Page 63 of Unmatched

I startle at the warmth of his fingers on my bare skin, at the tingle that runs through me as I move them over my hips and along the curve of my waist. We reach the undersides of my bare breasts, and I could swear something changes in his breathing. In the way his fingers move beneath mine. I am no longer guiding them; he’s taking control. A tiny jolt of excitement unfurls in my core. He slides his hands higher, exploring the full curve of my breasts beneath my shirt, circling the soft swell and dipping down between, then just lightly brushing one of my nipples. This is somewhere his touch often lingers, and on instinct, I pull away.

But I catch myself, instead trying to focus where he’s touching and think about why he’s drawn there, centering my attention on the sensation rather than waiting for it to go away. The soft peak tightens, just enough to stand out against the fabric as his hands slide out from under my shirt, and as soon as his touch is gone my skin actually seems to crave his missing heat. He places his hands at his sides, like he’s completed the task assigned and is awaiting further instruction. And I realize he’s letting me lead the way.

I finger the hem of my shirt, debating whether I should just lift it up and cut to the chase. Wave my naked boobs in front of him. But something in the back of my head warns that’s too over-the-top again. He didn’t go for it when I “stripped” for him, so why would it work now? I bite my lip, scanning over his body. His gray joggers and trainers. His open hoodie and tight athletic shirt beneath, clinging to the broad, toned muscles of his chest.

Maybe my shirt isn’t the one that should come off first.

I move my hands over his shoulders, sliding my fingers beneath the fabric of his hoodie, guiding it down his arms until it circles his waist on the bed. I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until he pulls his own wrists free of the sleeves. He could have easily pushed me away, like he did the other morning. But he’s going along with it, and I exhale, running my fingers lightly over the snug blue shirt beneath. It hugs the shape of him that was hidden by the hoodie. The broadness of his shoulders and the way his torso tapers to his hips. I glide along the smooth, stretchy fabric until I reach the hem, and now it’s my fingers dipping under, slipping between the shirt and the heat of his skin. I work it up slowly, letting my hands run along every dip and ridge of his washboard abs and over the tight muscled curve of his chest.

And then his arms come up. I freeze, waiting for him to stop me, push me away. But he just pulls free of the sleeves, allowing me to slide the shirt over his head and drop it beside the bed. I pause a moment, taking him in once it’s gone. I know I don’t stop enough to appreciate my husband as a work of art, but he truly is. He carries at least an eight-pack to some men’s six, and you could draw a diagram of the male body’s muscles just by sketching the outline of his arms and chest. His neck and shoulders are well defined and don’t disappear into each other—but he is vividly strong. His slightest movements outline the ideal functions of his body.

Unfortunately, studying Anton’s perfection highlights how not fit I am. I’m no couch potato—I walk the dog, cycle, or swim whenever I can—but I don’t have the time or focus to lift weights, and I’ve never sculpted anything out of my body other than a decent waist-to-hip ratio. I like to rationalize that the few extra pounds I carry help accentuate my curves, but really I’m just lazy. I don’t have the inclination to work for the kind of physique he maintains, and I’ve always worried he’d prefer someone more like Caprice, who’s lean and toned from all the time she spends in the gym. Maybe that’s our problem. He has always encouraged me to exercise, and I do in my own ways, but never at his level. So I may never be enough for him.

I think of how I described myself as “athletic” on Unmatched rather than “curvy” and wonder if I got it wrong. Maybe I’m not what Anton was looking for. Maybe this thirty-day exercise is just me keeping him from his ideal.

Suddenly, I realize the air has cooled between us. I let myself get distracted, let my hands leave his skin, and now I’ve lost the moment I was trying to build. I steal a glance at his face, his expression unreadable, and I’m not sure what to do. He’s just sitting there, not touching me. And I’m not touching him. Part of me just wants to turn the light out and crawl to our separate sides of the bed like always, but again, in the back of my head, it occurs to me that doing that is at least part of how we got here in the first place. The fact that he’s here right now, with me instead of some stranger, is something. And though he hasn’t reached for me himself, he has stayed here with me.

So I make a move.

I grab the plastic bag off my nightstand. “I, um...I went shopping today.”

