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I stared at my surroundings to force my thoughts in another
direction. The room wasn’t much, just a double bed with white sheets and a
beige quilt. Low cabinets either side, the perfunctory wardrobe and a
sideboard, all in light wood that matched the colour of the quilt and walls. A
sea of beige. But it suited our needs. The decoration hadn’t exactly been on
our minds when we’d stumbled through the door last night. Ripping one another’s
clothes off had been the order of the evening.

“What are you thinking?” Jacob asked, remaining at the window.

And there he was, not even a flicker of movement indicating
that he’d turned around. Just him, standing there, a god in front of a glass
pane. I studied his reflection instead of responding, squinting to make out the
faint, fine taper of hairs that ran from his belly button down to the curly thatch
nestled above his cock. A long cock that was semi-hard, heavy- looking, and
eminently touchable. I loved the feel of it in my hand, the way my fingers
curled around its width, the softness of his skin on mine. A thrill ran through
me at the thought of it, and I folded my arms across my breasts in an effort to
stop me from fondling them. But why shouldn’t I? Too many nights we’d hurried,
coming together in a rush before the inevitable interruptions came. Too many
nights I’d denied myself the pleasure of having Jacob inside me.

‘
Mum
,
I want a drink of water. Mum, I can’t
sleep...’
Stop thinking of them. You promised yourself you wouldn’t do
that.

And I had, but casting aside the parental mantle wasn’t as easy
as I’d told Jacob it would be. Wasn’t as easy as flicking a switch. They crept
in, the two girls we’d created— smiling faces filling my mind, eclipsed
by their worried expressions that made me think they weren’t coping well
without us.

They’re with Jacob’s mum and dad. They’ll be fine.

My determination that we could do this had persuaded Jacob to
come away with me. It had been a big thing, this, leaving the children behind,
but if we hadn’t done it now we never would.

“Is it the kids?” he asked.

“No.”
I didn’t lie often, but if I admitted my thoughts
then he would tag onto the worry bandwagon and we’d end up going home. I didn’t
want that. I wanted the rest of the day, the night, and the majority of
tomorrow morning to be just me and him. It wasn’t too much to ask, was it? Not
after ten years of being devoted and never going out to the pub, never leaving
them...

“I was thinking about us,” I said, throwing the sheet away from
my body and sitting up. I stretched; a fingers-pointing-to-the-ceiling kind of
stretch that chased away all the kinks and left me loose-limbed and pliant.

Pliant.

Now there was a word that brought a rush of desire to my cunt.
Pliant made me think of suppleness, of legs and arms twisted in difficult
positions, of torsos arched and backs curved. Jacob was pliant, always had
been, and once upon a time I’d been able to bend with the best of them. But
now, after the kids and getting out of my workout routine, a little weight had
settled on my bones, preventing me doing all those delicious things I used to
do. Like bending over to touch my toes and being taken from behind. Like
widening my legs to such a degree it was as though I was being
forced
into
that position. Not that I had been forced, but it was something I thought about
every so often. Him taking me against my will, a scenario that thrilled me more
than it perhaps should have. Just a little fantasy to keep me warm when Jacob
worked away. And the book I’d read had planted it into my mind, yet I’d tried
to forget what rested between the front and back covers, telling myself it just
wasn’t proper to want such things.

“What about us?” he asked, lacing his hands behind his head and
jutting his abdomen out until his cock almost touched the glass.

“Someone could see you like that, you know.” I’d avoided his
question because...hell, I’d grown shy somehow, grown out of being able to tell
him exactly what was on my mind. It made me feel embarrassed to say I’d been
recalling the days when we’d fucked for hours, sweat-soaked and sore, falling
asleep only to wake for more of the same. My mind had also wandered to the
forced entry thing, hadn’t it? A flicker of fast images shooting across the air
in front of me as though they were the real thing. Rough and ready sex.
Pleasure-pain. Jacob speaking sharply, his hands also abrasive, palms scouring
my skin instead of skimming. His cock a relentless shunt instead of a glide.
Tongue an insistent probe instead of a gentle exploration.

