31 Flavors of Kink (13 page)

Gasping, trembling, I wait with my head on my arms, in the heavenly state that arrives after ecstasy. Time flows past.

When he undoes the ties, I smile sideways at him. But I can’t bear to move yet and spoil the feeling.

For a minute or two, he’s busy cleaning and disposing of the condom. He gathers our clothes, then kisses my cheek and says, low and sexy, “Are we having cucumber salad this year?”

“You are so dead,” I croak.

He snickers and bumps me with his hip, laying his arm over my back and pulling me close. “That’s why I love you. All those sweet things you say.”

Chapter Twelve

Three weeks. It’s been three weeks since that delightful experience in the kitchen. I’ll never look at our kitchen—or a cucumber—the same way again. We had sex—glorious, wonderful, mind-blowing sex—in our pretty, pristine kitchen.

I frown, staring at the sink where I orgasmed holding on to the faucet. Three weeks ago. And nothing since then. I unload the dishwasher, thinking while I put the dishes and cutlery away. The house has been quiet as a tomb since Nick entered busy season at work. It started right after the holidays. He works late almost every night, comes home exhausted, and goes right to bed. I feel like a lapdog begging for a scrap of his master’s attention.

Initiating sex got me nowhere last night. He pushed me away with a remorseful frown, promising it was only because he was so tired. Still, I can’t help feeling the little sting of rejection.

After the dishes are away, I make myself another frozen dinner and sit in front of the TV to eat alone. I’ve thrown away so much food lately. Tossing everything in the garbage when I’ve spent two hours cooking gets old fast.

Our exciting descent into BDSM feels like a memory now. Inside, I know I’m being dramatic. It’s only been three weeks, not three decades. But I crave it. My body is tense and needs release. I pour myself into my erotic novels, but it’s not the same. Even using the vibrator on myself doesn’t do it for me. I need Nick.

But obviously he doesn’t need me. I sigh and poke at my pasta primavera. Insecurity should be my middle name.

The door opens, and Nick walks in with a smile. He drops his briefcase on the floor. “Hi, hon. Came home a little early.”

I look at the clock. It’s seven. Earlier than nine, yes, but he used to get home by five thirty. He plops down next to me on the floor, where I’m force-feeding myself the tasteless dinner.

He looks down at my food. “Have you been eating this crap every night?”

I shrug. “Well, I’m not going to cook a whole meal just for myself.”

“I’m sorry, honey.” He leans in and breathes on my neck.

He stinks like alcohol. I pull away. “Have you been drinking?”

“I went to happy hour.” He takes my hand and brings it to his lips. He puts my pointer finger in his mouth and sucks on it, nipping the tip.

I’m reeling from his admission. Happy hour? I yank my finger away. “You’ve been going to happy hour while I’ve been sitting here alone eating frozen dinners the last three weeks?”

“No. This was only the second or third time. And it’s part of the business, Sid. I’m expected to socialize with the CEOs outside of the office now and then. It’s how I’ll land a promotion. You know this.”

“At what cost?” I want to cry. In anger. In frustration. And because my dinner tastes like shit. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He rubs his hand across his face. “It’s not a big deal.”

It is to me, I want to tell him. We need time together, and he also needs to work. I know that. Somehow the balance has slipped too far the wrong way. I shuffle ideas about in my head but shelve my plan to ask him to slow down and reevaluate. Tomorrow will do. Arguing feelings and facts with someone on an alcohol buzz is as useful as discussing philosophy with a dog.

He looks at my uneaten dinner. “Are you done? Come to bed. I’ll make it up to you.” Rising to his knees, he practically crawls up me while I lean away. He plants a quick kiss on my lips, then pulls me to stand.

When he tugs on my hand, I let him lead me to the bedroom, depositing my plate in the kitchen as I go past. Am I so sex-starved I’ll do this while I’m mad at him? In the bedroom, he unbuttons my jeans, and I sigh. Shameful, Sidney. Shameful.

Briefly, I wonder if I should let him tie me up in his condition. But it doesn’t matter because, I realize a moment later, he’s not planning to anyway. Unclothed now, he’s already erect, and he has that gleam in his eye that means he’s ready. And he doesn’t seem to care that I’m not.

He herds me toward the bed, then runs his hands up my hips to my breasts. His hungry gaze heats me, but it’s not enough. When he fingers my nipples, I pull away.

