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“You never see it, do you?”
Knowing what Robert was referring to, I once again turned to look out the window.
“I don’t want a repeat of Hawaii,” he said.
“Hawaii?”
“Yes, Hawaii,” Robert stated curtly. “Don’t play dumb when you know exactly what I’m talking about.”
Nothing had happened in Hawaii—though Robert wouldn’t believe it. During our last vacation there, over Christmas, he had been convinced that one of the pool attendants was hitting on me. The man had made pleasant conversation, brought me extra towels, reserved our lounge chairs every day. Robert had point-blank asked the man if he’d been trying to get me into bed.
He hadn’t been, of course—even if I can admit he was flirting. Robert and I weren’t the only May-December couple who went to the spectacular St. Regis Resort in Kauai over Christmas, year after year. Hollywood producers and their young wives also packed the place over the holidays. Men with power and money and trophy wives. The hotel staff knew how to cater to just that kind of clientele. How to pander to them and even kiss their asses when necessary. But this attendant, Richard, was new, and didn’t keep the same kind of “professional” distance that men like Robert expected. He’d talk to you about the weather, your interests, where you were from—that sort of thing. And sure, he probably stole a few excited glances of me in my two-piece.
That was to be expected. Guys the world over checked women out, not caring if they were married or not. And wasn’t that supposed to be the perk of having a beautiful woman on your arm—that other men were openly envious of your catch?
Unfortunately for Richard, Robert had been so offended by his “lack of professionalism” that he’d complained to the hotel. There was no way that management wanted to risk losing any of their high-end customers, especially not Robert Kolstad, so Richard had been made to apologize to me and Robert—and then he’d been fired.
“Our waiter was nothing but courteous and professional,” I said.
“He’s lucky I didn’t speak to the manager.”
“I’m glad you didn’t.”
“I’m sure you are.”
I sighed. “Robert, can you just let it go? Please, you’re making an issue where there is none.”
He had never been jealous. Not early in our relationship, anyway. But in the last few years, I think, as the realization that he was getting older, while I was still comparatively a young woman, hit him, he had become far less secure in our marriage.
That had to be the reason for his odd behavior. Which was why I felt he needed something else to make him feel more secure. Something that would show I loved him and was committed to him.
A baby. I wanted a baby more than anything.
“Maybe I did overreact,” he admitted. “I guess I need to accept that I have a wife most men would love to steal from me.”
Then don’t push me away, I thought silently. It was a sentiment I’d felt more than once over the last year—that Robert’s behavior was eroding the relationship we had. There were other men out there, maybe someone who was perfect for me.
Like the man with the hazel eyes who had come into my shop a couple weeks before.
But I said to Robert, “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Good.” He paused a beat. “Shall we go to the country club?”
“Sure,” I said. You got your way again.
When I was out of town or on vacation, and anyone asked me where I lived, I always said Charlotte. But Robert and I actually lived just north of Charlotte in an exclusive community called The Peninsula. Situated on Lake Norman, The Peninsula was a country-club community with so much to do, you didn’t have to go anywhere else if you didn’t want to. There was a yacht club, a championship golf course, swimming, tennis. Casual and fine dining. We were members of both The Peninsula Yacht Club and The Peninsula Club. Though we had our own pool at home, we sometimes used the pool at the yacht club when we socialized.
On most days, Robert could be found on the greens at The Peninsula Club. It was his home away from home. We ate there much of the time when we chose to dine out, which was why I had wanted to try someplace different.
But that’s where we went, and Robert was a much happier man. After a casual dinner and a couple of drinks, we headed home—where I still hoped to end the night the way I had originally planned.
I tried to get Robert in the mood after we pulled up in front of the house. Reaching across the seat, I lazily skimmed my fingertips over his hand before taking it in mine.
Robert squeezed my fingers in return. Then he met my eyes.
I stared at the man I had married. He was getting older, yes, but he was still so distinguished. Still looked like Harry Belafonte, a man who no matter how old he got would always be attractive.
“I love you,” I told him. “Only you.”
Robert’s mouth curled in a small smile, one thing that despite the years was as dazzling as it had been the first day I met him.
Leaning forward, I pressed my lips to his. A lingering kiss that said we would continue this in our bedroom.
“I love you, too, Elsie,” Robert whispered as we pulled apart.