How come being here had enabled my old self to at first poke me
with a tentative finger, but now jabbed with urgent pressure?

“I don’t give a shit,” he said on a laugh.

It took me a moment to realise what he meant. I thought back to
what we’d been talking about. His cock on the glass. Someone seeing. A surge of
desire swarmed over me at that. Being watched—was it something I could handle
one day? Oh, not having a third person in our life. No, I’m too jealous to
share our time together, even if it involved another man. But being somewhere,
knowing
we could possibly have an observer?

I think I could. Maybe.

“We’re too high up, anyway,” he went on.

I smiled at the fact he was oblivious to my thoughts, that he
had no idea I had suddenly become someone who wanted a whole lot more from her
sex life than what we’d been doing. It wasn’t that Jacob was crap in bed,
nothing like that, just that... God, I wanted more time to explore, more time
full stop. And what the hell would he think about my fantasies anyway? Were
they too ‘out there’ for him? They wouldn’t have been years ago, but now...

I wasn’t sure I even had the courage to share them.

“Come and stand with me,” he said.

“What,
naked?”

I stood, hesitant to do as he
asked. What if someone spotted us and called the police, telling them a couple
in The Grand were indecently exposed in the window?

Admit it. Although scary, it is exciting.

“Yes, naked. Come on. All that’s out there is the street, and
that’s way down below. Nothing opposite, unless you count the buildings half
the size of this one. We’re in a five- hundred-room hotel, love. A tall one.”

Sod it. This weekend I was supposed to be my real self, find
the woman who’d been lost amidst school runs and after-school clubs. And if I
dug beneath the guilt I could feel that the thrill of being naughty, a rebel,
was still with me. But what about the girls and...

Stop it.

I walked to the window, stood behind him and peeked around his
arm. He was right. Too far up for anyone to see us, yet still it felt too
naughty. It was one thing to fantasise about it, but to actually do it... What
if someone had binoculars?

“I’m telling you,” he said, as though he’d read my mind, “no
one will see us. D’you really think anyone would give a toss if they did?
They’d probably see us as two dirty, middle-aged people anyway. If they’re
young, that is. Remember how we used to think that about people our age?”

I cupped my hands around his biceps and pressed my cheek to his
back, his skin warm and soothing. He smelt of his recent shower, all flowery
hotel soap and alien-smelling shampoo, and the faint aroma of clinically washed
towels, totally absent of the scent of my usual fabric softener. Home was
intruding again, so I switched the images off.

And yes, I remembered thinking that. Remembered thinking it was
gross that older people ‘did it’. Yet here we were, older and still doing it.
Funny how your perspective changes.

“Hmmm,” I said. “But with age comes a better understanding.
Love helps, too. It goes deeper than it did years ago, pardon the pun.”

He laughed, a low rumble that reverberated through my cheek and
sent ripples of lust to my pussy. I wanted him again, hard and fast, no
foreplay or sentimental sweet nothings. Just pure, honest fucking. I stared at
the way his ear curved, recalled how the lobe felt in my mouth, sweetly soft
and fleshy. A wave of love consumed me. How was it possible I could care for him
more than I did back then? I thought I loved him as much as I could, full to
bursting with adoration and respect, yet every day, every month, each new year
brought a stronger connection.

God, I was so damn lucky.

My eyes stung, the emotion getting a better hold on me than I
wanted it to. No time for sentimental tears, just time for us. The thought that
it would take until tomorrow to fully relax struck me as typical—it would
be time to go home and leave this weekend behind. Except this time together
would remain in our memories, and we could whisper about it in bed at night
when we felt the need to recapture it. I’d have to be content with that because
there was no way we could stay here longer. Jacob had work to return to, and
the girls had school. His parents were going away on Tuesday, a leisurely
cruise in the Mediterranean for a week, and with my parents living in the arse
end of nowhere in Scotland, getting them to come down to babysit wasn’t an
option.