“Honey.” I grab his wrists when he starts to stroke my thigh. “I can’t do vanilla, remember?”

His lips tighten, and I can tell he’s frustrated. “Okay,” he says crisply. Then he pushes me facedown on the bed.

He gathers my wrists behind my back and pins them there. But it doesn’t feel right. He’s rushing. Or irritated. He’s not into it, and it just feels wrong.

I open my mouth to say so, but his slap on my backside cuts me off. Definitely wrong. I get nothing from this. He slaps me again. Not hard. I’m not worried for my safety, but emotionally this is breaking me. He doesn’t want BDSM. He wants plain sex. That message is just about stamped on his forehead.

“Stop!” I squirm to get out of his hold. He releases me, and I flip over, panting. “This isn’t working. You don’t want it like this, do you?” Though my words are sodden with hope, I know the answer.

His face droops in disappointment. Flopping onto the bed next to me, he mumbles, “It’s so much work.”

My eyes water, and my head aches, but I hold back the tears. We’re back to that again. It isn’t as much of a blow this time. I expected it. With a discouraged sigh, I get up and pull on my clothes. Nick doesn’t move from the bed. He lies back and covers his face with his arm.

This isn’t utterly new or anything, I remind myself. Last year work got crazy too. And Nick has trouble resisting when the guys want to go out for drinks. And why should he? He deserves time to kick back and relax. Am I being unreasonable? Now I’m not so sure I’m in the right. With one last glance, I say softly, “I’m going to finish my dinner. I’ll be up to bed later.”

He nods, and I leave him behind.

Chapter Thirteen

“You’re not working late on Valentine’s Day, are you?” I ask Nick at breakfast Saturday morning, idly stirring my spoon in the milk and cereal left in my bowl. It’s only three days before the holiday.

He shakes his head. “I’ll try to make it home on time.”

I smile, hope rising in my chest. “Are we going out? I can book a restaurant?” I’ve already bought something to give him, but I want something we can do together.

His brow furrows. “For Valentine’s Day?” He snorts derisively. “Stupid holiday. Do I really need to buy you overpriced flowers and novelty gifts once a year so you know I love you?”

In my disappointment I mumble, “Sometimes it’s fun to get flowers and novelties once in a while.”

It may be a made-up holiday designed to get us to buy stupid gimmicky stuff, but it
is
only once a year, and I
so
need some demonstration of love. I’m feeling lost. We used to at least go out to dinner. Have we gotten that stale? After only five years? My chest tightens in anger. No sex for a month. We barely see each other. Now, on the one day a year set aside for romance, he wants nothing to do with it. What the hell happened? Something has come between us. Could this all be because of BDSM?

For the first time in our relationship, I’m beginning to doubt his faithfulness. Deep inside me, something is weeping as sadness tears at my soul. But ultimately it’s anger that surfaces.

I take a deep breath. “
You
obviously don’t need any romance, but what about me? Do you even care what I want? We’ve only been married five years, and you’re giving up on romance? What are we going to do after twenty? Will we even be talking then?” My anger grows in my rant, and I’m yelling now. He watches me with wide eyes. Good. I have his attention. “I’m tired of being ignored. And I’m tired of being told my sexual needs are too much work. I’ve never felt so connected to you as I have the last couple months. If you really cared about me, you’d want to give me that as much as possible, not complain about it. If you really loved me, you wouldn’t act like”—I’m sputtering, and the words don’t come fast enough—“like…an ass!”

A storm brews in his eyes, and I know his yell will be just as loud as mine. “I
do
care. But I’m too busy earning a living—so you can buy hundreds of books on your Kindle, by the way—to worry about a day when Hallmark says I have to buy my wife a gift that she’ll never use!”

“What? You think you’re the only one who works in this house?”

He gives me a patronizing look I despise. “A few piddly hours in a bookstore for minimum wage doesn’t count.”

I gasp in outrage. How dare he put down my career! Like I’m inferior because I have no interest in climbing the stupid corporate ladder. “Fuck you.”

I slam down my fork and push away from the table, knocking my chair over as I leave. I let it remain on the floor, an illustration of my rage.

