It's Sunday morning. The sun is beaming through the master bedroom. I'm sitting on the cushiony bench by the windowsill - the nook, I guess - reading a book that Meaghan recommended. I'm wearing only a bathrobe and a pair of beige underwear - "granny panties" with a lace trim.
I hear a voice clearing its throat from across the room. "Ahem," I look over at Kit. He's sitting up in bed, gesturing to look down at my chest. I've allowed my robe to fall open and have been idly running my fingers down the length of my hair and along the soft inner curve of my breast. This is a little habit I've picked up when I'm deep in thought - Kit finds it a bit embarrassing but is more amused by it than anything. I can't help that, after 30-odd years as mostly a man, I still carry a fixation on breasts, even if I face them in the mirror every day of my life. Believe me, they're not always easy to ignore.
"Steamy book?" he says with a raised eyebrow.
"Not particularly," I sigh, "It's about World War One."
He walks over and begins to rub my shoulders. "I think we won that one."
"Shh," I say, "No spoilers."
He places his lips to the top of my head and pecks a light kiss. It feels nice.
"You thinking about seeing a hairdresser soon?" he asks, indicating my frayed-looking locks.
At times, this kind of suggestion - that he knows best - rankles me. But it's not like the thought hadn't occurred. "I don't feel like it." I hate sitting still for the female equivalent of a barber, never like the result, and always feel overcharged.
"Your call," he shrugs, rubbing my narrow shoulders.
It's been a bit since the flap over the Kid's suspension. He apologized and admitted I wasn't to blame. I vented about the Chernobeks' parenting style and he talked me out of going over there with a carton of eggs for their windows (I had a pretty good arm in my youth.)
"What should we do today?" he asks.
"Hmm, I don't know," I tease, "Clean the bathroom? I've noticed some yellow specks around the rim of the toilet..."
"Pfft, and you had perfect aim when you were a guy? And besides, what about the clumps of hair in the bathtub sink?"
"Hey, I bought that little strainer thing," I defend myself, "Take it up with the manufacturer."
"How about we go for a walk this afternoon?" he asks. "Find a nice café or something."
There's not much else to do around town. But this is the first good weather we've had on a weekend all year. Being able to get out of the house at will seems like a godsend, really takes the pressure off our situation.
We often take the time on weekend mornings to have sex. Dylan is sleeping over with Meadow today so it's a perfect opportunity to let loose. I don't want to let him assume it's a sure-thing, though. I don't want to toy with him, but it's good to play a little hard-to-get. I like it being up to me. I like him having to win me over, again and again.
I give him the nod of approval. He scoops me up in his arms - I can hear him struggle a bit, because my bod is a little bottom-heavy these days and Adrian isn't exactly in top form. But he really likes being able to do this trick and I don't mind letting him.
He lays me down on the bed and slips my panties off. I don't have many specific instructions because I don't really care. I let my mind wander, leave my body while he uses it as his playground. I've found that if I think too much while we're in the moment I'll get self-conscious about what's being done to me and I can't enjoy it at all. I still don't know that I do, but I like everything around it. It feels weirdly normal and good and if letting "that" get done to me helps keep things stable, I'm cool with it. I swear.