counter.
When I tiptoe into our bedroom, Anton’s perched on the end of the bed, head bowed, almost like he’s meditating. He’s switched on one of the low bedside lamps and put on some quiet music, and I’m grateful there’s some sound besides our breathing and the creak of my feet on the floorboards. The black shopping bag rests on my nightstand undisturbed.
I move toward my side of the bed to get the rabbit because I have zero other ideas about how to start, but halfway there my brain finally kicks in. I remember something the salesgirl said about working up to certain things. I pivot, stepping awkwardly toward my husband instead.
He doesn’t move, but in the dim light, I can tell he’s watching.
I wish he would do something. Reach for me. Help me get the ball rolling. But I’m the one who wanted to try. I’m the one who’s taken so long.
I stop in front of him, excruciating moments passing as I try to decide what to do. Finally, I reach out, hesitating a second before running my fingers through his thick, dark hair. This seems like a benign place to start. He stiffens, but doesn’t pull away, breath moving slowly in and out.
With him on the bed and me standing in front of him, his head is about at the level of my chest. I’m not sure if I should bend over and kiss him, or maybe kneel. If I kneel, he might think I’m going in for a blow job, and...I guess I could. I’ve tried them a handful of times, but it never felt like I was doing things right, with all the excess spit and inevitable gagging. From a practical perspective, that also doesn’t seem like an activity that would help me introduce the rabbit. So, after a very long cluster of seconds, I reach out and take his hands, guiding them to my sides, slipping them beneath the fabric of my shirt. I’ve done things like this before, but this time I keep my hands over his and move them together.
I startle at the warmth of his fingers on my bare skin, at the tingle that runs through me as I move them over my hips and along the curve of my waist. We reach the undersides of my bare breasts, and I could swear something changes in his breathing. In the way his fingers move beneath mine. I am no longer guiding them; he’s taking control. A tiny jolt of excitement unfurls in my core. He slides his hands higher, exploring the full curve of my breasts beneath my shirt, circling the soft swell and dipping down between, then just lightly brushing one of my nipples. This is somewhere his touch often lingers, and on instinct, I pull away .
But I catch myself, instead trying to focus where he’s touching and think about why he’s drawn there, centering my attention on the sensation rather than waiting for it to go away. The soft peak tightens, just enough to stand out against the fabric as his hands slide out from under my shirt, and as soon as his touch is gone my skin actually seems to crave his missing heat. He places his hands at his sides, like he’s completed the task assigned and is awaiting further instruction. And I realize he’s letting me lead the way.
I finger the hem of my shirt, debating whether I should just lift it up and cut to the chase. Wave my naked boobs in front of him. But something in the back of my head warns that’s too over-the-top again. He didn’t go for it when I “stripped” for him, so why would it work now? I bite my lip, scanning over his body. His gray joggers and trainers. His open hoodie and tight athletic shirt beneath, clinging to the broad, toned muscles of his chest.
Maybe my shirt isn’t the one that should come off first.
I move my hands over his shoulders, sliding my fingers beneath the fabric of his hoodie, guiding it down his arms until it circles his waist on the bed. I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until he pulls his own wrists free of the sleeves. He could have easily pushed me away, like he did the other morning. But he’s going along with it, and I exhale, running my fingers lightly over the snug blue shirt beneath. It hugs the shape of him that was hidden by the hoodie. The broadness of his shoulders and the way his torso tapers to his hips. I glide along the smooth, stretchy fabric until I reach the hem, and now it’s my fingers dipping under, slipping between the shirt and the heat of his skin. I work it up slowly, letting my hands run along every dip and ridge of his washboard abs and over the tight muscled curve of his chest.
And then his arms come up. I freeze, waiting for him to stop me, push me away. But he just pulls free of the sleeves, allowing me to slide the shirt over his head and drop it beside the bed. I pause a moment, taking him in once it’s gone. I know I don’t stop enough to appreciate my husband as a work of art, but he truly is. He carries at least an eight-pack to some men’s six, and you could draw a diagram of the male body’s muscles just by sketching the outline of his arms and chest. His neck and shoulders are well defined and don’t disappear into each other—but he is vividly strong. His slightest movements outline the ideal functions of his body.
Unfortunately, studying Anton’s perfection highlights how not fit I am. I’m no couch potato—I walk the dog, cycle, or swim whenever I can—but I don’t have the time or focus to lift weights, and I’ve never sculpted anything out of my body other than a decent waist-to-hip ratio. I like to rationalize that the few extra pounds I carry help accentuate my curves, but really I’m just lazy. I don’t have the inclination to work for the kind of physique he maintains, and I’ve always worried he’d prefer someone more like Caprice, who’s lean and toned from all the time she spends in the gym. Maybe that’s our problem. He has always encouraged me to exercise, and I do in my own ways, but never at his level. So I may never be enough for him.
I think of how I described myself as “athletic” on Unmatched rather than “curvy” and wonder if I got it wrong. Maybe I’m not what Anton was looking for. Maybe this thirty-day exercise is just me keeping him from his ideal.
Suddenly, I realize the air has cooled between us. I let myself get distracted, let my hands leave his skin, and now I’ve lost the moment I was trying to build. I steal a glance at his face, his expression unreadable, and I’m not sure what to do. He’s just sitting there, not touching me. And I’m not touching him. Part of me just wants to turn the light out and crawl to our separate sides of the bed like always, but again, in the back of my head, it occurs to me that doing that is at least part of how we got here in the first place. The fact that he’s here right now, with me instead of some stranger, is something. And though he hasn’t reached for me himself, he has stayed here with me.
So I make a move.
I grab the plastic bag off my nightstand. “I, um...I went shopping today.”
As soon as the words leave my lips, I realize it’s too early. And now it’s too late to take them back.
He raises his head. His mouth remains flat, but there’s a hint of something—curiosity?—deep in his eyes, where he can’t totally lock it away.
I fumble with the bag, struggling to remove the cumbersome packaging until I finally have the box in hand, and I present it to him like some pink battery-operated trophy.
“The salesperson said—well, I guess you don’t need that whole conversation, but she said it would be good since I don’t—I mean, well—” I force myself to stop. Take a breath. “It’s just something to try. If you want.”
I am so thankful that the sun has gone down. In the waning light of our bedroom, my face won’t glow quite as fire-engine red as it feels. Anton takes the box out of my hand and studies it. I chew my lip, trying to steel myself for his judgment, for him to hand it back to me and tell me he’ll leave me alone so I can have fun without him.
I’ve kept my eyes glued to the toy ever since I got it out, but I can’t take it any longer. I need to know what he’s thinking. Only I’m not fully prepared for the searing gaze he hits me with when I look up. His mouth is hard. But when our eyes meet, every inch of my skin prickles with a feeling like I’m about to be consumed.
He opens the box and takes the rabbit out, hand curling lightly around the rubbery shaft as he turns it over, studying its unique curving shape. It looks even bigger and more alien somehow in his palm. His thumb finds the power switch so quickly that I wonder briefly how he knew where to look, but then the room fills with a low electric hum.
My face is already burning hot. But I’m surprised when other parts of me seem to warm at the sound.
Anton switches it back off, and the air seems absent of something as he kicks off his shoes and rises from the bed, rabbit in hand. I swallow hard, trying to decide if it looks like he’s holding an instrument of torture or some sort of warped magic wand. We stand there looking at each other, not saying anything, until he finally speaks.
“You should probably get on the bed.”