Page 65 of Unmatched

Lydia’s chest rises and falls, her teeth clacking every so often as she clenches her jaw in a dream. There’s a strand of hair I want to brush away from her cheek. If I reach out, I could—we’re close enough I can feel her warmth through the sheets—but I’m careful not to move. Definitely not to touch her. I woke stiff with need, my brain swimming with the images and sounds of her bucking and moaning against the vibrator, her pussy dripping with pleasure. I’m desperate to pull her to me, press my shaft against the crack of her ass, wake her up trailing my lips against her neck.

But I hold back.

The hot-pink rabbit lies on her bedside table, a visual confirmation that what I remember wasn’t a dream. Lydia bought a sex toy, of all things. And I got her off with it—made her scream in a way she never has our entire marriage. She didn’t just come against the rabbit, but also my lips and fingers, and it took everything I had afterward not to sink my dick into her slick heat and share the feeling with her.

God knows I wanted to.

But as the minutes ticked by after she came down from her peak and I watched her tremble through the remains of her pleasure, I had to admit, I was scared. To ask for what I wanted, what I needed—to pound away all of my doubts and frustrations between her legs.

Because there was still every chance, even after the incredible things I got her body to do, that she’d turn me down. Not overtly, of course. Usually, she’ll at least roll over and admit me after I get her off. Out of some obligation, maybe. But it always seems like she’s so tired, like it takes so much effort to reach her own climax that there’s nothing left for mine.

Last night I just couldn’t bring myself to burden her with it.

And now I don’t know what this means for our situation. It’s been nearly two weeks since I set the thirty-day deadline, and we just had sex for the first time in over two months. Well, technically, I gave and didn’t receive. But seeing her like that was everything. I nearly came in my pants as she writhed against the rabbit.

Giving her space to savor the feeling made denying my own need easier. But sometime after we finished, she must’ve changed into her old pajamas. And now I’m staring at her in them, at the place where the thick fabric gapes a little between the buttons to reveal the curve of one breast, wondering what all of this means.

The alarm I set to go for a run went off ten minutes ago, and if I slip out of bed now I could still get dressed and be out of the house before she wakes. Avoid what’s guaranteed to be an awkward morning. Either we’ll both pretend like it didn’t happen or...maybe we won’t?

What if I touch her? Would she respond or pull away?

She lets out a sigh next to me and stretches, reaching her arms above her head while her toes peek out from under the sheet toward the closed bedroom door. As she does this, the striped pajamas pull up to reveal the flawless bare skin of her lower back. The tapered area of her waist just above where her hips curve out to shape her ass. The sound that leaves her lips then, coupled with the sight of her arching body and naked flesh, is like a lightning rod to my dick. I glance at the rabbit on the nightstand, and the doubts I had about making a move, about whether she’ll respond, seem to melt away. My fingers make contact with her waist. I slide my heated palm along her skin, gliding over her bare curves.

She goes still.

I slow my hand, waiting for her to process, catch up to what I’m doing and respond. She’s fully awake now, and she’ll have to either turn toward me and acknowledge this thing that we both can clearly enjoy—that I’m sure we both need—or pull away from me once and for all.

Neither of us moves. My breath hangs in the air.

Then she sits up. Swings her legs over the side of the bed, scurries down the hall, and closes herself in the bathroom. Without even a glance at me.

The bed goes cold when she leaves. I twist my fist into the sheets, furious with myself for being surprised. For thinking that anything would ever change. Last night was an exception—one of several we’ve had over the years—but not the rule.

I snatch the rabbit from where it sits taunting me on the bedside table and hurl it across the room. It flies into the open closet door, landing with an unsatisfying, muffled thud amid her shoes and clothes.

Why did she even bother to buy the damn thing? Or give it to me to use?

I’ve spent the last eleven days learning everything I could to cultivate her desire. Where to touch her and how, ways to tune in to her responses. And I was a damn good student if I do say so, based on how she rode my face just hours ago.

But as these thoughts tumble through my mind, as anger and frustration simmer beneath my skin, my gaze lands on my phone—and my body floods with shame.

I went on an app in search of someone else.

And I’m the one mad at her?

I’m not sure how long I sit with that, lost somewhere between my need and my guilt, but after a while, the bathroom door opens. I look up, steeling myself for her to announce that last night wasn’t good enough. She doesn’t want me. Can’t forgive me. Whatever I deserve.

But something’s clearly different when she reenters the bedroom. She’s changed out of her awful pajamas, though not into real clothes. All she’s wearing is a fitted white camisole and a pair of pale pink underwear. Nothing overtly sexy, but her nipples perk through the thin white fabric, and on cue, my dick twitches under the covers.

“It’s um...warm already,” she says with a nervous laugh, and despite myself, I utter a silent blessing to our stuffy bungalow and the mild spring we’re having if it got her out of her sleep armor.

She approaches the bed from her side, gripping her phone in her hand. She keeps glancing at the screen, and I wait, sure she’ll start texting Tomás or Scarlet about the latest crises like she does almost every day. But she just stands there, shifting back and forth on her feet. I watch her sneak a glance at me and take a sharp breath, but she looks back at her phone, avoiding my gaze. I clench my jaw, waiting for her to pick up her glasses, leave to make coffee. But then, in one swift movement, she pulls back the covers and slips back into bed beside me.

I am perched on the far edge of the mattress, but she crosses the expanse until her leg brushes mine, and her bare flesh makes absolutely everything, starting with my balls, come alive. It’s all I can do not to turn on my side and take her in my arms, pull her to me so every inch of her skin is in contact with mine. I want to snake both my hands beneath that camisole, seek out and tweak the nipples I saw taut against the cotton. I want to remove those pale pink panties and press my shaft against her center, letting the weight of my desire lay thick outside her entrance.

But I lie still.

Lust might be coursing throughout my body, but I’m right back to the same old problem—I can’t reach for her. Even though she came back. I know if I do, she’ll shut me down somehow.

---