He leans in toward me, pushing me back against the door with his own body to help close it behind me. Our lips meet and part, his tongue searching for mine. I close my eyes and focus on his wandering hands, feeling my nerve endings on fire everywhere they are touched.
I shrug out of my sweater and kick off my shoes, pulling off his shirt at the same time. He reciprocates, undoing the button on my jeans and beginning to unzip them. Coming home from work and seeing him, ready and waiting for me in nothing more than his boxers and t-shirt, is decadent and spectacular. I feel like a queen.
His hands move around my waist and down over my hips, easing my jeans off. One hand makes its way back up my inner thigh, fingers beginning to explore, and his lips pull back in a lazy smile when he feels how wet I am. I let out a small moan of pleasure as his lips wander down to my neck and his finger moves deeper inside of me.
As I move my own hand toward his hard manhood, he shakes his head gently. “No. This one’s all yours,” he whispers in my ear. I look at him intently, then relax, wrapping my arms around his neck and twining my fingers in his hair.
***
I’m writing this in my decade old yoga pants, facing my husband on the couch, as he watches our city’s baseball team in the playoffs, farting off his Thanksgiving dinner. The best part about writing this is that it’s the most action I’ve seen in four months. Oh, and it is entirely fabricated.
I tried to write something real, something that actually happened, but to be honest, there’s not much to write about these days. We have two littles, four and under, who sleep between us on a nightly basis. And no, sex doesn’t only happen in the bedroom, but the tiny little bungalow we live in also housed my teenage stepdaughter for a full year. Bedtime for preschool-aged children is significantly different than bedtime for high school students, so “alone time” basically didn’t exist.
It still doesn’t exist.
It becomes a habit, you know? You love each other, but you are in the thick of it together, a team, and team members don’t really think of each other sexually, really. And you’re both so tired, it’s hard to think that anything is worth that kind of energy spent.
So you go about your days, side by side but not kissing each other goodnight. Not holding hands or cuddling the way you used to. Things change, right? It’s just an evolution of your relationship.
The funny thing is, when we began to reconnect intimately after our first baby, I ended up getting pregnant unintentionally. The one and only time we managed to “reconnect,” we connected a little too well. My math wasn’t too hot that month.
It doesn’t have to be permanent. It isn’t permanent. I don’t think it is, at least.
All of this to say that, if I need or want to write about sex right now, it’s not going to be from personal experience. But maybe this is how Harlequin romance novelists get their start?
This author has chosen to submit anonymously.
