“C’MON, KAT.” THOMAS WHINES, CRAWLING into his side of the bed and pawing at the hem of my nightshirt.
Slapping his hand away and giving him more of my back, I accuse, “You’re drunk.”
My husband reeks of stale beer. He’d gotten home from the bar an hour ago, where I’m assuming the same ‘friend’ who picked him up also dropped him off.
Thomas had called after work, claiming he had an impromptu meeting he couldn’t miss. He got home, changed clothes, and left. All without telling anyone so much as hello.
Twenty minutes ago, I heard him downstairs, fumbling with the lock. Finally, he managed to clamor his way inside. The house shook as the door slammed behind him. I didn’t get up from bed. The girls are both staying with friends so I knew he wouldn’t wake them. And I hadn’t been sleeping anyway.
If you were mine, I’d fuck all that sadness from your eyes.
My mind has been consumed by all Mason had to say.
Because of this, I hoped Thomas would fall asleep on the couch, unable to make his way upstairs. This has happened before. Many times.
But not tonight.
Instead, I listened to him tearing off his clothes, dropping them to the floor in a rush. This only happens when he’s had too much to drink. Sober, he hangs them promptly in his closet—placing them carefully on the side that I need to have cleaned.
Thomas sighs, lying down, and getting comfortable before he notes, “We haven’t had sex in a while.”
A while?
It’s been over three months since he so much as touched my face with any sort of sincerity. I’d been standing in the kitchen upset after having an argument with Amelia.
Six months since Thomas last held my hand. This wasn’t a romantic gesture. For whatever reason, I tried on one of the rings Thomas bought me when we were first starting out. The silver piece had gotten stuck and I was ashamed the fit was too tight. Thomas took my hand, caressed the swollen finger and told me he’d buy me another.
He never did.
And, lastly, nearly nine months have passed since he’s been inside me. The last time we were together, I’d been the one drinking. I wanted sex. I came on fast and strong, never being like this with him before. He gave me what I needed. The violent orgasm that tore through me was proof I was thinking of another time, another place, and another man.
I knew my adulterous thoughts weren’t fair to my husband—yet at the time—I didn’t care.
“I miss you,” Thomas utters through my thoughts on a slur.
If you were mine, not a day would go by when you didn’t feel loved.
“You’ve had too much to drink,” I accuse, grabbing his wrist as it aims to caress my thigh. “Go to sleep.”
Scooting closer, Thomas blankets my back with his chest. His cock pierces the back of my leg, and he moves my long hair from my neck. His fingers snake between my thighs. Closing my eyes, I try to remember when this was an almost welcoming touch.
“Katherine, I miss you,” he tells me quietly. “You’re always so far away.”
Now he notices?
“I’ve always been here,” I counter.
Thomas’ hand traverses up my stomach. The nightgown catches on his thumb. He continues his crusade, fumbling his way around like a drunk teenager blundering over a girl’s body for the first time. The palm of his hand connects with the soft flesh of my chest. He massages the nipple long enough for it to peak.
I’d find any reason I could to have you smile at me the way you used to.
“My Katherine,” he coos in my ear, thrusting himself against me from behind.
His fingers and palm work my chest harder, and I sigh with realization that I have but two choices.
Accept his offer, have sex with my drunk husband—getting what every woman needs—a sexual release.
Or
Ignore his attempt, hope he gives up and starts an argument to end this.
I made you a promise, Katie.
Mason’s words taunt. The promising tone he used to say them. The way his eyes narrowed in anger. He meant what he said. I felt each word caress deep inside, as I always do with him.
My body jerks, trying to escape Mason in memory.
Thomas mistakes my reaction as intent. He moves the hair further from my neck and utters in my ear, “Fuck yeah, Kat.”
My hips shift, his cock sliding over my ass. He’s close to entering. Even drunk, all he’d have to do is…
Thomas slides inside.
“Oh, God,” I hiss, jutting my hips to feel him deep.
That’s what you’d be gasping in my ear when I fucked you in our bed.
Pulling out and thrusting in again, Thomas murmurs, “Fuck, Kat you feel so good.”
Closing my eyes, I again attempt to rid all thoughts of Mason.
With Thomas, my body merely aches in places it should burn with desire.
With my husband, my soul cries, but not from passion. Its tears are for loss.
With the man who’s supposed to love me, my lips quiver, because they too are so lonely.
Thomas’ rough hand grasps my shoulder, twisting my body until I’m flat on my back and he’s over me. When he reenters, his drives are fevered and aimless.
I can’t do this, I said to him and watched the hurt frame his face.
Thrusting again and again, Thomas’ breathing starts to labor. The exhale of alcohol fans my face. I slam my eyes closed.
I can’t be your friend.
The weight of Thomas’ body becomes heavier on top of my own. His hands brace on either side of my head, and he groans as his release gets close.
If I told you to leave him, give me the Katie I once had back…what do you do?
A pain in my chest causes me to wince. When I start to pull away, pushing on Thomas’ chest, begging for borrowed breath, he slams into me one last time.
I won’t touch you again. Not until I know you’re mine in a way that’ll never fucking change.
Thomas’ body falls limp over mine. A small whimper escapes my throat as he carelessly pulls out.
You’re not ready for this.
“That could’ve been better,” he jokes, as if expecting to find this funny.
I find no humor, though. My mind is heaving with anger and frustration.
“I need to get up,” I nudge, pushing on Thomas and getting no return.
He’s out.
Gathering the physical strength I need to overthrow my emotional drain, I manage to get him off me. He rolls to his stomach, his cheek facing the opposite direction. I stare at the ceiling, contemplating what just happened.
I made you a promise once. And fuck me, I’m trying to keep it.
I feel sick.
Making my way to the bathroom, I flip the light and wince until my eyes adjust. Seeing my reflection in the mirror, I should’ve left the room dark.
My hair is a mess of tangles. Not from sex, but from running my hands through it before bed.
My face is flushed. Not from a night spent in passion with my husband, but from lingering thoughts of a man I can’t have.
My chest is red from Thomas’ fingers pulling and probing. Not the gentle nips and bites from a man ravenously starving with need.
I look old and used versus sexy and satisfied.
I just had sex with my husband, and it took me until now to realize he hadn’t even kissed me.
Don’t come back here without being clear on why you came. When the only reason you’re standing in my home is because you’re ready to make it ours.
Grabbing my phone from the bathroom basin, where I left it to charge, I start a new text, sending it to the only man I’ve ever truly loved.
11:42 p.m. I hate you.