A Chance for Redemption

This is a follow-up to "The Heart Can Lead You Astray" published in Romance 3/18/2020. If you'd like greater insight into what follows, I'd suggest you read that story first, though it's not necessary.

*****

Sandra Norquist wanted details, wanted to know WHY things didn't work out with Byron and Lynette. In good time, she decided. First things first, like putting those long-stemmed roses in a vase and then fixing lunch. The housework she had begun when Byron came over could wait also. After placing the vase in the dining room, she returned to the kitchen and to Byron who sat at her round Formica table. "Tuna on toasted rye okay?" She smiled knowing that tuna on toasted rye was a lunch favorite of his.

"You remembered," he said. "Thanks, that would be great. With chopped pickles and onions, of course."

He still wore his windbreaker jacket, zipped open over his glorified T-shirt. He watched her standing at the counter, her back toward him, fixing the sandwiches. Just minutes ago, she was kissing and hugging him on the parking lot of her building, barefoot and in shorts. Her attire hadn't changed. His Viking Princess, as he called her, had a great pair of legs, and she could almost feel the heat of Byron's eyes glued to her shapely calves. She was right on target, for that's exactly where he aimed his hazel eyes.

After cutting the sandwiches and placing them on the table, she poured two glasses of iced tea, then sat down to join him. She wasn't sure where this was going, if anywhere. She was taking it one moment at a time. She still loved him, as she had said, but also didn't trust him, as she had also said. He had blindsided her, met another woman, this Lynette, and then dropped Sandra like a hot ingot. Now he wanted her back. Well, not so fast, Charlie. She could forgive, maybe, but she couldn't forget, couldn't forget how upset she got when he told her about Lynette, couldn't forget the tears, the sleepless nights, the nausea, the depression. Her jogging and her gym workouts helped. Still, she suffered.

And right now, she sensed a tension between them that didn't exist pre-Lynette, and knew that he sensed it also. "I'll help you with your housework," he said. "I can vacuum with the best of them, you know."

She smiled, knowing his offer, while it sounded sincere, was more of a tension breaker. "No, that's okay. After lunch I'd like to talk some more. If you don't mind. Meanwhile, why don't you take your jacket off, stay awhile." He nodded, slipped off the windbreaker and hung it over the back of the chair.

"You trimmed your hair and beard, I noticed," she said.

He finished chewing a bite of tuna before answering. "Right, I did."

She didn't ask why, didn't care, really. It was just something else to say, to keep the conversation moving, to reduce the tension. She talked about work, told him she might get a transfer and promotion to the human resources department. No secretary at her company had ever done that, and she was excited at the prospect. He talked about his own work, told her that two of his wrestlers made All State.

After lunch, they repaired to the living room and sat about a foot apart on the sofa, once the scene of hot make-outs that led to hot sex, sometimes on the sofa, other times in her bedroom. She still thought Byron was one handsome teacher/wresting coach. She used to tease him about that, used to say he was the best looking teacher/wrestling coach she ever knew—the joke being that he was the only one she ever knew. The bitterness that lingered didn't blind her to that. She thought back to when they met at that Thirty-Something and Single mixer. She had made the first move, walked up to him and asked him to dance. It was a case of IMA, Byron's made-up word that stood for Instant Mutual Attraction. More than that, the conversation was devoid of the awkwardness typical of first-time meetings. 'It was like opening a bottle of champagne,' is the way she once described it to a girlfriend. He listened to what she had to say, a rarity with other guys she had met at these types of meet markets. A great first date was followed by an even better second date. They had sex for the first time, did it twice that night. Weeks later, Byron, ever the athlete, achieved a "personal best," climaxing a total of six times within a twenty-four-hour period. 'I guess I turn you on,' she had joked. 'Slightly,' he had answered. Then there were those wonderful trips to the beach, museums and historical sights, Mount Vernon, Gettysburg, Harpers Ferry. It was all so wonderful. Until...

"So Byron," she began, "what went wrong with Lynette? You seemed to be so gung-ho for this new relationship of yours. Then you show up here and tell me that Lynette isn't for you. Inquiring minds would like to know."

He nodded. "Fair enough. I guess I have some splainin' to do." Pause. "Okay, we had different values when it came to some things. She was always late, always made me wait at her door, typically around ten minutes, sometimes longer. To her, that was normal. To me, it was annoying, if not downright inconsiderate, though she didn't see it that way. We argued over that." Another pause. "Should I go into our sex life? Such as it was."

Sandra really didn't want to hear Byron's stories about his sex life with another woman, particularly the woman he dumped Sandra for. On the other hand, she was curious what he meant by 'such as it was.' That phrase alone told her that the sex couldn't have been so hot. Grinning, she said, "Sure, let's hear it. Only don't get too graphic."

He smiled back at her. "Right. Well, first off, you spoiled me for other women. You're the best I've ever had and most likely ever will have unless...unless you can somehow find it in your heart to take me back."