* * * *

The next day, Nick tries to apologize for the insult about my job, but it only stirs my anger again. I hate the burden of carrying around anger, and the hurt in his eyes haunts, but I turn away and ignore him. All day I berate myself. Anger and confusion and guilt sit in a lump in my stomach, so bad I can’t even eat. I can’t take much more of it. I decide to make up that night. He comes home late again and tired. When he climbs into bed I shuffle across on my knees and grin tentatively down at him. Inside I’m quailing. Did I mess up too much yesterday?

“What?” Already his eyes are half-closed. The flat tone and single raised eyebrow convey both suspicion and resignation. Does he think I’m about to start the argument again?

“Peace talk. Turn over. I’ll give you a back massage while we talk.” This is my infallible truce flag. Back massages are my specialty.

“Sid…” He sighs. “I’m exhausted. Not tonight. Go to sleep.”

I sink down onto my heels, dismayed. He never says no to massages. “Nick. We need to sort out your…” I can’t say work commitments. Too technical and it makes me sound like some sort of critic.

“My what? My work? It is what it is.” He pats my thigh, then shuts his eyes. “Sleep. I love you, but go to sleep.”

I stare at him, then my fingernails for a while, before sliding back to my side of the bed and wriggling under the covers. He’s never been so unreachable. I cram a pillow over my head to hide my tears.

The following morning, he showers, dresses, then snatches a piece of fruit for breakfast, ignoring the huge plate of toasted waffles I’ve cooked for him so I can get him to sit still long enough to talk…or mumble around his mouthful of waffles at least. Though he does a double take at the sight of the waffles, he doesn’t head for a chair.

“Can’t, hon. I have a meeting.” He throws me a curt, “See you later.”

I’m stunned. The coffee mug I’m holding weighs on my hands, and I put it down before I drop it. Are we ever going to talk to each other again? I curl my hands up and dig what little fingernails I have into my palms.

Maybe I should try harder? I get up and trail after him, sorting out sentences in my head. But he’s fast and already at the front door.

At the last second, as he’s about to close the door behind him, he blows me a kiss between bites of his apple. All I can do is stand there incredulous, listening to the hurried tap of his footsteps dwindling away.

I close my eyes and inhale a deep breath. It’s just work, I tell myself. Nothing more. Don’t be dramatic.

Determined to settle this, I wait in bed that night with the light on, reading a novel. Yes, he got home really, really late again, but one of us has to be the adult. When he gets into bed and pops open the laptop, I read for a few minutes longer before quietly sliding across to him. Silly, but I’m nervous.

“Nick.”

“What?” He yawns and angles the laptop away.

An uneasy feeling grows deep in my belly. The mysterious texts he’s been getting late at night surface in my mind. What is going on? What’s he hiding?

“I just, well… We’ve been avoiding each other lately—since the argument, and I’m sorry. I know you’re busy.”

“Yeah, I am.” As we talk, he shuts down the computer. “I’m sorry too.”

I try to keep the hurt out of my voice when I ask, “Why don’t you want to do something special on Valentine’s Day?”

He sighs. “It’s not that, honey. It’s just the stress from work. Don’t take it personally. It has nothing to do with you. I snapped because, with everything going on, Valentine’s Day just seemed so insignificant. I can’t handle much more on my plate right now.” He gives me a pleading look. “You understand that, don’t you? You know this is my worst month for work. I promise it’ll get better.”

He’s right. In the past five years, when the busy season is over, things usually get back to normal. Even so, as the lights go out, I can’t stop a coldness that creeps across my chest and into my head.

When he showers before breakfast, I turn on the laptop and search his Web history. There’s nothing out of the ordinary. I chew my lip and frown. If I find out he’s leaving me desperate and wanting and watching porn instead, I’m going to strangle him with his belt—after I beat him with it. But could it be something else? What about e-mails? They won’t show up in history.

The comment from the online group comes back to haunt me. A friend who tried pushing her husband into being a Dom ended up divorced.

Have I pushed him too far? Is he talking to someone else? I could hack into his account if I had more time. Am I really that person? Poking my way into Nick’s personal stuff because of a little suspicion? I sigh. I don’t know who I am anymore.

* * * *

It’s the eve before Valentine’s Day, and I’m drowning my woes in a grungy bar with Jessie. Is she even legal? I don’t care. I’m just happy to have someone there to make sure I don’t do something stupid. Like drunk text his boss, Misty, and tell her to get her hussy clutches out of my husband because she’s ruining my sex life.