Chapter Two
Drunk
It was me that had to drive home, after Paul consumed another three glasses of wine and a small Scotch and soda. The journey was reasonably short and was passed in mostly silence. I tried to draw him into conversation, commenting on how nice it was to see them again and how happy they both seemed. However, all I received was a grunt of agreement or indifference – it was hard to tell which, perhaps it was a bit of both.
When we got home, he immediately headed upstairs. Leaving me to thank and pay the sitter. After showing her out and watching at the door to make sure she got to her car okay, I made my own way up the stairs. Turning left on the landing, I tiptoed down the hallway, checking on each of the children before finally retracing my steps and wandering into our bedroom.
Paul was sitting in the high-backed, antique chair in the corner. He was leaning back, his legs spread casually wide and swaying slightly. One elbow was perched on the mahogany arm of the chair, his head dropped against his fist. With drooping eyelids, he looked at me.
“Becky is worried she’s done something to upset you,” I muttered, tossing my purse on the dressing table and kicking my three-inch heels off.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because you walked right past her and didn’t say a word,” I explained frustrated that it was necessary for me to do so.
His head suddenly straightening, he leaned forward, resting both arms on his knees. “Come over here,” he said, his voice rumbling deeply in his chest.
I turned to face him, my hand reaching for one of the oak poles at the foot of our four-poster bed. “Did you hear what I said?” I asked wearily, perching my free hand on my hip.
“Yeah, yeah,” he replied dismissively, his fingers grabbing the loose knot of his tie and pulling it free. He left it hanging around his neck and unclasped a button on his shirt which revealed some of the silky smooth skin of his chest. “Now, get over here,” he repeated, cocking his head.
“Paul,” I sighed. “I like her, she’s great with the kids and she’s always been very accommodating when we’ve needed her at the last minute. I don’t want to lose her.”
He rolled his heavy eyes as dramatically as his sluggish movements would allow. “Don’t you think you’re overreacting,” he muttered.
“What I think,” I replied tartly, “is that you were incredibly rude.”
“She’s the hired help,” he scoffed. “I don’t have to be nice to her, I pay her.”
Exhaling slowly, I realized I was getting nowhere fast and the conversation was bringing out a side of him that I found intensely unattractive. Releasing my hold on the bed, I swiveled on the ball of my feet and headed toward our en suite bathroom. I didn’t get more than two steps before Paul objected.
“Hey, where are you going?”
“Getting ready for bed,” I tossed over my shoulder, not bothering to turn around.
He must have been capable of moving much more quickly that I would have expected, because as I got to the door, his hand darted over my shoulder and slapped flat down on the hard wood.
Exasperated, I turned to face him. “What are you doing?”
“I don’t want to fight about the stupid babysitter,” he said, his voice pitched soft and a little lower than usual, while his eyes attempted to focus on me.
“Paul,” I sighed, placing my hands on his chest and pushing gently.
“What?” he asked, his chocolaty gaze moving from my face and taking a leisurely trip down the length of my body.
If it hadn’t been obvious before, what he wanted was very clear to me by that point. Something about the way he looked at me caused a dozen butterflies to flutter wildly in my stomach. However, another sensation, a much more stubborn one, refused to let me give into that feeling. “You don’t get any sex any more, remember?” I snapped. “That’s what happens when you have kids, right?”
His eyebrows moved wearily in their surprise. “What the hell are you talkin’ about?” he said, louder than I think he’d intended but unable to control his volume.
Shoving a little harder at his chest, I coaxed him back a half-step. “You know what I’m talking about,” I replied, brusquely. “Have you any idea how embarrassing that was for me?”
Paul kept his hand on the door and refused to budge any further. “For Christ’s sake,” he muttered under his breath, before shaking his head incredulously. “That was just a joke. Come on, Ben and Linda knew I was only messing around.”
“It’s not just a joke though, is it?” I quickly replied. “When was the last time we made love?”
My question was met with silence, while his eyes searched the ceiling and his mind trawled his memory. “I don’t know,” he eventually huffed. “It’s been a while. We’ve both been busy. And when we’re not busy, we’re having stupid arguments like this one.”
“So, it’s my fault?” I defensively blurted.
“That’s not what I said,” he insisted. “Why do you always twist my words?” His volume crept up another notch as he slammed his palm against the still closed bathroom door.
