Slip of the Tongue (4 page)

“Nathan . . .” Considering our up-until-now healthy sex life, I still have a hard time accepting the fact that we’ve slept side by side for this long without touching each other. “Come to bed.”

“I am,” he says over his shoulder.

“I mean now. Like . . .
right
now
.” I take my bottom lip between my teeth. Our high-thread-count sheets are suddenly silkier. The hour is no longer of any importance to me. Two months is a strange amount of time to go without sex. After a week passed, I started to go a day or two without even thinking of it. But sometimes, out of nowhere, my need will burn me up from the inside out. Two months isn’t long enough that I’ve forgotten how good it is with him.

Nathan keeps his back to me, piling his clothes at his feet. “I’ll take care of this in the morning.”

Even drunk, Nate is worried about making a mess. I’ve never had to beg him to put his socks in the hamper or pick up the dry cleaning like some of my friends do with their husbands. He’s tidier than anyone I know. “I don’t care,” I say. “You have plenty of suits. Come to bed.”

“I said I will,” he says shortly.

We both go quiet. Nathan’s head is over his shoulder, but his eyes are on the floor. I slouch back against the bed. It doesn’t concern me that Nate goes drinking with friends. I encourage it. He’s social. I’m not as much. When he’s happy, I’m happy. Tonight, though, there was no text or phone call like I’d assumed there’d be. Nathan and I used to be in continuous touch—virtually and physically. He’d text me just to say hi or tell me something about his day. He’d take my elbow when we crossed the street and leave me love notes in unexpected places. He got hungry for me at unexpected times. We were always in touch.

To go from one extreme to another is jarring. Before now, when Nathan went out with his friends, it was with reluctance. He didn’t want me to be lonely. He wanted me with him, but when I’m there, he goes out of his way to make sure I’m having a good time. None of his friends do that with their wives, and that’s part of why I stay home two nights a week. He should have fun with them, not worry about me.

When it becomes clear Nathan isn’t going to apologize for his tone, I slip back under the covers and pull my pillow under my head. “Excuse
me
for wanting my husband to fuck me.”

He says something under his breath. My temperature rises as I try to guess his comeback. I think it’s “
give me a break
.” Uncalled for and unoriginal. Neither of us is good at fighting. We don’t do it often. I should be better considering my parents did it on a weekly basis when I was a kid and still do. My dad started drinking when I was a kid, and his unhappiness soon spread through the family. My mom picked up the addiction next. She was a shy drunk. During a fight, she’d run into their bedroom. It was the scrape-click of the door’s deadbolt that would send my dad over the edge. When my brother was older, my dad picked fights with him. Andrew would barge into my room and lock the door. Although Dad never came after me, Andrew’d find me under the bed or in my closet. Coloring when I was younger. Playing music or reading magazines when I was older. Escaping. He’d kiss me on the forehead before climbing out my window and speeding off on his motorcycle. Like my mom, I hid until it blew over, which it always did.

I turn to my side, away from Nate, and take a meditative breath. I don’t want to go there with him. He’s sensitive, and I’ll probably say something I don’t mean. “Turn out the lights, please,” I tell him. “And don’t touch me tonight. Or any night until I say you can.”

I expect a retort, maybe some more muttered, passive-aggressive attitude. It doesn’t come. The floor creaks. Nathan turns out the light but doesn’t get into bed. Seconds later, I hear a burst of voices in the next room before it gradually lowers to a soft hum. TV glares flashes into the bedroom. My side of the mattress sags.

“You’re like the goddamn princess and the pea,” Nathan told me once over breakfast. We’d been dating a month or two and had slept in the same bed a handful of times. “I had to hug you all night just to keep you still.”

I blushed, smiling. “How do you know I wasn’t faking so you’d cuddle?”

“Because you already know I don’t need any excuse to cuddle with you . . . Princess.”

“Princess?” I asked, surprised. He’d never called me that before. “Says who? I’m no princess.”

He grinned. “Then I guess that makes you a pea.”

Six months later, when he affectionately referred to me as ‘pea’ for the third time, I stopped him. “I don’t like that nickname.”

“Why not?” he asked, serious. “You don’t want to be a pea?”

“A shriveled green ball that people pretend to like but actually hate?” I stuck out my bottom lip.

