Page 29 of Mismatched

I feel like I’ve been starved, unable to decide where I want to touch her first. One hand slips the straps of her dress off her shoulders while the other picks up where it left off beneath her skirt. She’s wrapped her arms around my neck and runs her tongue along my jaw, and we nearly fall over the dog trying to greet us as we play what feels like an improvised game of stand-up Twister—right hand ass, left hand tits. There are buttons down the front of her dress, but after fumbling at them a minute, I realize they don’t actually do anything. So I spin her around to face the wall, making her laugh while I search for a zipper.

The most glorious thing is, nothing is getting in my way this time. There’s no bottomless, empty feeling, no wall of sadness blocking me from enjoyment. Just a strong, electric connection linking the two of us—like there’s always been. But still, I pause and take her hand, tugging her gently down the hall.

“Can we—will you just do something for me?”

I lead her to the bathroom and open up the cabinet, carefully removing the round pink compact of birth control pills. Some have been punched out, but more are left than are gone. I extend it to her, meeting her eyes exactly where we stood four nights ago when she very clearly said no.

“Your choice,” I say. “If you change your mind, I understand.”

Lydia takes the plastic case and turns it over in her hands. Her breath is calm, but she’s standing very straight and there’s a tension to her movements. Finally, she looks up and seems to search my face. I’m not sure what she finds there, but as I watch, her eyes fill with warmth and her lips slip into a tentative smile. She takes a deep breath, and the next thing I know, she drops the compact with all the pills directly in the trashcan.

“Let’s do this,” she whispers, laying a soft kiss on my lips.

And that’s all I need.

Forget zippers, I take her dress by the hem and pull it straight up over her head. She’s left standing there in just a set of sheer white lingerie, and I take a minute to let myself marvel at her body. At her full, round breasts that seem to float above a narrow waist, which then blooms into soft, wide hips. The kind of hips that just look designed to bear children. The kind of full, voluptuous breasts that could feed an army of infants. God. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I remember a college biology class where we learned about nature picking and choosing, and I realize now I’m being sucked in by the results. That my wife’s body is a con, a product designed to draw me in and get me to spread my seed. I know this, and I am fully fucking embracing it.

I slip my arms out of my jacket, pulling the massage oil from the pocket.

“Where should we—” Lydia’s eyes flash to the bottle in my hand, and she wrinkles her nose. “Won’t it make a mess?”

“Hopefully a big one,” I say, but I grab a couple of towels and stalk her as she giggles into the bedroom, mesmerized by the sway of her ass and the peek of nipple I can see through her sheer bra.

I drape the towels over our bed, hoping that will appease her, though I’d be just as happy to buy a whole new set of sheets when we’re through.

She glances at the bed, looking interested, if a bit wary. And for a moment I think she’ll need me to help disrupt her thoughts. But then she comes at me, laying kisses all over my face as her fingers work down the buttons on my shirt.

“I feel underdressed,” she says.

I growl. “I like you that way.”

I let her get my shirt off, then kick out of my shoes and socks and help her remove my jeans, if only because my cock has been straining inside them since dinner. But then my attention is fully back on her. I sweep her long hair to one side and run my fingers along the edge of her bra, circling the darker points of her nipples showing through the material.

“I would like to drip oil right here and watch it drizzle through the fabric,” I whisper. “But it’s too fucking beautiful on you. I can’t bring myself to ruin it.”

Instead, I turn her around and undo the clasp, sliding the straps down her arms and reaching around to cup each full, perfect breast in my hands. Her left nipple stands at attention already, but the right side is shyer, and I spend a few moments working and teasing it the way she’s shown me, convincing it to come out.

When it does, and Lydia lets out a light moan, I let my hands travel down, gliding over her curves until I find the waist of her sheer panties. They’re beautiful on her and I want to savor them longer, but I’m also dying a little of impatience, and they drop quickly to the floor.

I have no idea what time it is, except that it’s late, and we’re standing in the glow of a single bedside lamp, but it’s light enough to let me take in every inch of her naked body. Instinctively, she moves her hands to cover herself, but I grab hold of her wrists and stop her.

“Please don’t. You’re so beautiful.”

I bring her arms up until they’re stretched together above her head, then I hold her wrists there and whisper in her ear.

“Turn for me. So I can look.”

She hesitates for half a second, and then rotates, arms still in the air, breasts thrust forward, torso stretched long and gorgeous down to her round hips and naked sex.

“Fuck me,” I mutter.

And we’re not even to the best part.

“Lie on the bed,” I say firmly.

This is something we’ve discovered in our few months of exploration and sex therapy. Lydia likes to be bossed around. Not in a demeaning or hurtful way. But maybe because she’s so uncertain, she seems relieved when I take authority and tell her exactly what to do.

“Like this?” she asks, stretched out on her back like a banquet in front of me.

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