The Glass Knot-mmf (30 page)

“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.

To
have the cushioned feeling of being adored.

I
embraced him, splaying my palms on his back and resting my cheek on his chest.
His heart beat wildly, a manic rhythm that matched mine, as though we both
anticipated what was to come. We knew I would give it a try, that I’d utter
words I hadn’t spoken in years, in a voice that was husky and all kinds of
sexy.

We
just had to wait for
me
to fully come back. She was there, simmering
below the surface, filling my mind with all manner of filthy things—she
just needed that extra push to come out, that was all.

“Tell
me. Remind me what I used to say,” I whispered. I held my breath, knowing I
would blush when he recited words from the past. How had I become so...boring?
So shy?

“Ah,
that’s easy. I’ll never forget.” He held me tighter, his warmth oozing into my
skin like the heat of bath water. “Some days I sit and remember, think about
the old days and wish—”

“That
I was like that again?”

Oh,
God. I’ve made him as boring as me, having to turn to daydreams in order to get
his jollies. How long has he been thinking of the past?

He
took a moment before he answered. Weighing up how to phrase it, I’d bet.

“Not
necessarily that, no. Just wishing that you’d let yourself go every so often.
Not be so good all the time.”

“Good?”
I lifted my head and stared up at him, into dark brown eyes that melted my
knees with their long, thick black lashes. “Is that what I am now? Good?”

God,
I
was
boring. I’d slipped into that rut people talked about. The one
where the wife became staid and unyielding in the bedroom. Where a bed was just
for sleeping, maybe a quick fuck once a month. The rut I’d always vowed never
to get into. But that rut was deep; it went so far down that I couldn’t see
over the damn top when it came to talking dirty. I bristled, knowing exactly
what he meant, knowing I ought to keep my mouth shut because I’d let things
spill out that weren’t intended for him. No, what I wanted to say was a torrent
of sentences berating myself, and I couldn’t do that, not in front of Jacob. He
said it hurt him when I put myself down. Like a physical pain deep inside. If I
ranted now, I’d do so knowing I’d upset him.

He
stroked my face with both hands, staring down at me as though I was the most
precious thing to walk the planet, and I felt wretched. For letting him down.
Becoming ‘one of those women’. For allowing
us
to change.

“Tell
me,” I said, disliking the begging tone that rimmed the words. “Come on. Tell
me what I used to say. Help me say it again.”

I
was desperate now, truly desperate to recapture what we’d once had. The thought
of how we’d been lately... God, it was shameful. I wanted to say the words so
badly, but something blocked their exit. They were all there in my head;
delicious, filthy sentences that would make any grandmother’s toes curl; ones
I’d read in a book many years ago, yet when I opened my mouth to force them
out, they lodged in my throat. Frustration added to desperation made me
whimper. I felt so helpless, useless, a stupid, insecure bundle of nerves.

He
smiled, a stretch of those beautiful lips that showed his straight teeth, all
except the one canine that stuck out a little. “Let me see. What did you used
to say ...?”

My
heart contracted with love for him. He was doing what he always did—
making everything okay again. Taking the pressure off me and having the burden
on
his
shoulders. How the hell had I been so lucky to find him, to keep
him? My eyes stung, and I blinked, swallowed hard and prayed the tears wouldn’t
fall.

He
glanced up at the ceiling, a teasing gesture that had me wanting to grasp him
around the neck and force his gaze back to me. I wanted to reach up and touch
the knobbly scar beside his eye, to brush my thumb down his cheek. His pretence
of being deep in thought drove a spike of new frustration into my gut, yet I
smiled, because as well as doing this for me, he was playing with me. Enjoying
it, too.

“Fuck
my cunt,” he said, lowering his head so his gaze met mine again. “Fuck my cunt,
that’s what you used to say. Jacob, come over here and lick my wet pussy.” He
brushed his lips over mine. “Remember that?”