I missed Sam. Missed resting my head in his chest. The way he brushed my hair. The way his hands roamed my body. Making love until I was at the point of exhaustion every might.

Making love? Did I seriously just think that? Huh.

As if reading my mind, my phone vibrated from a message.

Sam: I’m hungry for peaches.

Smiling to myself, I bit my lip while I tried to figure out what to type back.

Me: That’s interesting. I was just lying here thinking how empty I am without your giant cocktail.

Being blunt was going to have to do.

Sam: Take everything off. Send me a picture.

Me: What if someone sees?

Sam: They won’t. I’m alone. I’m hard. And I’m thinking about you.

Me: Show me first.

A few moments later, a picture came through of Sam holding his cock.

I squirmed where I lay in the bed. Lord, I was obsessed with this man and what he could do to my body.

Sam: Your turn.

With my heart picking up a few beats, I got out of bed and went into the bathroom to strip. Then I stood in front of the mirror, practicing my pose for a bit to decide what looked more alluring. My back arched? Standing with my hand on my hip? Putting my foot on the side of the tub so he could see a little pink? There was a lot of pressure on.

Sam: I’m dying here, peaches.

Not wanting my husband to die with a giant hard-on, (you wouldn’t believe how often this actually happens) I quickly took a shot and sent it through. It was my reflection in the mirror, a hand on my waist and my hip kicked out to the side. Sexy but subtle.

Sam: Beautiful. Now a close-up. I want to see you touching yourself.

How was I even supposed to take a photo like that? Did I just hold the phone as low as I could and hope for the best? Or did I set it up and take the photo with my toes or something?

To make things even more uncomfortable, I still hadn’t done any sort of solo touching since Sam and I had been together—he’d always been so readily available.

Jesus, how do I? I tried to work out how to hold the camera first. Standing with my legs apart, then with my foot back on the edge of the bath, which seemed OK, I could work with that. Now I just needed to—holy shit!

My phone vibrated and fell out of my hand onto the tiled floor. Scrambling to pick it up, I breathed a sigh of relief when the screen wasn’t cracked. Then I sucked my breath in because of the message preview: the tip of Sam’s dick with a tiny drop of precum on the end with the caption ‘don’t be shy.’ Oh my!

I wasn’t trying to be shy. I was trying to be precise. Vag shots weren’t nearly as easy as cock shots seemed to be.

Going with the leg on the tub again, I opened the camera and flipped it into selfie mode before I slipped a finger between my folds and took the shot.

Send.

Sam: Keep going until you come.

Sam: Film it and send it to me.

Um. OK. How was I supposed to accomplish that? I’d never gotten myself off before, so of course I had zero experience filming it. I supposed I could just mimic what Sam did to me. But the more I thought about it, the more it made me feel uncomfortable. I was doing this for him, not because it was something I wanted to do.

With my thumbs hovering over the keypad, I considered how I was going to word my reply. I didn’t want to make him feel rejected in any way, just wanted to convey that I’d hit my sexting limit.

I decided to call instead.

“Peaches.” His sexy voice sounded delighted to hear from me.

“I’m not comfortable doing that in a video. I’m not exactly comfortable doing that at all,” I blurted, a slight edge of panic to my voice.

He chuckled. “That’s fine. Why don’t you just lie down and talk to me instead?”

“You’re not going to try and talk me into it?” I was a little shocked that he’d given up so easily.

“I’m never going to try and force you to do something you’re uncomfortable with. I’ve always told you that.”

“Then why did you marry me?” I snapped. I didn’t really know why. Perhaps it was because I was uncomfortable over his request, or because of my realisations over the depth of our relationship. Maybe it was because he was gone and I wanted him here. I was on edge.

There was a slight pause. “What’s going on, peaches?”

Pulling a cotton dressing gown on, I wrapped it closed and sighed. “I don’t know. I just feel messed up in the head.”

“Because your friend is there?”

“She hasn’t exactly been a ray of sunshine but no, it’s not her. It’s me. I think I’m just starting to realise a few things.”

“Like what?”

“Like how little I really know you.”

Silence.

“Sam?”

“I’m here. What don’t you know about me?” His tone changed from soft to brash.

I bit my lip. “I found out you went to prison.”

“Jasmine needs to learn to keep her mouth shut.”

“Don’t blame her. You’re the one who needs to open up more.”

“What, like you? Who the fuck are you to judge me when you don’t even know who the hell you are? Were you ever planning on telling me you couldn’t have kids? Telling me anything about yourself that I didn’t have to figure out for myself? You're a closed book. The only person you’re showing anyone is the person Jasmine has made you into.”

“That’s not true,” I argued. He was speaking lies. I was trying to fit in, but I was still me.

“Isn’t it? Take a look at yourself, Alesha. You don’t even know who you are without being told by someone else. You can’t sit there and tell me I’m the problem when you’re nothing but an empty shell we filled up and forced to behave.”

I gasped and he hung up in my ear.

Ow. I wasn’t expecting things to go downhill so fast. I contemplated calling him back, but my emotions were high and I probably would have started calling him names if he answered, going for his jugular the way he had mine. Was that what he really thought of me? That I was an empty shell they filled? What the fuck? I’d been trying so hard to be the woman I needed to be, the woman he wanted. He’d seemed to be proud of me. Had I been doing it all wrong? How long had he felt that way?

I stared down at my phone, gripping it so hard my knuckles went white. Why didn’t he say something? Did he begrudge the time I was spending with his mother? And if it was a problem, why didn’t he step in? Why didn’t he try to redirect me, something? If he didn’t like who I was becoming, why—emotion climbed up my throat, closing it off as I hiccupped and sobbed, frustrated and confused. Angry at the way he’d spoken.

In the end, I decided just to go to bed and stare at the ceiling. As time ticked by, I couldn’t sleep and switched to watching the numbers change on the clock, counting the moments until he’d return home so I could demand that he explain what he meant, what he wanted. I didn’t understand, and it made an aching throb bounce in my head. I needed everything to be right between us again.

I closed my eyes and longed for his touch, longed to rewind time just enough so we didn’t fight over the phone. I should have just kept my mouth shut, spoken to him about prison when he got home, been able to watch his face when he reacted. Because that was it, wasn’t it? I’d hit a sore point, a topic he didn’t want to discuss, and he’d reacted as though I’d attacked.

Jesus.

I sighed and rolled onto my back. He was trying to spend a moment with me and I attacked him. Now I just felt shitty.

I picked up my phone, not wanting to leave things on such a sour note. I didn’t want him to stew in anger, then decide we didn’t work as a couple anymore.

Flipping on the bedside lamp, I pulled back the covers and propped my phone against them, set to record. Then I parted my thighs and made the video he’d asked for, focusing on how much he meant to me, how much I wanted him in my life until I hit my climax. Then I sent him the video, attaching the caption ‘I only care about who I am with you’.

A few minutes later, I got a single word reply: Peaches…

I wasn’t exactly sure if it was good or bad, but it told me he cared enough to still pick up his phone, enough to give me peace of mind so I could get some sleep. We could talk it out properly when he got home.

Except that wasn’t quite how it worked out.

The next time I saw him, he was carrying a bloodied and beaten Toby into the house.