Page 62 of Unmatched

Playful Pleasures.

The sex store?

I glance down the hall again, hesitant to trust the feelings stirring inside me. Just the idea of Lydia walking in the door of that place sends blood flowing to my groin. I’ve been there a few times, mostly for lube—an unfortunate necessity—but honestly? I have a hard time imagining my wife ever crossing the threshold. I stretch the receipt out, scanning over the purchases.

BLINDF - 1 @ 11.99

YOU LUB - 1 @ 12.99

RABBIT VIBE - 1 @ 89.99

My jaw drops. Lydia spent ninety dollars on a vibrator?

The sensation in my pants progresses to something more substantial. I try to imagine my beautiful, chaste wife going into Playful Pleasures and making a purchase like that. Talking to a salesperson about her desires, her needs. Instantly, I’m hit by a wave of despairing lust. Was she thinking about us when she bought it? Or maybe about life without me?

And why, after years of frigid disinterest, would she suddenly pursue her own pleasure? I grind my teeth, trying not to feel bitter. Why couldn’t she have done this earlier? Was it my attempt to cheat? Or does it turn her on to think of being free of me?

I swallow hard, forcing myself to stop. Lydia bought herself a sex toy. I don’t care why; I just want to know if I’m invited. I think of our awkward interaction when she got home, of how she clearly tried to get something going in her own dysfunctional way. And the whole time she was holding that black plastic bag. I grasp the receipt in my hand, wishing I hadn’t snapped at her so hastily.

It’s dark in the house now. I’m not sure how long I’ve been standing here, but I can just make out the walls and shapes of the furniture. I glance back at the empty couch, then ahead of me to the dim light coming through our open door.

If Lydia has a new toy, I want to play.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

The back door slams, sending an unexpected jolt between my legs. I hear Anton throw the lock, and then he’s shuffling around, doing something at the sink. Moments later, the sound of Heartthrob guzzling water echoes like a metronome from the kitchen, mingling with the clinking of a few dishes and mugs as Anton unloads the dishwasher.

God, he must be dreading coming in here as much as me.

Heartthrob comes down the hall, greets me with a tired tail wag, then circles and curls into his bed. I stare at the empty doorway, wondering if my husband will follow.

The black plastic shopping bag crinkles loudly in my hand, and I resist the urge to run outside, to throw it and everything inside it in the trash. What am I supposed to do, whip out the hot-pink vibrator and just present it to him? Hey, I know we’re having trouble in the bedroom, so here’s something I bought for me. I haven’t forgotten what the salesgirl said about it helping both of us. But I can’t help second-guessing everything now that it’s time to actually use it.

He moves from the kitchen to the living room at a slow pace, and I carry the bag to my side of the bed, my limbs like tight rubber bands. What if he doesn’t come in here at all? I listen for the sound of him picking up his keys, opening the front door to leave. He’s probably gotten impatient and found someone else on Unmatched over the last two weeks.

Except he promised.

And after a while his footsteps start down the hall.

I look down at myself, and my heart leaps in my chest. I’ve been so worried about the stupid vibrator, I haven’t thought about anything else. I’m still in my work clothes, hair a mess—not exactly super sexy. Before Anton can round the corner, I toss the shopping bag on my nightstand, dash past him into the bathroom, and lock the door.

“I—I just need a moment to freshen up,” I call, then immediately grimace. What am I, a character from some old-fashioned movie?

He pauses outside the door, then continues into the bedroom, saying nothing in response. But that isn’t surprising. Our conversations haven’t been super verbose this week. I turn on the water in the sink just to drown out the sound of my roaring thoughts. My pounding heart. I grab my toothbrush, brush my teeth, floss. Neaten my hair. But unfortunately, without going into our room, I have nothing more attractive to change into. I consider just taking off all my clothes and throwing myself at him nude, but that feels too much like my last few unfortunate attempts at intimacy, the memories of which tie my stomach into knots. In the end, I remove my shoes and bra, but keep my leggings and T-shirt. It’s a starting point, I guess.

My phone pings in my pocket as I reach for the door, and I pull it out to see who needs me. But it’s just my mom sending a gazillion more pictures of my happy sister and her happy baby. My mind spins down a rabbit hole, and I find myself wondering if Celia enjoys sex. That’s not the sort of thing we’ve ever talked about. I cringe, trying to shake images of my sister and her husband in various positions, then I clench my fists, annoyed that I’m in here thinking about them naked when I should be naked with my husband. I silence my phone and leave it on the bathroom counter.

When I tiptoe into our bedroom, Anton’s perched on the end of the bed, head bowed, almost like he’s meditating. He’s switched on one of the low bedside lamps and put on some quiet music, and I’m grateful there’s some sound besides our breathing and the creak of my feet on the floorboards. The black shopping bag rests on my nightstand undisturbed.

I move toward my side of the bed to get the rabbit because I have zero other ideas about how to start, but halfway there my brain finally kicks in. I remember something the salesgirl said about working up to certain things. I pivot, stepping awkwardly toward my husband instead.

He doesn’t move, but in the dim light, I can tell he’s watching.

I wish he would do something. Reach for me. Help me get the ball rolling. But I’m the one who wanted to try. I’m the one who’s taken so long.

I stop in front of him, excruciating moments passing as I try to decide what to do. Finally, I reach out, hesitating a second before running my fingers through his thick, dark hair. This seems like a benign place to start. He stiffens, but doesn’t pull away, breath moving slowly in and out.

With him on the bed and me standing in front of him, his head is about at the level of my chest. I’m not sure if I should bend over and kiss him, or maybe kneel. If I kneel, he might think I’m going in for a blow job, and...I guess I could. I’ve tried them a handful of times, but it never felt like I was doing things right, with all the excess spit and inevitable gagging. From a practical perspective, that also doesn’t seem like an activity that would help me introduce the rabbit. So, after a very long cluster of seconds, I reach out and take his hands, guiding them to my sides, slipping them beneath the fabric of my shirt. I’ve done things like this before, but this time I keep my hands over his and move them together.

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