“Already?” I mumbled. A quick glance at the kitchen clock in the shape of a cat told me it was too early.

I wanted him to walk forward, to slip his arms around my waist. God, I needed him to do something out of the ordinary for a change.

Why couldn’t he lift my robe, slip his hand in between my panties and make love to me against the kitchen sink? My legs parted slightly just thinking about it.

After another argument the night before we’d gone to bed angry once again.

“Don’t ever go to bed angry,” I heard my mother’s voice chime in my head. Yeah, what would she know? She’s already on her third marriage. But maybe there was some truth to the saying.

One good love-making session was what we needed. I was sure of it.

But he would never do such a thing. Never in the morning.

That would be too improper.

But then again, it never happened in the evening, either.

“Can’t be helped,” he said from the kitchen doorway. “I have to pay for all these nice things you keep ordering.”

My teeth mashed together, and I kept my head faced forward, trying my best to ignore the snide comment. My temples pulsed as I bit my tongue. Why did he have to bring that up? He couldn’t just let it go.

He acted as if I maxed out our, sorry his, credit cards on a regular basis.

He grunted as if my silence meant he’d properly chastised me. I shook my head and sighed; we couldn’t go on like this.

“Wait,” I said as I turned, my back leaning against the edge of the counter. I was desperate to be touched, to be loved, but my legs were cast in cement, unwilling to move towards him. I wasn’t going to be the one to make the first move. He’d have to come to me if he wanted me, if he wanted to make it up to me for screaming into my ear last night about the clothes I’d ordered but would now have to send back, because he didn’t like the look of them—too revealing, too young. He preferred me in my old chunky sweaters and baggy sweatpants. It was a wonder he hadn’t taken away my satin robe and replaced it with a hideous terry towelling dressing gown.

Eric was in the process of grabbing for his briefcase as I let my dripping wet hands reach for the satin belt at my waist. The peach blush of the thin robe darkened to a dusky hue as droplets of water were quickly absorbed into the fabric.

I undid the loose knot, careful not to break eye contact with him, urging him to take notice, and then slowly I allowed the material fall away. The curtains of the robe caressed my bare sides and revealed my creamy, if not a bit pudgy, skin beneath.

I was all but naked, except for a clean pair of white lace panties.

My full breasts were on full display for him, my nipples beading into hard little nubs the longer they were exposed to frigid air surrounding us.

“Stay,” I whispered. I arched my back a fraction, the movement causing my chest to expand, my tits to swell.

For a fleeting moment I saw his indecision. The thick bob of his Adam’s apple and the rapid blinking of his eyelashes beating furiously in shock as if he’d never seen his own wife naked before. Come to think of it, I couldn’t remember a time when I’d been naked in my own kitchen before now. We’d never fucked on the kitchen counter like you’d see newlyweds do in the movies—going from room to room, christening every nook and cranny, not caring who heard them, just enjoying each other.

There shouldn’t have been any hesitation or contemplation of what he was to do next. It was simple: go to work or stay, it was “Caveman 101”—he should’ve strode forward, cast away his briefcase and the noose around his neck and claimed me.

I imagined him rock-hard in an instant, spinning me around against the sink cabinet while at the same time pulling my panties down and removing himself from his trousers.

His cock would spear me from behind. He’d be gentle but full of passion. My tits would bounce as he thrust into me. And he’d hold me like he used to.

We’d be OK again.

We’d come together, and we’d be OK.

But it was just a fantasy. He hardly ever looked at me, and even now his gaze barely registered the slight damp spot at my crotch.

Eric’s temples pulsed and he shook his head. “I gotta go,” he stuttered, then more forcefully, with a sneer, “Sara, cover yourself up.”

He retreated down the hallway without another glance.

I blew out a breath. The wind had truly been knocked out from my sails; my bosom deflated as I hastily wrapped myself back up. Shame. Disgust. Words such as those spun themselves around in my mind as tiny pinpricks at the corners of my eyes threatened to undo me.

My hands roamed over the dishes and utensils, my fingers scrubbed and washed as tiny rivulets of water droplets landed on the face of the plates. My mind wandered off as I continued to wash and dry. How had it all gone so wrong? Did I allow this to happen to us? When did we become so plain?

During my three years of marriage with Eric, I had done nothing but stay at home, looking after him, and with his reluctant permission I was able to volunteer at the animal shelter in the local town. With his job we could afford for me not to work, though I do wonder sometimes what would happen if money were tight or if I broached the subject about getting a paid part or full-time job. I couldn’t see Eric going for it. It would be nice to be able to buy things for myself without having to worry what he would think all the time. My own little stash of cash that I could do with what I pleased.

But he’d be livid if I went behind his back and sought out a paid position. My college degree was wasted on washing and ironing his shirts; I was worth so much more than this, I thought. But he preferred being the one to bring in the money, old-fashioned nonsense, being in control and the power that having all the purse strings gave him.

I frowned as the front door slammed.

“Eric? Is that you? Did you forget something?”

Footsteps echoed down the hall, coming closer.

“I thought I told you to cover yourself up! Why are you still in your dressing gown?” I turned to look at him over my shoulder. His face was a nasty shade of red, bull-like and angry.

“I… I thought to get the pots done before taking a shower.” I swallowed the fear that was rising in my throat. I knew better to talk back to him, but he had to see reason.

He was across the room in seconds, his fingers in my dirty blonde hair, entangling themselves and pulling me back. Pain shot through my skull as he yanked at the strands and spun me around, practically throwing me against the dining table. “You think it’s appropriate for you to be sauntering around half-naked like this?”

My jaw locked preventing me from responding. Don’t answer him back, it’ll only make him madder, I thought, knowing from previous experience that keeping quiet was the best way to handle these situations. He’d soon run out of steam. But today was different. He was different.

“Answer me!” he roared as he twisted my arm around my back, threatening to pop it out of its socket. He pressed me hard against the table, and I cried out in agony.

“I’m sorry,” I blurted, wanting him to let me go, for him to be anywhere but here and eager to say anything to stop the excruciating pain in my arm.

“Sorry? Is that all you have to say to me? Isn’t this what you wanted? Eh?” Eric let go of my arm, the ache in my shoulder gratefully subsiding. Believing it was all over, I braced my hand against the table, ready to get back up, but his fingers were still in my hair, not showing any sign of letting go.

His free hand quickly found its way beneath my robe, rough fingers skirting my tense thighs. Then all of sudden he ripped my panties away to the side, the cotton digging into my flesh.