I yawned and stretched under the covers, working feverishly to ignore the bright sunlight streaming through the bedroom window. My husband, Ryan, was always the early riser and had already vacated the bed.
I used to wake up before dawn, throw on exercise clothes, and spend a precious hour honing my body to what I believed was perfection. That habit died years ago, victim to the stress of my professional life and the realization that Ryan and I would never have a family of our own. I loved my husband, but his infertility robbed me of the chance to bear children--that depressed the hell out of me, but I worked hard to hide it. Probably not the best idea.
The scent of freshly brewed coffee tickled my nose and enticed me to cease my sad ruminations. Ryan and I had started talking about other family options, namely adoption. We'd discussed artificial insemination, but that choice left a sour taste in my mouth. I wanted to carry Ryan's child, not the product of someone else's ejaculate.
After another body-rattling yawn, I lumbered to the bathroom and brushed away all hints of morning breath from my mouth before tugging on my casual weekend garb. No bra, one of Ryan's cast-off tee shirts, and a pair of loose-fitting sweatpants that had seen better days. My attire was far from sexy, but it was damned comfortable.
I padded downstairs, shuffling towards the kitchen and its promise of coffee. As a moderately successful writer, I enjoyed the luxury of working from home and thus avoided the hectic chaos of the corporate world. Slow-moving was the norm for me, but my Ryan never complained. He worked from home when he could, though all too often my husband left my side as he traveled, attending to affairs related his security business.
The kitchen table, already laden with food, bore a lead crystal vase brimming with tidy, white flowers.
I smiled.
"Gardenias," I said.
"Happy Valentine's Day," countered my husband as he closed the distance between us. "And to I have a surprise planned for you, my love."
I laughed and let him pull me into a heated kiss. The child situation bothered me, but I loved Ryan more than life itself. He'd pulled me, kicking and screaming, from the pit of depression and remained a solid rock in my life, no matter how hard I'd tried to push him away. I owed the man my life, though he would never dream of collecting that debt.
"You don't have to go to any trouble," I offered, a little breathless after our embrace. "You've been working your ass off the last month. I'm fine with a little relaxation this weekend."
I'd planned a special Valentine's dinner. Beef Wellington with a homemade Hollandaise sauce accompanied by bacon wrapped asparagus and garlic mashed potatoes. My husband's favorite meal.
Ryan chuckled and gave me another kiss.
"Well, I'm excited about this special dinner you have planned tonight," he said as he turned back to the stove. "But I still have a surprise of my own."
"Really?" I reached around him and stole a piece of crispy bacon from the sheet pan resting on the kitchen counter.
He grunted in acknowledgment, though his attention remained focused on the skillet before him. I slid around him, heading for the coffee bar and the promise of that delicious, hot elixir. Ryan had remodeled the kitchen as a birthday present for me, finishing the task in one weekend while I was away at a writer's convention. The coffee bar had been an extra reward for himself, one that I also greatly appreciated.
Ryan nodded towards the kitchen island, clearly indicating his intention to serve me breakfast. Fair enough, I had serious plans for serving him a dinner he'd never forget.
I slid onto a barstool and waited patiently, admiring my husband as he served up an omelet. We grinned at one another while he plated his own food and finally joined me, sitting closer than usual.
The suspense was killing me.
My husband smirked as I told him so.
"Fine," he finally said with an exaggerated sigh. "You really want to know what the surprise is?"
I playfully smacked his arm.
"Baby, I've cleared the entire week. I'm all yours till next Monday," Ryan informed me with a devious grin. "If you're interested, that is."
"No business trips? No middle of the night emergency phone calls?"
"Nothing, precious," he confirmed.
I squealed and threw my arms around my husband, my enthusiasm endangering both breakfast foods and coffee cups. A full week with Ryan. No interruptions! We hadn't enjoyed such a luxury since our wedding.
Our hugging morphed into something else, growing with intensity until we finally moved into the living room and onto the couch. We groped and kissed and fucked like teenagers, until the passion of the moment was satisfied, and we returned to our cold breakfast, grinning like fools.
"An entire week," I murmured as I snuggled against Ryan's body. He'd insisted on cleaning up the kitchen after breakfast, then we'd snuggled up in front of the big flat screen to watch digital recordings of our favorite cooking shows.
We were both naked, nestled together under a thick blanket.
"I'm glad you're happy," he admitted finally. We were both a little breathless after another round of passion. "I thought you might want something nice. A necklace. Something."
I arched an eyebrow at my husband.
"A necklace doesn't keep my warm at night, handsome," I finally said. "A week together with no obligations is the best gift I could ever ask for."
Ryan laughed, an unfamiliar glint in his blue eyes.
###
Around mid-afternoon, I chased Ryan out of the house, sending him towards the garage that housed his newly renovated man-cave--his birthday present from me--so I could prepare his special meal.
We'd had a rough spell a few months ago. Well, more exactly, I'd gone through a serious depressed episode. I became sullen and paranoid, staying in bed for days and convincing myself that my husband had to be cheating on me. Ryan put up with my erratic behavior for a few weeks before forcing me to visit my therapist.
Guilt and shame ate away at me when I finally shook off the suffocating weight of my damaged mental health. I twisted that angst into something creative, typing a full-length book in a little over a week. My efforts shocked my agent, who'd gone out on a limb to push the work through to a big-name publisher. I'd received a sizable advance, which had paid for a remodel of the garage--Ryan had wanted a man cave for years. I stole a drawing he'd kept hanging on the wall and gave it to the contractor, one who'd done a great deal of work for my husband in the past. I knew nothing about construction and couldn't tell if the workers did a good job, but Ryan had been ecstatic about the result.
The beef Wellington was resting and didn't look half bad. While the dish didn't challenge the professional images on the recipe website I'd referred to, the main course at least looked appealing on our dinner table. I slid the side dishes in the oven to finish and fairly ran upstairs to get ready for dinner.
After a quick shower, I sprayed a hint of vanilla and brown sugar body spray across my body before pulling a simple black dress over my head. I wore no undergarments, just so I could feel a little naughty. My breasts were still firm enough not to sag without support. I refrained from adorning myself with jewelry in the hopes that I'd finally be brave enough to tell Ryan about the kind of sex I really wanted--the dress I was willing to sacrifice, my jewelry had all come from my husband and every piece meant something to me.
My dark, twisted fantasies had inspired my creative works. Works helped me carve out a reputation in the erotic fiction community. Ryan knew I wrote novels, but I shied away from telling him the pen name I used when writing my fantasy sex tales.
