Page 1 of Summer Shivers
one
GENEVIEVE
“How was that?”my husband, Harrison, asks, rolling off me to collapse on his side of the bed, still breathing heavily from his orgasm.
“It was good.” I sigh, trying to sound satisfied.
If I don’t, he’ll be upset.
I didn’t come. I rarely do. But it makes me happy when my husband does. Sometimes that happiness comes through in my voice, and I can play it off like that after-sex glow.
I don’t think this is one of those times.
“Yeah?” He turns to face me. “What part?”
I hate when he asks me that question. As though I was taking notes on his performance and can give him a report back at the end.
“Uh—that part where you swivel your hips was really good.”
“Which time?” His hand rests on his chest as it rises and falls with each inhale and exhale.
“I don’t remember the exact time that you did that. I was kind of preoccupied. You know, making love to you.” I turn my head to face him, forcing a smile to my face.
He frowns in return. “What about when I put your ankles over my shoulders?”
His constant need for reassurance can be exhausting. And even though I know his insecurity is one hundred percent my fault there are some days, like today, where I just don’t want to play into it.
But I still do.
“I loved that part,” I enthuse.
His body stiffens.
I realize my mistake at once. It’s not that I wasn’t paying attention during sex. Actually, that’s exactly what it was. Sometimes I just check out and other times I pretend he’s someone else.
“I didn’t put your ankles over my shoulders.” His voice is cold.
“Are you sure?”
“Of course, I’m sure. Don’t you think I know exactly what I was doing the whole time I was doing it?”
I have no response to that.
We lie next to one another in awkward silence. His anger radiates off him in waves. I know what’s coming next and I don’t want to deal with it. Not tonight. Just once I’d like to go through an evening of sex without this coming up.
“You were thinking about him, weren’t you?” His eyes narrow.
“I was thinking about you.” My voice sounds flat. Even I don’t believe myself as I say it. How can I expect him to?
“Bullshit you were thinking about me.” He sits up, the sheet falling to his waist. He’s in good shape for a man his age. A man who is twenty years senior to my twenty-eight. I reach out to touch his chest to soothe him, but he jerks away before I can make contact.
He’s handsome—my husband—wealthy, intelligent, charismatic. It helps my state of mind to remind myself of all his good qualities when he gets like this. All the reasons why I agreed to marry him. Because nothing throws me into a downward emotional spiral more than fighting with Harrison. I continue to remind myself that I made the right decision marrying a man I don’t desire. Usually, it reassures me. Today it just leaves me feeling empty and unfulfilled.
“Maybe I should feel relieved that you still didn’t come even though you were thinking about him.”
“Harrison…”
“Don’t, Genevieve.” He sighs, running his hands through his hair.
