That Filthy Book (13 page)

But, my God, he’d settled into that role so well, so easily. I could only imagine what the future held. So many fantasies to play out, so many to combine to make new ones. The possibilities were endless.

With the washing machine humming and sloshing, our dinner—chicken chasseur—cooking in the oven, and the girls already in bed, I made my way upstairs for a quick shower. Taking my clothes off sent a frisson of excitement through me. I’d become more comfortable with myself naked lately, despite the jiggling thighs and wobbly belly. Jacob didn’t seem to notice. His adoration of my shape, the way he brushed his fingertips over my skin, following the contours—the incline, apex, and downward slant of my hipbone; the curving dip of my waist; the rounded swell of my breasts—told me all I needed to know. He loved me as I was. The new clothes I’d bought while we’d been away had helped too. I still wore my favourite jeans and tops, but every couple of days I put on a dress or a skirt with a blouse instead. Jacob’s reaction when he came home and saw me wearing them made me want to buy a whole new wardrobe.

Maybe I would next week.

I shaved my pussy again, reminding myself to find the courage to have it professionally waxed. If he liked it this way, I’d keep doing it. I admitted I liked the idea of never having hair there again. Besides, it felt good against my fingers when I fondled myself. When I was alone, masturbating, I tilted my hips so I could look down at myself and see my fleshy wet lips, fingers gliding between them. The sight always made me come quickly.

Dried and dressed in a calf-length black négligée, I went back downstairs to await my man, idling away the final minutes by tweaking the white roses in the vase on the table, straightening the polished cutlery, opening the oven to check the food. Repeating those actions until I was sick of them.

The wait was killing me.

At lunch, Jacob had telephoned to say he’d be late—he always did if his arrival home would be after seven—and the routine of that had made me smile. We had a pattern, things we always did, ways we always followed, and they brought security. Too much security. I knew that now, because we’d almost let it overwhelm us, take us where it wanted. We’d allowed life to direct which road we took instead of us choosing. Now, although the same routines were in place, new ones had arrived, yet they hadn’t upset the balance. If anything, they’d enhanced it.

I was so thankful for that. We still
had it,
still wanted each other as much as we had when we’d first met. More, even. And wasn’t that saying something? The first flush of love had been a heady rush of emotions, all-consuming, threatening to cut off my breath, and every thought in my head was about him. I could think of nothing else, and now it was the same way. I liked to think we’d fallen in love again, rediscovered why we’d become a couple in the first place, and God, it felt so damn good.

His key scraped into the lock, and my stomach rolled over then clenched so tight I thought I might be sick. It felt like I hadn’t seen him in forever, had waited years to be with him again. Excitement bubbled inside me, my knees weakening at the sound of his tread on the stairs, the faint squeak of the girls’ bedroom door opening, the soft thud as he closed it after checking on them. He’d be down here soon, standing in the kitchen doorway, filling the frame as well as he filled my cunt—to capacity.

Absurdly, I had the urge to position myself, a seductive pose that would have him thinking of nothing but me. The hunger in his belly would vanish, replaced by an entirely different kind that tightened his balls and lengthened his cock. I felt like a schoolgirl again, giddy with anticipation, and darted about the kitchen trying to find somewhere to drape myself before he appeared. Why was I doing this? Why, all of a sudden, was it so important that I be different? Was taking the dinner out of the oven not an act I wanted him to see anymore?

I admitted that it wasn’t, not on these nights anyway. They were for us, domesticity thrown out the goddamned window. I wanted to be the woman of his dreams, sexy and someone he couldn’t wait to run his hands over. He’d say I already was, but I wanted to
feel
it.

I spotted a rose petal on the rug beneath the table, a stray lemon-shaped splash of whiteness against the red pile. I wanted this to be perfect,
right,
and went down on hands and knees to pick it up before he came in.

“Well, hello, love!”

His voice sent shivers down my spine, knotted my tummy again, and brought a blush to my cheeks. He’d caught me being domestic, and I hadn’t wanted that.

“Are you waiting down there for me?” he asked.

That sentence, it had a touch of laughter in it, yet at the same time was husky and all kinds of wonderful. The burn of anger at being caught like this melted away. I turned to look at him, not in the doorway as I’d imagined but by my side, propping himself up with one broad hand grasping a dining chair.

The sight of him, all wide shoulders and tapered waist, his suit crumpled from sitting at his desk and the drive home, brought on a spear of love so violent I wanted to cry. This man was mine, all mine, and I was one lucky woman.

I clutched the rose petal in my fist, likening its silky feel to that of his hard cock, and feigned nonchalance, as though he caught me on my hands and knees every day of the week. “Oh, I just spotted something under the table.” I stood, conscious of my négligée swaying, the fabric brushing my legs. “Hungry?”

The gleam in his eye expressed his desire and my nerves settled a little. It would play out just as I’d hoped, wouldn’t it? I cursed myself for this sudden uncertainty—did I want everything to be so perfect that badly? Yes, I did. I needed the mood to be right so Jacob would confess without feeling exposed. Baring his soul would take a lot—he wasn’t used to it.

“I see we’re sticking to our evenings alone when I work late, then.”

He stared at me, seeming to see right into my soul, as though he knew exactly what I’d planned to discuss. Was I that transparent? Did he know me
that
well? I supposed he might, us having been together for so long, and if that look was anything to go by, he was more than willing to play the game.

I’d underestimated him.