He laughed and laughed. “Yeah. That’s exactly it. That’s you.”

Every few months, after I thought he’d mercifully forgotten about it, he’d call me pea out of nowhere. “More wine, Pea?” he’d shout in a crowded restaurant, or, another time, when we were alone, “My dear Pea, I took out the trash so you won’t have to.”

Tonight, I stare at the wall, unable to sleep. My problems are little green veggies under the mattress. I never could get him to shake that dumb nickname, but now I can’t remember the last time he used it. It’s just one more addition to a growing list of things I took for granted.

I get out of bed. Now, I’m not just hot for him, but nostalgic too. It’s a lonely combination. I stand in the bedroom doorway. It’s dark, except for the flash of the TV, and I know he can see me from where he lies on the couch in his boxer briefs. There are tools I haven’t used on him yet, and I think it might be time to get them out. When he looks over, I strip off my dowdy pajama top, then slowly peel my panties off.

“Nathan,” I try again. “Come to bed. You know what I want.”

He stares. If he doesn’t answer, I might have to beg. I’m not above it. Nathan’s never made me doubt his attraction to me until now, and two months isn’t enough to extinguish my confidence.

After a moment, he responds, his voice raspy. “What do you want?”

“You know,” I repeat. I run a hand between my breasts, down my stomach. As I reach my mound, ready to do whatever it takes, he rises fluidly from the couch.

Briefly, I think of Finn, who sat there not hours ago. His beer-breath, later, as he told me his name.

I forget all about him when Nathan stalks toward me.

Suddenly, I’m nervous—to have sex with my own husband. He stops in front of me. The only sound is our breathing. I can’t wait any longer. I rise onto the balls of my feet and press my lips to his. I wait there. Finally, he slides his hands in my hair and kisses me back. I hug his neck. And he thaws—right there in my arms. This is the Nathan I know, the one who adores me no matter what’s going on his head.

On an inhale, he picks me up by my middle and walks me backward toward the bed. “Christ, baby,” he says between frenzied kisses. “You taste so—”

I moan, “
Nathan
.”

He stops. Without warning, he releases me like my skin’s on fire.

I stumble to catch my balance. “What’s wrong?” I ask breathlessly.

I can see his expression darkening. I don’t want to lose him, but he looks at me as if he doesn’t know me. The silence grows uncomfortable. He engulfs my shoulders with his large hands and slowly turns me around. “Are you sure?”

I keep my gaze forward and swallow dryly. “Sure . . . about what?”

He steps forward, pulling my back to his front. “You sure you’re ready?” he asks hoarsely into my ear. His rigid length jabs my lower back. There’s no question
he’s
ready. “Because two months is a long time to stay away from something I want. I’m going a little crazy.”

I nod breathlessly. “I’m ready. You don’t have to hold back.”

“All right. I won’t.” He pushes me. It catches me off guard, and I fall forward onto the bed. I grip the comforter. He’s so hot for me, I barely recognize him. Even his voice is different. And I fucking love it. I’m right where I want to be, at Nathan’s mercy. Months’ worth of desire courses through me. I’m almost trembling with anticipation. He feels me between the legs. I’m wet. He’s hard. We don’t need foreplay. “Fuck me,” I demand.

He removes his hand, and his cock takes its place. The blunt tip presses against me. He folds over my back, sliding in slowly. I turn my head to kiss him just as he thrusts into me.

I cry out, dropping my forehead to the mattress. “Yes,” I groan as he drives into me.

“Yes?” He pulls my hair until I’m looking up at the headboard. He takes me fast, greedy, knocking the bed against the wall. “You like that?”

“Oh, God, Nate—”

He clasps a hand over my mouth and with his hot, whispered
shh
, my skin pebbles. He breathes on the curve between my shoulder and neck. He feels too good. It’s been too long. Neither of us will last when he’s going at me like an animal. I want it. I want to explode into a million pieces and when it’s over, I want him to sweep me up like shards of glass and put me back together.

His grunts come louder in my ear. My own orgasm builds, within reach. He slaps me firmly on the ass. With the unexpected sting, I shudder around him. He’s rougher tonight, unbridled from staying away. Nathan can make love to me for hours, but the fact that I can still make him lose control in minutes turns me to jelly.

He tightens his hand in my hair. “You love getting fucked from behind, don’t you, you little slut?”