We exited the Porsche, which he had parked at the front of the house. A series of pod lights and spotlights illuminated our grand, Italian renaissance manor. It truly was a spectacular place, complete with a Roman-style fountain on an island of grass in the center of the long circular driveway.
I looped my arm through Robert’s as we made our way up the steps. Once inside, I kissed his cheek. The double front doors led to a huge great room with a plasma television mounted on the wall, a fireplace, sofa, love seat and lounge chair. There was plenty of room to make love right there, and Olga, our housekeeper, was long gone for the day. But I knew my husband. He would want to wait until we were comfortably settled in our bedroom, as opposed to getting hot and heavy on the sofa.
Holding his hand, I led him up the curved staircase, across the portion of hallway that overlooked the great room below, to the double doors at the end that led to our bedroom.
The moment we crossed the threshold, I turned to face Robert, snaking my arms around his neck, my mouth on his, slowly coaxing his lips apart. Slipping my tongue into his mouth, I held him tighter. Robert began to kiss me back and I moaned, the sound ripe not just with desire, but with desperate need.
Robert’s hands went to my upper arms. He held me for several seconds, kissing me. Then he tightened his grip and forced my body away from his.
“I haven’t taken my pill, Elsie.”
“You can take it now.” I moved forward to kiss him once more, but he held me away.
“I want to make love to you—I do. But tonight—”
I planted another kiss on his lips. “Please, sweetheart. Please…”
I continued to kiss Robert, not ready for our night to end like this. He allowed it to go on for a few more seconds before pulling away again.
“I’m sorry, Elsie.” His eyes roamed over my face. And I thought I saw, just for a moment, a flash of disapproval.
“What is it?” I asked him.
“It’s…” He fingered the loose locks of hair around my face, almost as if examining the strands. “I’m tired, sweetheart. I’m sorry.”
I got the feeling that Robert had been about to say something else. That there was another reason he didn’t want to take me to bed.
But it was late for him—nearly eleven—and he’d had a couple glasses of that expensive cognac at the club, which always made him a little drowsy.
“Okay.” I gave him a soft kiss this time, trying to quell my disappointment. “If you’re tired, you’re tired. Why don’t you go get ready for bed, then? I’ll do some reading in the great room.”
“I’m sorry,” Robert repeated.
“It’s okay.” I gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.
I turned and exited the bedroom. Halfway down the hallway, I felt tears fill my eyes.
What am I doing wrong?
Robert and I hadn’t made love in nearly two weeks. There’d been some crisis at the office, Kolstad Systems, and he’d stepped in to help sort the problem out. I’d been busy with work. With all that had been going on, we hadn’t carved out any time for us.
This was the first evening in a while that we had spent any significant time together. I hadn’t wanted it to end like this.
Because I was pretty certain I was ovulating.
I went downstairs to the kitchen and made some tea and put on some smooth jazz. I hoped it would wash away my disappointment, but it didn’t. Two years I’d been off the Pill. Two years I’d been trying to get pregnant.
Robert’s rejection—even if he was tired—stung.
And then I asked myself why the night was necessarily over. Sometimes one partner had to do some coaxing to get the other in the mood. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d seduced my husband.
My drive renewed, I made my way back upstairs. I would take off my clothes and crawl into bed with him. All he needed to do was get erect. I would climb on top of him and do the rest of the work.
As I neared the bedroom, I unzipped my dress. I pulled it over my head and tossed it onto the floor. Then I unclasped my bra and let it fall, as well. It was an idea that came to me, and I acted. Surely when I entered the room, naked except for the pumps and necklace, Robert would become aroused.
Outside the door, I paused to strip off my thong panties.
The lights in the room were doused, except the lamp on my night table. Robert was lying on his side with his back to me. He didn’t hear me approach.
“Robert,” I whispered.
No answer.
Time for plan B.
I kicked off my pumps and pulled the covers back on my side of the bed. Then I slipped under the sheets, their coolness caressing my skin. I slid over to my husband, running my hand down his left arm. He didn’t react, so I leaned closer, nuzzling against his neck.
That’s when I heard his deep, steady breaths—and realized he was sleeping.
Still, I ran my hand over his hip and stroked him through his silk pajamas, hoping to wake him. Robert didn’t react.
I was defeated. I lay back on my pillow, sighing. It wasn’t just that I wanted to make a baby. I was sexually frustrated, needed sexual release.
