Page 3 of Unmatched

Fuck me.

Or fuck me not, I guess.

The bathroom door opens with a cool rush of air.

I straighten, clenching my fists behind the fogged shower door. The room is eighty percent steam, thanks to me draining the entire hot water heater as fast as possible. But I came in here to be alone. I don’t want her to say she’s sorry, ask for a “rain check,” or talk at all. Especially not when I’m naked and she isn’t.

Unless she’s planning to join me . . .

I wipe a small corner of the glass clear and exhale. She’s come in to brush her teeth. The house only has one bathroom, so I guess she had to if she’s going somewhere, but I’m disappointed in myself for being disappointed about this.

“Scarlet just called,” she says after she spits. “Ooh La Pooch has no hot water.”

I hesitate, warring over how to respond. This is how it’s been lately. All the time. We both work a lot, but ever since she started construction on the new Pooch Park, the demands on her time have been surreal. I barely remember the last time we went out to dinner, let alone had sex. Every time we get a few minutes together, she’s either distracted thinking about the expansion or some emergency comes up. Maybe I shouldn’t care so much about what happened in the kitchen. Even if we got something started, it would be over now anyway.

“That sucks,” I grunt. “Guess you better call the plumber.”

“Already left them a message. I wish it wasn’t Saturday.”

She sighs and takes off her robe to hang on a hook, and I wipe the glass again.

It might be humid as fuck in here, but my throat still goes dry. I take back everything I thought about that nightgown. It’s so much better than I remembered. The satin drapes over her full breasts like her nipples are the only thing holding it up. It dips low in the back, hugging her small waist, then blossoms over her hips and ass like it was poured over them. This is more of my wife than I’ve seen for the past six weeks.

I’m not just hard; I’m ready to come.

She pulls the elastic out of her hair, and as the soft blonde waves cascade down her back, I imagine stepping out of the shower behind her, putting my hand on the door to stop her from leaving. I would slip the thin black straps off her shoulders, watching her light pink nipples spring free, taut and standing for my attention as the gown fluttered to the floor. I’d wipe the mirror clear so she could see me looming behind her, pressing my rock-hard dick against her bare ass, and she’d grind into me with a smile. Inviting me. Urging me on. When I’d bend her over the counter, she’d be wet and ready, gripping the sink as I plunged into her slick warmth. With each thrust, she’d be begging for more, until at last we’d come together with shouts of long-suffering lust.

A second cool breeze rushes over me.

“Bye! Sorry! Maybe it’ll be a quick fix and I’ll make it home for lunch!”

The door clicks shut, and I’m standing under a cool stream of water with my dick in my hand, alone.

I pad into the bedroom wrapped in a towel. The house is still and quiet. She’s taken Heartthrob with her, which means she doesn’t actually expect to be back anytime soon. Not that she ever comes home early. Outside, a lawnmower starts up, and a couple of kids are playing street hockey. I watch a man and woman jogging, enjoying the weekend together. In here, nothing moves, nothing breathes. I have a whole list of things to do today. Some of which Lydia’s been asking me about for weeks. Clean out the garage, fix the slow sink drain, paint the trim in our bedroom.

I like having a project to do, but I thought we’d do a couple of these things together.

I pull on a T-shirt and jeans and head into our shared home office. The spare room we’ve casually referred to as the someday-nursery. Down the road. When we’re ready. Our seventh wedding anniversary was last December.

We’re not ready.

I open up my email to find three bills, a lengthy message about business ventures from my buddy Henry, and an invitation reminder from my boss’s wife to his fiftieth birthday party. But I’m not in the mood to respond to any of it.

I take out my phone instead, shooting off a text to my brother, Seth, asking for an update on how Mom is doing at the new facility. Then I open my browser to search for a part I need for my bike. Maybe taking it out for a tune-up will inspire me to clean the garage. But when my eyes land on the most recent tab I left open, I go still.

Welcome to Unmatched! Where everyone plays and no one gets caught.

I’d looked it up yesterday out of curiosity after hearing whisperings around the office—mostly from the younger guys—about the hot women on the site. Lydia and I have had our dry spells, this one being particularly long, so I pulled it up thinking it might make a good addition to my media collection. Something to keep me company those nights when she falls asleep early and my dick is wide awake. I didn’t realize until I was on it that it was actually a cheating site. A hookup den for unhappy married people.

I close the tab quickly. I might be frustrated at the moment, but Lydia and I love each other. We’ve been together since college. I definitely wish we got naked more, but she’s a busy, successful businesswoman and I have to respect that. I Google the rear derailleur I’d intended to look for and find it in stock at a local bike shop. I’m about to head out the door when my phone chimes in my hand.

Lydia

Plumber can’t even get here before 2:00 Clients pissed. Won’t be home for lunch.

My stomach sinks. Honestly, I’m annoyed she even suggested she’d be back when we both knew this would happen. It’s what always happens. For a hot second, I consider opening up that Unmatched site again and trying to figure out the difference between my wife and the married women who’ve posted themselves there.

But I don’t.

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