Dark Jeans, Dark Eyes Ch. 03

We lay together, him mostly on top of me but him shifting himself so his weight was on the bed. He was kissing me so tenderly, along each eyebrow, on my neck, my earlobe, even sucking my bottom lip into his mouth.

"Your eyes are so green," he said softly.

A fragment of my partially-Irish heritage, no doubt. I was that mix of poor European ancestry: Eastern Europe, the southern part of Italy, and my Irishness. Hearty stock, survivors all, but hardly exotic or interesting. Bland white girl. I wasn't even attempting to be blond any more, letting my hair darken into an ordinary sort of light brown.

He likes my hair. He's twirling the long strands of it around his fingers, admiring the softness of it, the gentle wave (I was forever flat-ironing it). He's amazed that I'm as old as I say, although I don't feel nearly thin enough for the current mode of fashion. I'm not in amazing shape, but I'm still feeling pretty good about my body, having finally shed the baby weight and making myself exercise to keep my sanity through everything.

Juan loves my soft skin, his darker hand against my much paler breast. The nipples harden under his fingers, and he's entranced. When he begins to suck on them, I'm over the moon, cooing with pleasure.

I can't even decide what I like best: the part building up to the sex, the part where we have sex, or the sweet moments after sex. It's a difficult decision, since we continue to have sex, over and over again.

I'm on top one time, moving my hips all the different ways that I can, letting him slide nearly all the way out and holding him there, to tease and torment him, while he tries to push himself all the way in again. Then he's behind me, his fingers working me into a froth, one hand massaging my clit while the other strokes my breast. Then we sit, facing each other, my legs over his, our arms wrapped around each other, our eyes locked as he thrust slowly.

"You are soaked," he told me.

"I'm full of your come," I replied, my eyes never leaving his.

He's nodding, still thrusting, and I'm still so turned on by him that I'm pretty sure I'm going to climax again – and I hardly ever come, just from fucking, even though it still feels good. Usually takes direct clitoral stimulation.

It's him, and this position, and the way he's looking at me, and how crazy with desire I am – and him.

We were together at his house for about three hours. I realized I needed to head home, and I was starving. He laughed, made me a sandwich as I was getting dressed. There was something so sweet about that.

"When will I see you again?" he asked me.

"When do you want to see me again?" I ask.

"I don't want you to leave," he said. "So you need to come back soon."

I'm already considering the possibilities, how quickly I can get away again. I don't want to leave, either. He wraps up my sandwich, gives me a couple of napkins, and walks me to my car.

He kisses me goodbye for a long time. I don't want him to stop, but I'm about half an hour behind at this point, and the edges of my guilt are starting to bite at me.

I'm finally heading home, my head swirling. Literally. I've just had the best sex I've had in more than ten years. I'm so into this guy I've known less than a week. And I'm still married, I still have a child, a whole real life full of troubles, and I'm feeling some remorse even while my spirit is singing with the pleasure of seeing Juan again. I even briefly recalled _Madame Bovary_, and how I hadn't liked the book at all in college.

I get home, a little later than I was expected, but both of my guys are deeply involved in their screens – one of them a smartphone, the other an iPad – with the TV blaring.

For just a moment, I wonder if I look different, if there's some obvious alteration to my being that's going to be readily apparent. But both of them barely notice that I have returned. I wander through our house, doing a few things that I do – straightening up, tending to this and that, considering dinner – and even go ahead and give my little boy a juice. He barely looks up.

Should I take a shower? Should I not bother to care, unless someone notices? My lips are bruised. My pussy is completely worn out. I feel freakin' great. I feel terrible for my husband, the man I committed to.

But the patterns of my life reassert themselves, despite how different I feel. I go over the employment listings, I make a dinner that neither guy seems particularly interested in, though they both eat a little. It's not unpleasant. It's just not – being with Juan.

I'm imagining him. I'm recalling what we did together, my whole body vibrating with the memories. I'm thinking about his eyes, his lips, the shape of his cock. I want to touch his hair, his face. I want to make him smile. I want to make him come. In my head, I'm seeing him with me, talking with me as we go through the evening together, sharing food, sharing our night.

I spoke a total of two sentences to my husband that night. Otherwise, he barely acknowledged my existence. His only words to me were "mmm," and "thank you."

There's no doubt I'm kind of in a low place in my life. That my husband and I have lost the spark long ago, that we are consumed by the drudgeries of life: money, employment, insurance, less than perfect health, less than perfect learning abilities. I still love my spouse. I just don't like him very much right now. Sometimes, I kind of hate him.

He's at physical therapy the next morning, and two AA meetings, one that's a weekly meditation, one that's being helmed by his close friend, so he feels like he has to be there. My morning is free. I have things I should probably do, but nothing I have to do.

I text Juan: BREAKFAST?

He replies: WHEN CAN YOU BE HERE?

I'm married. This is not me. This is not who I am. I'm not a person who goes looking for pleasure, who likes sneaking around. I'm trying to be a responsible, level-headed grownup, to take care of business.

So I shower in the evening, and again in the morning. I drop my kid off at school, and I put on my favorite maxi dress, but no underwear. I go easy on the lotions, on the makeup, but I'm still careful in my preparations. And I'm trying not to rush, or take too much time.

I get to his house, armed with fresh eggs and fresh brioche, even two cafe lattes from my favorite French place.

Juan opens the door, even before I'm all the way up the front walk. I hand him his latte, give him a smile. He's smiling, too, like he's trying not to smile but he can't help himself. He's guiding me into the house, leading me to the kitchen.

I put down my grocery sack and my purse, tasting my coffee.

"This is good," he says.

I nod.

"So's the coffee," I reply.

He's pulling me to him, the coffee and breakfast temporarily forgotten, pushing me up onto the counter. He runs his hands up my bare legs, discovers that I'm wearing nothing underneath – and just has sex with me, right there.

It hurts so good I can't even stand it.