“Do you play often?”
He kicks back in his seat, the metal legs scrubbing slightly against the pavement. We both know my question has nothing to do with the game.
“I retired long ago, but I dabble on occasion if I have good reason to.” A silent communication passes between us until he lowers his eyes and makes his first move.
Hauling a bag of groceries in, I deposit it on the kitchen table, curious as to why Beau hasn’t pummeled me with his usual sloppy greeting. Surveying the back yard out the window, I come up empty for my two Frenchmen and begin to search the house. It’s in the study that I discover them both occupied. Beau stands propped with his front paws on Tobias’s thighs, nudging open his cupped hand to feed on potato chips, while Tobias sleeps practically comatose in my oversized, round chair. He’s in nothing but black sweatpants and wool socks, a soft snore coming from his gaping mouth. Bags of snacks and candies surround him, and I spy a half-eaten tub of Ben and Jerry’s peeking up from the end table. The TV blares next to me, muffling my laugh as Beau searches Tobias for remnants of more oil-soaked snacks.
It’s both funny and sad, and it’s clear my constant absence, along with the space I’m putting between us, is aiding in the creation of a French couch potato. Due to the state of sleep, it’s clear he’s eaten copious amounts of carbs that he used to forbid me from indulging in.
A splayed hand rests on his chest, and his legs are hooked over the side of the chair. Beau busies himself licking the other hand clean.
It’s evident he wasn’t expecting me home so soon. Aching to go to him, to swipe the remaining crumbs from his face and lick the leftover chocolate from beneath his mouth, I watch him as he sleeps. When I bought this house, I never pictured him here, and if I’m honest, I never imagined him in any domestic capacity. Sure, I lived with him in my father’s house, but then it was all fine dining, wine tasting, nights spent playing chess next to the fire, and sexy sessions that had us sweat-soaked and gasping for breath.
This dynamic is completely foreign.
Unease sneaks in that he’s so bored already, filling his days eating crap and binge-watching TV.
That gnawing of guilt and the fact that this is how he’s spending his time here only further reiterates my idea that he doesn’t fit, that small-town living will bore him to the point of restlessness.
Even in his slob state, he’s the most beautiful fucking man I’ve ever laid eyes on. And if I wanted to, I could go to him right now, swipe the crust off, and lose myself in him. I hate that I’m being so resolute, but my conscience demands it, and he’s forced me to be like this because of his past behavior. It’s been a little over a week since he showed up, and I’m determined to stick it out for my own purpose. He needs to know that any time he’s spending frustrated with me for the space I’m keeping between us, I’ve felt a thousand-fold—fuck that, a million times over when he pushed me away, exiled me and belittled our relationship. All the while I fucking begged him to acknowledge us. Immature as it may be to hold that grudge, I suffered at his hands too much to just give in. And I won’t. Not until I’m sure he understands I won’t ever stand for that again.
It’s not just the sins he committed and the lies he told in our time together that he never had to answer for, but his cruel denial months ago when I made a fool of myself. However, those combined are reason enough.
But the longer I watch him, the more drawn in I become, a little more helpless to the pull, a constant thrum of need for him, and only him.
Images of our past taunt me as I gaze on. A flash of me on my knees in nothing but panties as he fisted my hair and pushed his thick cock in my mouth, ordering me to suck. And I did, my reward…the stoking fire and satisfaction from the control I gave up evident in his eyes, in the grunts and murmurs from his mouth before he fucked me raw. I can indulge in the hellfire and draw that same satisfaction at any point in time, but sexual frustration will not be what breaks me. It will not be what has me giving in.