I stood there, staring back at him, the gap between us too wide even though it was merely inches. I wanted to breach it, close it so nothing was between us except our clothes, but something was happening to prevent it. One of
those
looks, where speech isn’t necessary, where touching isn’t important. A meeting of two souls in complete understanding of one another. It touched me so deeply I snatched a breath and heard the soft hitch of a sob brewing. Relief poured into me, because damn, I’d begun to think it was all about sex, that we had become crazed, only wanting one another for pleasure. That wasn’t the case, I saw that now, and I couldn’t help myself. I darted forward, pressed myself against him, never wanting to let him go.

“Hey, what’s the matter?” He circled his arms about me, crushing me to him, and kissed the top of my head. “Did something happen?”

“No. Yes. But nothing bad. I just love you, that’s all. I just wanted…”

The rest of my sentence failed to emerge. I didn’t need to say anything more, really. He knew.

Jacob stroked my back, the heat from his hands drawing out every bit of anxiety. He always did that, had the ability to make even the worst days seem better. I belonged with him, couldn’t imagine being with anyone else.

“You look lovely. Smell lovely,” he said, lifting one hand from my back to slip his fingers beneath my chin and tilt my head up. He looked into my eyes, stared for long moments. “I love you.”

He said it so easily, so simply, the words full of much more than what he had actually said. He cradled my head, thumb gently brushing my cheek, and a soft smile stretched his lips. I knew what he was thinking—I was thinking the same things myself. That we were lucky to have one another; that our love was real, and I thanked God for the day he’d sent Jacob to me.

He broke the spell. “So, other than eating, did you have anything else in mind?”

“I did, but if you’re thinking of sex, if we indulge now it won’t be one of our mad efforts.”

“No.” He paused to look at me some more, gaze probing, loving. “It wouldn’t.”

It would be a gentle exploration, all slow touches and long, soul-searching kisses. But we had yet to discuss his fantasies, and if they were hot, who knew how the sex would be then?

Who was I kidding? It would be searing, rampant.

Filthy.

I broke away before we gave in to temptation. If we did, I imagined we’d eat in the living room afterwards, ignoring the beautiful table, snuggling beside one another in that sated way we had when sex became lovemaking. I’d possibly coax words out of him, but there was the chance he’d laugh them off, diverting my attention with kisses and strokes, him letting me know he was ready for round two.

No, I had to find out what he wanted.

I walked to stand in front of the oven, smiling at the fact that the oven gloves I slid over my hands were hardly what anyone would call sexy. I must appear incongruous to him, a woman in a cock-hardening negligee, the image spoilt by huge, quilted red mittens. I went through the motions of serving dinner. Heard him pull out a chair, the scrape of the feet dulled by the rug. Knew he was sitting from the creak of wood and shuffle of clothing, and watching me.

“That nightie is see-through.”

“I know.”

“Is that why you put it on?”

“Might have been.” I smiled, adding roasted potatoes to our plates.

“I can see your arse. Your whole body.”

“I imagine you can.” Here was my opportunity. “What does it make you want to do?”

A few beats of silence followed that question. Had I blown it?

“Makes me want to watch you when you wear it.”

“Does it make you want to touch?” I carried the plates to the table and placed them on the mats as though what we were discussing was an average couple’s dinnertime conversation.

“Yes, but no.”

I tried to hide a frown, I really did, but it came all the same. “Oh?” I sat, not opposite, that was too far away, but on the other side of the table corner from him. It would be easy for me to reach across and hold his hand that way if he needed assurance, or rub my foot over his.

He picked up his knife and fork. “I like the way…” He sighed. “I like the way your body moves under it. And I want to umm, want to see…want to not be able to, uh… You know what I’m trying to say, don’t you?”

“Sort of.” I knew exactly what he meant, but wanted him to
tell
me. I cut into my chicken, popped a piece into my mouth, busied myself with eating so he wouldn’t think I was hanging on his next words. I longed to look at him, but if he was about to go into detail, giving him my full attention wasn’t going to work.

“Like…like a ‘look but don’t touch’ thing.”

I lifted my eyes a bit, watched him cut a potato in half. Steam rose from the creamy flesh inside the crispy outer casing. He moved on to cut his chicken, pushed a few mushrooms around. He was nervous and I wanted to make it all go away, but if I could reveal my secrets, he’d have to learn to reveal his. I felt cruel, remaining quiet.

“
Can’t
touch,” he said quickly.

Heat pooled between my legs. Was he suggesting what I thought he was?

I swallowed my food. “Oh, right.” It came out blasé, as though he wasn’t trying to tell me something he’d never spoken about before. Like it didn’t matter. That was an understatement. It mattered—more than he realised. It was important to me that we were back to the sharing thing, taking it in turns. If I pushed it, asked questions that sounded too direct, he’d back off.

He released a long breath. “You ever…you ever wanted…”

I felt for him, struggling like this, and it took every bit of willpower I possessed not to say it for him. I speared a mushroom, ate it. Speared another as he toyed with his food. Poured wine, red and rich. Pushed the stopper back into the top and swirled it around my glass, pretending to be fascinated by the burgundy stain it left just below the rim.

“D’you like being tied up?”

There, he’d said it. Got it out. And I knew I had to act fast before he burnt up with shame. I looked up, spotted his rigidity, how uncomfortable he was.

I grinned. “Damn right I do. Think you’d like it?”

Relief bled from him, shoulders relaxing, his blush searing hotter in spite of his obvious discharge of tension. “I’ve wondered what it’d be like.”

Finally, he ate some food.

“I did too. The not being in control. Not being able to touch. It sounded exciting—and it is.” I sipped some wine, eyeing him over the rim of the glass.

He nodded. “Never thought you’d want to try that, though. On me, I mean.” He rushed on. “Knew
you’d
like being tied, but…”

If that food danced about beneath his fork any longer…

“You want to try it? See if you like it?” I laughed, easing the tangible strain in the air. “We’ve tried my ideas, why not yours?”