She wasn't going to answer him one way or another about resuming or not resuming their relationship. She still didn't know herself. "We were explosive in bed together, Byron. I didn't forget. Totally sympatico. The 'Marge and Gower Champion of the bedroom,' you once called us."

"I meant every word."

"I know you did, and you know that I felt the same way. But what happened with Lynette? Should I assume that you two didn't jell what it came to getting it on? Bad chemistry? What?"

"You and I, now WE had great chemistry, didn't we?"

She felt he was stalling. "We did. Now back to you and Lynette."

"And I'd bet we still do."

She sighed. "You don't want to tell me, do you?"

He grunted. "Okay, in a nutshell, because of her crazy sense of timing and other things that bothered me, it got to the point where I couldn't perform anymore. Without trying, she had this sort of emasculating effect on me. Me, who once came six times in a day with you, couldn't perform once with her."

She shook her head. "I find that hard to believe. From what you say, you slept with her at some point."

"In the beginning, yes, but it was far from satisfying. She's no Sandra Nyquist. Anyway, I thought it might get better but the opposite happened. It went downhill fast, the whole shebang. My heart led me down the wrong path, led me astray."

"Astray and back to me." She shook her head. "Byron, did you come back to prove your manhood, to assure yourself that you've still got it? Is that why you're here? Because that's what I'm thinking."

"That's not it at all, Sandy. I know I've still got it. There's nothing wrong with me. There was plenty wrong with the chemistry between me and Lynette. It just didn't work."

She could see him getting irritated. Nevertheless... "But suppose the chemistry HAD worked. Suppose you had had no performance issues. Then what?"

"Sandy, the bad sex, then no sex, was just a symptom of our overall incompatibility. Look, Lynette was cute enough, cute face and bod, all that stuff. But looks only go so far. The chick turned me off with her habitual lateness, pathological lateness, I'd call it. Then there was her annoying propensity to gab on about unrelated things when it was time to get intimate. Other things, too, like when she said she wished I had an 'edge' to me like her ex boyfriends. Can you believe that one? Shit like that. Now do you see why it didn't work?"

She could see him getting worked up, red in the face, veins popping from his muscular forearms. She'd heard enough. "Okay, my interrogation's over. I didn't mean to upset you. But I hope you can see where I'm coming from. You hurt me terribly by taking up with someone else. I never saw it coming. You blindsided me, coldcocked me. So, like anybody would, I'm asking what does she have that I don't? Because, like you said, we had great times together, and not just in bed. And then, out of the blue, your phone call telling me it's over because you might be falling in love with someone else. So I'm like, what the ef is that? Where did that come from?" She swished a finger across her eyes to catch a tear. "Damn it, I don't want to cry anymore."

But she did, still upset, still somewhat angry but not so angry that she could resist when he hugged her and kissed her, told her again how much he loved her and again how sorry he was. Arms wrapped tightly around her, he said, "We belong together, Sandy, no doubt about it. I broke your trust, I know, and all I can do is try my best to win it back. If you'll let me."

They were face to face, noses touching. He brushed the tears from her cheek. She stroked his close-cropped beard and squeezed his hand. She managed to smile through her sniffling. Softly, she said, "You always had enough of an edge for me, you know."

He chuckled. "I hope so."

She didn't know what she meant by that. It was just something to say, some light comic relief amid the pain. On top of everything else, she was getting horny. Angry and horny. What a weird combo. How could that be? She wasn't sure, but she couldn't deny the red-hot feeling that was bubbling up from her loins like red-hot lava ready to spew. This required attention. This required her to swallow a little pride in order for her to receive some much-needed pleasure, if not relief. Her panties were getting soaked. She remembered how excited he got when she'd tell him that and the spontaneous combustion that would sometimes follow, played out in places that could have landed them in trouble. The car, so many times in his car or hers, parked on residential streets as well as on lover's lanes, and even once in the stall of a female rest room. Lucky for them, the room was empty at the time. She could still picture it, his pants rolled down to his shoes, her dress bunched around her waist as she bounced up and down on his cock, both of them trying to muffle the moans and groans.

She hadn't forgotten those great times, and she wanted them back. Or at least a reasonable facsimile thereof. "So, my edgy guy, if you still have it, as you boldly claim, then I hope you can prove it. And yes, my panties are soaked."

He grinned like a kid who just received the toy he always wanted. "Ohmygod, how I missed hearing you say that! I'd like nothing better than to prove it."

"Then follow me into the comfy confines of my boudoir."

*****

He was back to where he knew he belonged, where he should have never left. She loved him enough to give him another chance. Other women, he knew, would have slammed the door in his face, denying him even a toehold in their living room, much less access to their bedroom. For this reason alone, he loved Sandra Nyquist. There were other reasons: her innate sweetness and generosity, her glib sense of humor, her natural, lateral thinking kind of smarts. Last but not least—and in his more carnal, heated moments topping the list—a body that came damn close to his ideal of female perfection. Fit and firm, yes, without being bodybuilder muscular. No doubt, she possessed the right DNA to look like those Ms. Olympia Amazons, with their size and cuts and vascularity—men, essentially, in all but their genitals (though the performance enhancers some of these gals took left them with clits resembling shriveled cocks and boobs hidden behind steely strands of pectoral muscle). Not for Sandra. With her delicious symmetry and gentle curves, she managed to achieve what Byron thought was the perfect balance between old school femininity and today's fitness-minded female.