I was a bundle of contradictions, wasn’t I? One minute I’d
forgotten our home life, the next I hadn’t. It was the idle times, that was
it—moments where I allowed my mind to wander and think things I
shouldn’t. Swallowing deeply, I told myself to enjoy what remained of our
weekend together—otherwise, I’d regret it later.

“Do you think we ought to do some sightseeing or something?” I
asked, wondering, if he’d answer in the affirmative, whether I could muster the
energy to get dressed let alone waltz through the nearby park or visit the art
museum. We’d promised ourselves an afternoon of appreciating art, gazing at the
beauty created by others and discussing how each piece made us feel inside.

“We could do,” he said. “After.”

“After what?” I smiled, my bunching cheek squashed against his
shoulder blade, my breasts heated from his skin. The rest of me felt chilled,
as though I needed the whole of him wrapped around me, arms and legs a warm
embrace.

“After I fuck you against this window.”

I gasped, widening my eyes at what he’d said. It seemed he’d
returned to his old self more easily than I had. I wanted to answer that he
could fuck me against anything he liked, anytime he wanted—he didn’t have
to ask. He could just grab me, pin me down and forge into me. I wanted it hard
and fast, hot and panting, my body at his mercy. Whatever he wanted to do to
me, he could.

There it was again, that urge to give up control to him
completely. A fuck where I had no say in it. His rules, his pleasure. It
flooded my mind like a cloud of dangerous desire.

But again I didn’t say anything about handing over control. The
words wouldn’t come, stuck in my throat as they were, a big ball of unspoken
needs that swelled to be released. Pushing, expanding.

“Talk to me,” he said. “Like you used to. Dirty and rough.
While there’s no one but me to hear you.”

A sudden bout of insecurity gripped me, a closing fist around
my heart, creating a flutter of panic and the inability to breathe properly.
I’d been so free and easy before we’d had the girls, so ready to try anything,
do anything; caught up in the first flush of love. And now...

“I can’t.” I squeezed my eyes closed and waited for the feeling
to pass.

“Can’t?”

He covered my hands with his, the warmth of his touch giving me
a jolt of longing. I imagined those hands roving my skin, seeking out my
special places, erogenous zones that he knew by heart. My pulse thrummed, loud
in my ears, the throb of my heartbeat an almost violent smack against my ribs.
I cracked open my eyes, peeked around him to see his fingertips pressed down on
my hand, the ends white where he held me so tightly. Did he hold me like that
because he’d anticipated a negative answer? A rush of guilt took over me,
heating my cheeks and bringing on the need to cry. I was spoiling this, wasn’t
I—by not keeping to my promise to play the game as though we were free
spirits who could do anything we wanted?

“I feel stupid,” I said quietly, wanting him to take over, to
talk to
me
dirty and remind me how it was done.

Because I had forgotten.

“Stupid? Why?”
His chest inflated, his back rising
beneath my face, and he held his breath. “Because...because I’ve forgotten how
to do it. And if I say what I want, it might not come out right and I’ll feel
silly.”
He turned, just that movement alone soaking my cunt, and cradled
me against him.

Hands on my back, he rubbed them up and down, the motion
soothing, chasing away the goosebumps, giving me the sense that everything
would always be all right when he held me like this. He was magic, my husband,
this man who had promised to take care of me until the day he died, ensuring I
was never sad, never had reason to cry. I was the kind of woman who floundered
without him near, who, when panicked or insecure, only needed him to walk in
the room and everything bad would melt away.

“You never have to feel silly with me,” he said, the words low
and reassuring. “Never. I’ve told you that before. Did you forget that too?”

How could I? He’d said it often enough, and I wondered then
whether he got tired of his constant encouragement, of always having to work to
make me believe him. He was devoted, I knew that. Knew it deep inside me, where
I kept the special memories, the nuggets of love he’d shown me, those private
moments between us that no one else knew about. Small touches, glances in a
crowded room, even in the supermarket, where the gap between us was too wide
and I wanted nothing more than to rush to him, to have his arms about me.