“Shhh,” I quickly hissed. “You’ll wake the kids.”
Exhaling heavily through his nose, he was quiet for a few moments. When he spoke again, it was in deliberately muted tones. “Why are we doing this?”
I couldn’t be sure whether the question was being asked of me or my breasts, and I waited for his bleary eyes to find mine once more. “I think,” I sighed, my head rocking back and resting against the door. “I think, we’re both a little stressed and tired. It’s a rough patch,” I added. That final phrase was spoken with more confidence than I felt in it. In truth, it was a hope that I’d been clinging to. As the weeks and months dragged on, the ‘patch’ got bigger and bigger. I was beginning to wonder if things would ever improve.
His Adam’s apple jumped as he swallowed. “All I’ve been thinking about over the last hour is getting you back here and ripping your clothes off,” he said, the fingers of his free hand suddenly snaking over my hip.
“That’s because you’re drunk,” I informed him, allowing him to tug my lower half to him. My hips met his with a slight bump and I felt the warm swell of his groin pressed against my belly. The evening had been far from romantic. I didn’t particularly want to make love with him right then. It was clear to all but the blind that alcohol had made him horny. Nothing else seemed to matter to him, not the fact that we’d been fighting, nor the fact that it had been almost two months since the last time we’d had sex.
“So what?” he replied darkly, as he moved his body against mine resulting in a surge of blood to his penis.
He was rock hard, his erection straining at the tented front of his pants. I wanted to stay mad; I was still mad. And yet, two long months without physical intimacy had taken its toll on me. My fingers trembled as an all too familiar warmth began to pool in my stomach and spread slowly southward. “Maybe,” I mumbled, realizing my mouth had gone suddenly dry. “Maybe we should talk about this in the morning.” As I tried to grapple some control over my desire, he continued to drive me to the edge.
Drawing his face close to mine, he teased my lips with his. Close enough to kiss me, he simply brushed his mouth against mine and pulled back as I instinctively leaned toward his lips. “I don’t want to talk,” he breathed, “now or in the morning.” His fingers stroked their way over my hip and grasped my buttock forcefully.
I gasped as he tugged me closer, grinding his lower half against mine. My hands automatically shot up to his shoulders, regaining my balance. “Kiss me,” I pleaded, my fingers twisting in the soft cotton of his shirt.
Paul’s hand slipped quickly from the bathroom door and snaked around my waist. He turned me hurriedly, panting with need as he pressed his open mouth to mine. His tongue dove between my lips, exploring with deep thrusts and little finesse. He pushed me rapidly and I followed his direction, my bare feet sliding backwards on the smooth carpet until my legs met the bedstead. His mom
entum didn’t stop, and the force of his weight sent me flopping onto my back.
I bounced on the soft mattress, releasing a muffled groan as his weight landed carelessly on top of me. “Mmm,” I mumbled into his mouth. “Hey,” I panted, jerking my head to one side and tearing my lips away from his. “Let’s slow down a little, huh?” I suggested, my hands stroking over the broad, sinewy muscles in his back. “There’s no rush,” I whispered into his ear.
Either unable or unwilling to listen, Paul grunted as his hands slid down my thighs. Hooking the fingers of one hand beneath my left knee, he coaxed my legs apart. His other hand was busy with the hem of my dress, pushing it haphazardly up. “Oh, God. I need you,” he groaned, nestling his hips between my legs and pushing his still clothed groin to my underwear-covered sex.
It had been a long time since Paul had been that frenzied and impetuous. It was flattering to know, even after all those years, he wanted me so desperately. So, I felt torn. On one hand, grateful for being made to feel sexy and desired. On the other, a sense that this was little more than a mad dash to sheath himself within me.
“Paul,” I moaned, the weight of his chest pressing the air out of my lungs.
“That’s right,” he panted heavily, uncoordinated hands fumbling awkwardly with the clasp and zipper of his pants. “Say my name.” Muttering curses under his breath, he edged his pants and underwear off his hips, stopping as soon as they’d reached his upper thighs. His erection now free, the soft flesh of its head rubbed along my inner thigh.
“Babe,” I muttered, the open zipper of his pants digging uncomfortably into my leg. “Please.”
Misinterpreting my plea or perhaps just too engrossed in his own mission, Paul’s sloppy, drunken hands gripped the edges of my panties. “Ugh,” he grunted, yanking at the fabric. The rip of white lace met his growl of aggression and the backs of his fingers briefly brushed my outer lips.