As soon as the words leave my lips, I realize it’s too early. And now it’s too late to take them back.

He raises his head. His mouth remains flat, but there’s a hint of something—curiosity?—deep in his eyes, where he can’t totally lock it away.

I fumble with the bag, struggling to remove the cumbersome packaging until I finally have the box in hand, and I present it to him like some pink battery-operated trophy.

“The salesperson said—well, I guess you don’t need that whole conversation, but she said it would be good since I don’t—I mean, well—” I force myself to stop. Take a breath. “It’s just something to try. If you want.”

I am so thankful that the sun has gone down. In the waning light of our bedroom, my face won’t glow quite as fire-engine red as it feels. Anton takes the box out of my hand and studies it. I chew my lip, trying to steel myself for his judgment, for him to hand it back to me and tell me he’ll leave me alone so I can have fun without him.

I’ve kept my eyes glued to the toy ever since I got it out, but I can’t take it any longer. I need to know what he’s thinking. Only I’m not fully prepared for the searing gaze he hits me with when I look up. His mouth is hard. But when our eyes meet, every inch of my skin prickles with a feeling like I’m about to be consumed.

He opens the box and takes the rabbit out, hand curling lightly around the rubbery shaft as he turns it over, studying its unique curving shape. It looks even bigger and more alien somehow in his palm. His thumb finds the power switch so quickly that I wonder briefly how he knew where to look, but then the room fills with a low electric hum.

My face is already burning hot. But I’m surprised when other parts of me seem to warm at the sound.

Anton switches it back off, and the air seems absent of something as he kicks off his shoes and rises from the bed, rabbit in hand. I swallow hard, trying to decide if it looks like he’s holding an instrument of torture or some sort of warped magic wand. We stand there looking at each other, not saying anything, until he finally speaks.

“You should probably get on the bed.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

He phrased it like a suggestion, almost a request, but the urgency in his tone nearly melts my insides. I crawl onto the bedspread, think twice, then shimmy awkwardly out of my leggings and underpants, leaving them in a pile beside his shoes. This feels oddly procedural, but also necessary, I guess. I’m not sure where exactly to position myself once I’ve climbed up, so I just lay back against the pillows, crossing my legs and pulling my T-shirt down in some attempt to cover my nakedness.

The mattress sinks under Anton’s weight as he kneels near my feet. He remains shirtless, but I can’t help noticing he’s kept his joggers on. It bothers me, though I’m not sure why. As if being covered from the waist down gives him some kind of power I don’t have. He places one hand gently on my left ankle. “You’re going to have to?—”

“Oh. Right.” I say this without really knowing what he’s suggesting. But then I realize he wants me to uncross my legs. I hesitate, no longer confident in where this is going. What’s supposed to happen next. He’s going to do something to me with this object I bought, and I’m going to lie here and let it be done.

And the expectation is, I will enjoy it.

What if I don’t?

Panicked seconds go by while I consider hiding under the covers. Then, instead, I uncross my feet and part my legs. It’s hard not to feel like I’m in my doctor’s office preparing for a pelvic exam and Anton’s holding a speculum, ready to place it unceremoniously in my lady parts. I try closing my eyes as he positions himself between my legs, but that just makes it worse. Like I’m some kind of car about to be serviced. And now my face is in full-on nuclear meltdown, and I have so much buyer’s remorse. I just want this whole scenario to be over as soon as possible.

I brace myself, preparing for the intrusion when he rams the thing inside me. Insert Part A into Part B, then get off. Somehow.

But instead, Anton starts running his fingers slowly up my leg. His touch is warm and light, and...totally unfamiliar. After a minute I realize he must’ve set the rabbit aside because a lot of his fingers are stroking up the inside of my thighs, and I’m surprised again when the muscles at my core tighten in response. It’s not until his beard stubble grazes the most tender skin between my legs that I realize I’ve lost track of him, my gaze fixed straight up at the ceiling. I gasp at a puff of warm breath against the outer folds of my labia, and I want to sit up and tell him he’s forgotten what we’re supposed to be doing, that we should be using our accessory. But at the same time I’m completely unable to move.

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