already in bed, most
likely the former because they rarely go to bed before midnight these days. He
stands there watching me as I take off my makeup and brush my teeth in the bathroom.
“What’s up with you?” he mumbles. I turn towards him, and
for the first time in a long time I really look at him. I see his angular,
still overly slim frame, his square jaw with perfect nose and hair flopping
down over his forehead, hiding the green eyes I used to love when I first met
him. Now all the small gestures irritate me; every time he runs his hand
through his hair to move it out of his face, I wonder why he doesn’t just get
it cut. There’s no denying he’s still a handsome man, but I also see the grey
in his hair and the lines etched on his face that reflect all the angry and
disappointed expressions he has made over the passing years, and I realise I feel
virtually nothing of the love for him I had felt in the early days. He sees me
weigh him up with my eyes and look away, finding him wanting.
“What’s with you?” he says again, angry this time, seeking
to reassert control. I move back into the bedroom and reach for my pyjamas.
“Don’t bother,” he growls, pushing me back onto the bed with
one hand while fumbling to undo his shirt with the other. I sigh and sit down
on the bed as I begin to slowly undo my own buttons. It isn’t fast enough for
him, so he grabs it and tears, sending the small buttons flying across the
room.
“Shit, Greg, that was my favourite shirt,” I complain
without thinking.
He just pushes me back against the bed, secures both my
hands in one of his and growls: “Shut the fuck up.”
He reaches for my skirt and pushes it up, exposing my pants,
which he pushes to one side before pushing two fingers straight up inside me
hard. I moan at the sensation because the invasion hurts at first, but
eventually my body starts betraying me as he moves his fingers, touching my
most sensitive places. I want to hate him for doing this, but my body has
other ideas. I can feel a slickness forming as his fingers press within me. I’m
responding almost instantly, and he knows it. My nipples harden, exposed
through the lace of my bra, and he lowers his head to suckle first one and then
the other until I’m whimpering for more, a dull ache forming in my lower
stomach that demands his attention.
All the while he holds my hands tight in place in the firm
grip of one of his large hands. He withdraws his fingers suddenly and tears
off my pants, before fumbling one-handed with the buttons on his jeans to
release his erection. His knee forces my thighs apart, and I feel him nudging
at my entrance before pushing in hard.
Suddenly, I want him. My back arches, and I push my hips
against him, deepening the contact. He only thrusts a few times when I feel
the telltale tightening and trembling in his body and he’s shouting my name as
he comes, finally collapsing onto me, eventually releasing my hands. The whole
event must take no more than ten minutes if we’re lucky.
We lie there in silence for a while, both breathing heavily,
before he stands up, takes off his trousers and shirt and then climbs into the
bed. I can tell he’s asleep within five minutes of shuffling out of his jeans.
I get up, remove what’s left of my shirt, my bra and then my skirt, and slowly
pull on my pyjamas. As I lie back down on the bed, with the lights turned off,
I think about what just happened. Jesus, all I’m fit for is the bloody
Jeremy Kyle show , I reflect, wondering how it was that my life was turning
into the worst kind of car-crash television. I didn’t say no , I console
myself .
Chapter 8
Greg didn’t look happy when I told him I was going out with
Emma for a second time that week, but after I explain how she needs me to help
with the choice of pram, as well as doing a bit of other shopping, there really
isn’t much he can object to without looking childish and
likely the former because they rarely go to bed before midnight these days. He
stands there watching me as I take off my makeup and brush my teeth in the bathroom.
“What’s up with you?” he mumbles. I turn towards him, and
for the first time in a long time I really look at him. I see his angular,
still overly slim frame, his square jaw with perfect nose and hair flopping
down over his forehead, hiding the green eyes I used to love when I first met
him. Now all the small gestures irritate me; every time he runs his hand
through his hair to move it out of his face, I wonder why he doesn’t just get
it cut. There’s no denying he’s still a handsome man, but I also see the grey
in his hair and the lines etched on his face that reflect all the angry and
disappointed expressions he has made over the passing years, and I realise I feel
virtually nothing of the love for him I had felt in the early days. He sees me
weigh him up with my eyes and look away, finding him wanting.
“What’s with you?” he says again, angry this time, seeking
to reassert control. I move back into the bedroom and reach for my pyjamas.
“Don’t bother,” he growls, pushing me back onto the bed with
one hand while fumbling to undo his shirt with the other. I sigh and sit down
on the bed as I begin to slowly undo my own buttons. It isn’t fast enough for
him, so he grabs it and tears, sending the small buttons flying across the
room.
“Shit, Greg, that was my favourite shirt,” I complain
without thinking.
He just pushes me back against the bed, secures both my
hands in one of his and growls: “Shut the fuck up.”
He reaches for my skirt and pushes it up, exposing my pants,
which he pushes to one side before pushing two fingers straight up inside me
hard. I moan at the sensation because the invasion hurts at first, but
eventually my body starts betraying me as he moves his fingers, touching my
most sensitive places. I want to hate him for doing this, but my body has
other ideas. I can feel a slickness forming as his fingers press within me. I’m
responding almost instantly, and he knows it. My nipples harden, exposed
through the lace of my bra, and he lowers his head to suckle first one and then
the other until I’m whimpering for more, a dull ache forming in my lower
stomach that demands his attention.
All the while he holds my hands tight in place in the firm
grip of one of his large hands. He withdraws his fingers suddenly and tears
off my pants, before fumbling one-handed with the buttons on his jeans to
release his erection. His knee forces my thighs apart, and I feel him nudging
at my entrance before pushing in hard.
Suddenly, I want him. My back arches, and I push my hips
against him, deepening the contact. He only thrusts a few times when I feel
the telltale tightening and trembling in his body and he’s shouting my name as
he comes, finally collapsing onto me, eventually releasing my hands. The whole
event must take no more than ten minutes if we’re lucky.
We lie there in silence for a while, both breathing heavily,
before he stands up, takes off his trousers and shirt and then climbs into the
bed. I can tell he’s asleep within five minutes of shuffling out of his jeans.
I get up, remove what’s left of my shirt, my bra and then my skirt, and slowly
pull on my pyjamas. As I lie back down on the bed, with the lights turned off,
I think about what just happened. Jesus, all I’m fit for is the bloody
Jeremy Kyle show , I reflect, wondering how it was that my life was turning
into the worst kind of car-crash television. I didn’t say no , I console
myself .
Chapter 8
Greg didn’t look happy when I told him I was going out with
Emma for a second time that week, but after I explain how she needs me to help
with the choice of pram, as well as doing a bit of other shopping, there really
isn’t much he can object to without looking childish and
Similar Books