Unconsciously, my hips jerked in response, craving more of the same. But his hand was cruelly ripped away as quickly as it had been placed there. I was aroused, I did want him, but I wasn’t ready for what came next.
Paul quickly adjusted himself, bracing his hands on the mattress either side of my waist before driving his hips forwards with a masculine bark of release.
I sucked in a breath, my fingernails digging into his back, as my body was quickly and ruthlessly speared. “Ahh,” I wailed, my sex seeming to fight against the invasion. I tried to force myself to relax, to breathe slowly and allow my body to accept him, but it was all happening much too quickly. Any sensual and erotic thoughts I tried to conjure were immediately chased away when he began to pump fiercely. “Ouch,” I yelped. “Paul, you’re hurting me.”
His lower half was soon slapping against mine in a rapid tattoo. He groaned and muttered, the friction of my unprepared channel apparently proving uncomfortable for him. “You’re pussy is so...tight,” he grunted haltingly, only a syllable being uttered on each thrust.
I was barely able to hear him. Everything around me was a blur. The only thing that had any clarity was the pain of each callous drive of his pelvis, which caused me to bite down hard on my lower lip to keep from screaming.
Amid the discomfort and the grateful awareness that at least it wouldn’t last long, I remember wondering what the hell was going on. Sex with Paul had never been like this, even when he’d had a few too many drinks. Even when he was a teenager and orgasm was all he ever thought about, he’d never used my body like he did that night. It was as though I was with a stranger.
Forcing my gaze upward, I stared at his face. His eyes were squeezed shut, but if they’d been open he would have been staring at the wall straight in front of him. His features were tight with pained concentration. I’ll never know exactly what he was concentrating on, but it definitely wasn’t me. Sweat was beading on his forehead as he continued to lurch forwards, slamming his erection to the hilt with each viscous thrust. “Oh, yeah,” he grunted. “You like that.”
I drew in a deep breath, holding it while his movements lost their rhythmic pattern. The speed and depth started to grow erratic, until finally with a groan of, “Oh, shit!” he flopped forward and collapsed on top of me. His hips jerked and one leg spasmed as I felt his seed pulse into me in strong, hot bursts. That sensation, which had always been indicative of love, pleasure and the sharing of something primal suddenly made me feel sullied. I instantly felt guilty for feeling that way. After all, this was my husband, the man I loved with all my heart. Maybe the encounter had been lacking in romance and foreplay, but I’d still given him something special, which meant, by default, that what we’d done was special. At least, that’s what I tried to tell myself, as my eyes flooded with scorching tears.
“Oh, God,” Paul gasped, his breathing coming hard against my chest, as he leisurely lifted himself from me. “Ugh, fuck,” he muttered, rolling to one side. As his flaccid penis slipped from me, some of his semen dripped onto my inner thigh and, within seconds, created a chill that quickly spread throughout my entire body.
As soon as his bulk was off me, I reached down and pulled my dress back to my knees. My trembling fingers remained there, clinging to the hem. Paul’s left arm was lazily flopped over my waist and his foot, which was still in his black loafer, was draped clumsily across my calf. The rest of him was pressed face down into the mattress by my side.
“Paul,” I said with a quiet, shaky voice.
The only response I received was the low rumble of a snore. Laying under what felt like an incredibly bright glare from our bedroom light, my eyes fixed wide on the clean, white ceiling above. Shell-shocked, the events of the previous few minutes played on a continuous loop. Everything about him, from the way he’d behaved to the way he’d spoken, seemed alien to me. How could the man I’d been sleeping with since I was eighteen have changed so dramatically? Was it the result of two months of abstinence; a build up of frustration coupled with the effects of alcohol?
Those questions rolled unanswered around my brain, but it was another that took center stage. What the hell had just happened? It beat at my head over and over, as I laid stunned into motionlessness. I couldn’t even define what had passed between us. It hadn’t been anything resembling love making, not by my interpretation of the phrase. The way he’d cruelly taken what he wanted regardless of my discomfort bordered on rape, but then again, I’d never said, “no” or asked him to stop. I may not have been particularly happy with what was going on, but I’d passively allowed it to happen. And that brought with it another uncomfortable realization: it wasn’t just Paul who had acted out of character that night.