So, what was different about this night?
It was all the little subtle things. Things that might be not immediately obvious to anyone. But they were all too aware what this night would bring. One of them, more than the other.
There had been less intimacy. That was noticeable. When she came home from work, boxes and bags in her arms, she didn't rush straight to him. She didn't seek him out in their kitchen, where the smells of their dinner were rich and decadent. She didn't seek out the warmth of his lips. She didn't spend a moment lingering in his kiss before even a word was spoken between them.
No, not tonight. She went straight to their bedroom. She had things she needed to have in order. She needed time to ready her mind and prepare for the night. She knew this would be a challenge for him. But, it was what they both wanted. They had discussed this endlessly. That doesn't mean these things are easy. Especially when quiet words in bed, are replaced with the cold stark reality.
She knew if she lingered too long in here, that he would worry. He was already uneasy. This she knew. But there were a few things she needed to sort out, before she was ready to be with him, and take his hand through this evening.
There was clattering in the kitchen. Whether it was deliberate or not was another thing.
When she was sorted, and when she felt the beat of her heart settle sufficiently, she went to him.
He turned toward the hall and its bedrooms as soon as she had left their bedroom. So acutely aware of any sound of approach she made. He stood in the glorious mess of the kitchen. He had distracted himself this afternoon by being industrious in the kitchen. Not that he needed any excuse to get busy in the kitchen. The creation of food that pleased all the senses was sensual and primal, and when he hit the right note and nailed his meals, the look of pure satisfaction and enjoyment on his wife's face was worth every hour, every burn, and all the mess (ok, the mess bit was a little debatable).
He was cooking her favourites; lamb and eggplant. He had put the Sicilian eggplant pizzas in the oven when she arrived, and they were crisped to perfection. All that was needed was to throw on some fresh rocket and pine nuts. The lamb for the Greek lamb and watermelon salad was resting, but its rich, pungent smell filled the kitchen. He stood with a dishcloth draped haphazardly over one arm, and her favourite wine glass in the other, readying it to be filled.
"Divine," she said, genuinely, as she approached.
Now she had broken their second cardinal rule: No words before kissing. And secondly, it was difficult to ascertain what she meant: was it his cooking, the wine, or he.
But there were no more words now, and she approached him, full of warmth, affection, desire and a little excitement. As she reached him, he had readied himself. He was no longer draped in a dishcloth, or holding a wine glass, even if it took him a moment of thinking to ready himself for her warm embrace.
He stood some half a foot taller than her and was broad and strong. He took her in his arms and engulfed her. His arms wrapped around her, and instead of bending down to kiss her mouth, he picked her up and pulled her against himself, before seeking out her mouth and her kiss. Now finally, some semblance of their normal routine. Their first kiss. Their kiss before discussion of their day, their difficulties, their pressing needs, or the multitude of things that can fill in a day, it was their simple kiss, their connection, and their intimacy with each other that they prioritised. In that kiss they reconnected, and where they could get a feel of what was going on with the other.
Right now, in their kiss, there was a shared sense of uncertainty and excitement.
Something shared in this kiss spoke of their need to escape from the night of possibilities, so both were reluctant to break it. So, they didn't. Their mouths melded, their passion for each other intensified, and their needs teased. He pulled her up firmer against his body and dragged her thighs about his waist, never moving his lips from hers. He edged her to the dining table, and placed her rump on it, continuing to kiss her greedily.
With her arms about his neck, she pulled him further into her kiss, and against her body. Now that she was placed on the table, she pulled him at him, as she leaned back toward the cold surface of the table. The two white place-mats at her shoulders looked like off-centre, stubby wings: An angel who hadn't quite reached her potential, perhaps. With her legs wrapped about his body, he was clear to lay between her parted thighs, and grind his weight and his lust between her legs.
He broke the kiss. It was so sudden it caught her by surprise, as like he, she was reluctant for the moment between them to end. With a glint in his eye, he brought a finger to his slightly parted lips, 'No words, yet' - 'let's not break the spell', were surely what she read in the dark pool of his deep brown eyes.
A smile crossed her wet lips. She was more than happy with the decision. There had been enough talking about this night, there will be so much more to talk about after this night, some of it undoubtedly awkward. So, to lose each other in this moment was more than suitable to her, too. She watched him as he made his next move. He kissed her chin, lingered there a mere moment before he made his way slowly made his way down her neck. His tongue licked the small space at the base of her neck. A space he had wantonly drunken many flavours that had dripped down her neck at certain times; wine, saliva, beer, and his favourite; sweat. But she tasted of soapy cleanliness tonight, far too fresh and crisp for this preference. He lingered a moment, before pushing her breasts together in such a way that formed pale, firm spheres below his chin. He was just about to gorge on her breasts, when, with a sigh, she pushed him firmly on the top of his head, and off her.
Neither was surprised.
He pulled himself together. Shifted himself in his jeans. And served dinner, as she poured two glasses of wine. Standard glasses. That looked incredibly insignificant in the round bowl of their large Schott Zwiesel glassware. A gift from a dear friend from their wedding. Glassware that had outlasted many of their friend's relationships.
Dinner was muted. A stark juxtaposition from the rich, vibrant, full-in-your-mouth flavours of the meal, and the wine. He had bought white for the meal, unusual for them. But red for them always meant soft, loungey nights spent together. A white they'd associated with a cheeky glass before heading out. He had chosen an aged, and particularly heavily oaked chardonnay, so viscous and heavy, that is slicked lazily around in their glass.
The food was almost decadent, and seemed a perfect prelude to their evening, even if they bared consumed half their meals. Their active minds taking away from their appreciation their mouths were experiencing.
He stabbed at a bit of lamb in his salad, absent-mindedly, and they both watched as the fork ricocheted off the side of the plate, and filled the air between them with a short, sharp shriek, that caused their hairs on his arms to quiver. That was the moment they were waiting for, even if they hadn't been conscious of it.
She shooed him off to the bedroom, and to have a shower. "There are instructions taped to the mirror," she called after him, making him stop in the middle of the hallway, and turn with a quizzical eyebrow. She only answered with a flick of her wrist in the direction he was headed. She busied herself in the kitchen. Putting away the mainly uneaten dinner and putting the plates in the dishwasher.
When he finally hopped out of the shower; having taken much more time than he used to, and feeling very unnatural, he found her sitting on the edge of the bed, looking like a Cheshire Cat, all pleased with herself, and a smirk that teased his back with a shiver.
She was dressed. A full-length black dress that softly hugged her curves. It was on the cusp of being transparent, with just enough threads to make it look eerie, rather than wanton. The criss-cross of straps at her busts left a star-shape at her décolletage. The dramatic black lines over her fair skin were lessened by the sheer black shawl that covered her upper body. She didn't have the hood pulled over her head, but he could see it hanging softly at her back. Her feet were bare, and he was shocked to see the blood red colouring of a recent pedicure. She looked pagan, otherworldly, and sexy in an unsettling way.
