“What are you doing?” I ask, confused but also turned on so fast that I feel my neck break out in sweat.

“My favorite running shorts. You told me the one way I can get my shorts back is with my mouth, so I’m getting them back.”

With that proclamation, he tugs on the tie of my robe and parts it open, revealing my underwear and naked chest. My nipples are hard, pointing at the ceiling, ready for his touch. I watch as his eyes feast on me. White-hot hunger pulses through his pupils as he stands there, hands clenching at his sides, chest rising and falling. He looks like he’s ready to burst, like he’s been holding back for months and is now ready to be unleashed. It reminds me of the hunger I always saw in his eyes when he’d return from away games.

I’m not sure where this burst of need is coming from, if it’s possibly from my compliance at dinner or that he truly wants his shorts, but either way, I can sense there won’t be any stopping him until he gets what he wants.

And after a stressful night like tonight, one that was filled with confusion and intimate touches, and the thought that maybe . . . for a micro-second, I mattered, I’m wound up and ready to release the tension that’s been twisting in my stomach.

With one swift tug, he pulls my thong down my legs and casts it aside. Then he pushes my legs apart, exposing me to his eyes that lazily soak me up.

“Am I allowed to play with your tits?” he asks.

Yes.

I want you to suck on them. Squeeze them. Roll my nipples until I scream, the way you always do.

But I also realize I’m in a situation where if I give in to his touch, to feeling all of him, I’m forfeiting my power, my control over what’s transpiring between us. So even though I’m desperate for him to keep touching me tonight, to drive himself deep inside me until I feel like he’s taken me back to Chicago, to when things were right, I know I can’t give in. I know I’ll want more. I’ll want his kisses, his body, his soul, and I’m too emotionally weak to even consider going that far with him.

I should stop him right now, but there are two reasons I’m not.

I’m the one who started this, and I’ll be damned if I don’t finish it.

This is about control—about strength—and I might not have shown it in the past, but I’m showing it now.

And, secretly, deep down inside, past the bitterness and the hurt and the pain, I still want him. And granting myself this little taste, this tiny sample of the man I fell in love with, is necessary, especially after tonight’s touches.

Keeping my chin held high, I answer him. “Your mouth on my pussy only, nothing else.”

I watch carefully as the pride in his chest deflates and the excitement in his eyes fogs over. I know why. We’ve always felt the most connected in the bedroom. It’s been a big part of our relationship. I don’t want him to have that connection. I want him to miss it, just like I miss the man I married.