As I lay in the dimly lit room listening to my husband’s steady breathing, I rested my right hand on the lower edge of my belly. I ran my fingertips over my skin. It was my own touch, yet my vagina thrummed in response. It needed to be stroked.
My hand went lower, over my pubic hair and to my center. I spread my folds. Lazily let my finger stroke my clitoris.
Angling my head slightly, I glanced at Robert. He hadn’t moved. He was still asleep. But even if he woke up and found me touching myself, I wouldn’t stop.
If he saw me, hopefully he would become aroused and make love to me.
I circled my finger around my clit, each stroke making me hotter. Raising my left hand to my breast, I tweaked my nipple. It hardened instantly.
I played with my nipple. Played with my clit. Looked toward Robert and saw that his back was still to me. He was clueless.
Closing my eyes, I started to imagine my husband’s hands on my pussy. But the fact that he was sleeping beside me, that he’d turned me down…It left me cold.
So I began to imagine someone else’s hand playing with my pussy. A man who, if I climbed into bed naked beside him, would wake up. He would wake up, lower his head over my chest and lick my nipples with his tongue. He would lick and suck, pull at them with his teeth…
My clit flinched in response to the image playing out in my mind. I moved my finger more quickly over my sweet spot, then dipped it into the soft folds. I was wet.
I used two fingers to play with my pussy now, but in my mind it was a tongue. A wet and hungry tongue that couldn’t get enough of me.
The tongue belonged to the man with the hazel eyes. And he was merciless with it. He circled it around my clit, over and over and over. Oh, God, I needed this. And he needed it, too, this lover of mine. He was young and virile and would fuck me all night long…eat my pussy all night long, if he knew I wanted that.
I spread my legs wider and arched my hips upward, giving him more of me. He buried his fingers inside of me and drew my engorged clitoris into his mouth and suckled me so damn sweetly…
An orgasm shuddered through my entire body. I arched my back, pushed my fingers deep into my pussy as I rode the wave. The pleasure was so intense and overdue that I couldn’t suppress my moan. I let myself enjoy every last bit of my orgasm.
As it subsided, I glanced to my right again. Robert’s back was still to me. He was still asleep, unaware that I’d brought myself to climax.
And for just a moment, I wished the man with the hazel eyes was beside me in this bed. That I could climb on him right now and slide onto a hard penis. One that could stay hard for a very long time.
Just as quickly as I thought it, I pushed the idea away. Guilt ate at me immediately. It wasn’t the first time I had fantasized about him—but I hoped it would be the last.
It was wrong, I knew. Wrong to have such an explicit fantasy about someone other than Robert.
I got up and went to the bathroom, where I started the shower. I stayed in there for a good long time, letting the cool water splash over my body.
Letting the memory of my fantasy wash away, like the soapsuds disappearing down the drain.
Chapter Four
All the next week, Robert was preoccupied by business. There was some complication with a company out of Germany that Kolstad Systems wanted to buy—a software firm with some sort of graphics technology that would aid in the computer systems Robert’s company created. The German owner was suddenly stalling, and Robert believed he was trying to solicit other bids. If this acquisition didn’t go through as planned, Robert feared that Kolstad Systems’ stock would fall.
With all of this weighing on his mind, he wasn’t interested in sex—not in the least. But I was able to coax him to erection one morning with a blow job. Excited that he was hard—and without the aid of Viagra, at that—I had straddled him, then moved slowly and steadily over his penis until I made him come.
I hadn’t come, but that didn’t matter. My husband’s sperm was inside me, and I was elated.
“What are you doing?” Robert had asked when he came out of the bathroom and saw me lying on my back on the bed, my legs bent at the knee. What he couldn’t see was the pillow beneath my hips, positioned to angle my pelvis on a downward slope—something I hoped would give Robert’s sperm the advantage of gravity.
“I read somewhere that lying on your back for thirty minutes increases the chance of conception,” I told him. “I’ve got fifteen minutes to go.”
“Oh.” He raised his eyebrows. “All right. I’ll be downstairs, having breakfast.”
“If I don’t see you, I hope all goes well at the office.”
When I was sure Robert was downstairs, I closed my eyes and began to stroke my clit. A couple minutes later, my body was shuddering with an orgasm.
What I didn’t tell Robert was something else I’d read—that a woman’s orgasm also aided her chances of conceiving.
I didn’t know if that was true, but I wanted to give myself every advantage in getting pregnant.