I bite down on my lower lip with a sharp gasp. Nathan’s never in his life called me a slut. Out of pure shock, my pussy contracts around him, drinking him deeper.

“
Fuck
,” he bites out.

With two more thrusts, and with my face hot as the sun, I come—already—and I come hard. More intensely than I thought possible for so little time.

“Someone likes to be a slut,” he murmurs appreciatively from above.

There’s no hiding how turned on I am by the new pet name. I’m speechless and gushing on his cock. I could come again. “Uh-huh,” I breathe.

He straightens up, takes my hips in his hands and pulls me onto him fast and brutal. Another orgasm closes in on me already. Before I can catch it, he plunges deep and releases into me, filling me with everything he’s got.

We stay that way a few seconds. He continues to move in and out of me, slower now, leisurely. He touches my lower back. My eyelids droop. This—the burst of a long-contained climax followed by a lover’s touch—is true bliss.

Nathan pulls out of me. I drag myself up the bed as he flops down next to me. We lie there, panting in the darkness. My body’s still thrumming. He was raw. Carnal. I’ve never been his little slut, and after seven years together, a surprise in the bedroom can be a turn-on.

It can also be alarming.

Why did he call me that? Does he want a slut? Should I ask?

I wait a few seconds to see if he’ll speak. “Nate . . .?”

He just hums. His breathing slows. I understand—it’s late, and he’s had a lot to drink. It isn’t the best time to bring up anything serious. If it’d been any other night, I would ride this kink wave. I can be his bad girl. But considering he’s been different lately, I’m not sure if it’s cause for concern.

I get beneath the covers. Maybe the spell is broken, and tonight was a breakthrough, and tomorrow will be different. I tuck into my pillow and release any anxiety with my exhale. Even though nothing has really truly changed, I cling to the hope that tomorrow will be a new start.

FOUR

The next morning, Nathan wakes up before me. I touch my hair, tangled from his fingers in it. I want today to be fresh. A clean slate, as if the last two months never happened. I won’t even make him tell me what all this was about, not right away at least. Marriage isn’t easy. Everyone goes through rough patches.

I get up and put on my robe. His side of the bed looks undisturbed. I find him in the kitchen, already showered and dressed. When we were younger, it was a struggle to get him in a suit. Now, he wears one during the week, and the girl in me finds him grown-up sexy. “Morning.”

His back is to me. He clears his throat. “Hey.”

My mug waits on the counter as it does every morning. No matter his mood, Nathan is smart enough not to cut off my caffeine.

I pick a question that will let him lead the conversation. “How do you feel?”

“I drank too much last night.” It sounds like an apology—but for what? Snapping at me, or sleeping with me? I hate that I can’t tell. For so long, he was an open book.

I lean my shoulder against the doorframe. “Did you have fun?”

“Bowling? Not really.” He glances over his shoulder and opens his mouth as if he’s going to launch into some story about how dumb his friends act when they’re drunk. I’ve heard it before. Instead, he says, “It was fine.”

“Oh. Did you move to the couch last night?”

“No. Why?”

“Your side of the bed is made.”

“That’s what you get for marrying a neat freak. Almost made it with you in it.”

I smile a little. He hands me my coffee and gets milk out of the fridge. As he’s shutting the door, he stops and looks back inside. “You drank beer last night?”

I take a sip from my mug. He wouldn’t question me if I said yes, but why would I lie? Our neighbor came over for dinner. Our neighbor, whose name I didn’t want to know, and who is noticeably, ruggedly handsome, came over to avoid a second trip to the diner in one day.

If our roles were reversed, though, I’m not sure I’d be so understanding. Women love Nathan, his boyish charm and infectious smile. A fool could see why. If he had someone in my apartment while I was gone, I wouldn’t like it. Not that he’d turn anyone away. I was being polite, and Nathan would’ve done the same.

“
And
wine?” Nate asks, picking up the half-empty bottle of Pinot Noir from a shelf inside the door. “Should I be worried?”

“Someone came over,” I say.

“Who? Jill? She hates beer.”

“No. We have a new neighbor in 6A, finally someone our age.” I drink more from my mug. Nathan meets my eyes over the lip. “He hadn’t unpacked his kitchen yet, so I invited him in for dinner.”