Of course, as the cliché goes, it's not so much what one has than what one does with what one has. Sensuous Sandra. She could have been a stripper in another life. With her soft, seductive speaking voice, especially over the phone, she could have been the voice-over for a seductress in some sex cartoon.

She wiggled out of her shorts and panties, inching them down her hips and luscious legs, just the way she knew he liked it. Then, with an erotic shake of her head, she let her honey-blond hair tumble past her shoulders to the tops firm breasts. Those moves alone speed-dialed his cock into action. She topped it off by wrapping her hand around it. Then she said, "Welcome home, my love."

"It's great to be home," he said, and meant every word of it. There was no shortage of chemistry here, no performance anxiety, none of the problems he had encountered with the Other Woman. Her word, simpatico, rang in his head as they stood on her carpeted bedroom floor, holding each other, kissing and touching, communicating with their bodies and eyes. He so wanted her love back, all of it—none of it tinged with the bitterness she had described and, as Byron knew, she had every right to feel. "Thanks for this, Sandy," he whispered. "You're the best."

Moments later, he was under a sheet and light blanket, sharing bed space with this amazing woman. Too bad he hadn't felt this kind of emotional intensity earlier, before he had met Lynette. Had he once taken Sandra for granted? Perhaps. But not now, that's for damn sure! Heavy breathing, bulging cock, that electrifying tingle in his solar plexus—all were present and accounted for. And ah, that familiar scent of hers, delicious as a cannoli and baklava rolled into one. He could eat her up—and in fact he was, his head wedged between her legs, revving up her hot zone. "Ohmygod, I so missed you doing this," she cried.

He missed doing this, too, missed the feel of her soft light skin, missed kissing her, missed seeing her shock of blond hair swirled sexily around her pretty face, missed hearing her say nice things, loving things, and he missed saying them back. What the fuck had he been thinking, dumping her for someone else? It never should have happened, wouldn't have happened had he been thinking straight, had he not been so caught up in some unrealistic fantasy, ascribing an idealized image to someone he hardly knew. His fervent hope was that his Viking Princess would be able to put this behind her, would be able to trust him again.

So far, the prospect for that looked promising. Now his whole athletic body was wedged between her legs, proving to her, if not to himself, that he indeed still had it. Up and down, in and out, their rhythm in sync. That word again: simpatico. And those three words that she had waited so long to hear: "I love you." He meant it. He felt it. If anything was meant to be, this was meant to be. THEY were meant to be. She wasn't some fantasy, some ethereal image cooked up in his fertile imagination. She was real, she was here, with him, and she loved him. Yes, no question, he once took her love for granted. "I'll never hurt you again, Sandy, I promise," he said, near tears as he said it.

She raised her head. "I'm gonna hold you to that."

"As you should." He leaned over and kissed her sweaty face.

"Now bring it home, baby, bring it home," she cried. "Cause I'm at the door."

He knew what that meant because he'd heard it many times before. They had their pet expressions during intimacy. At the door meant she was near climax, of course, and he'd retort with, 'come in, I've been expecting you.' Just hearing her say that boosted his cautious optimism, gave him additional hope that she would take him back into her good graces, that they could once again be a couple. "Come on in, I've been expecting you." She did, her body quivering, her voice shrieking with delight, melding with his own vocal outpouring of pleasure and affection.

"That was indescribably wonderful," she said, running her fingers down his six-pack abs, then squeezing his jacked arms. "Well, I guess you've still got it."

"Guess I do," he chuckled, then buried his face between her boobs, inhaling the sweet scent of sex that wafted up from the pores of her lovely skin. "I had no doubt. Not with you. You're the best. Always were."

*****

They laid sideways, propped up on an elbow, arms draped around each other. "Oh, Byron Adler," she sighed, "what am I going to do with you? I'm the best? Sorry, honey, but you're the best. I almost feel sorry for Lynette that she could never find out."

He grinned, leaned in and kissed her on the mouth. "I'm so grateful for the chance to redeem myself. I love you."

That's it, that's what she was giving him, a chance for redemption. She knew what she wanted, knew she'd like nothing better than to once again trust him, knew she wanted them to return to the way things were, while knowing that things never would be quite the same. No matter, she still loved him—and by his outpouring of affection, it appeared that he could reciprocate. Finally! It took him long enough, like, over a year. It shouldn't have taken a fling that went bad for him to say those three timeless words. Was he sincere? That remained to be seen. She'd find out in due time if he really meant it. She needed more time herself, time to fully trust him once again.

"And you can start with the housework," she said.

"Huh?"

She laughed at what must have sounded to him like a huge non sequitur. "Just thinking out loud. You had volunteered to help me with my housework. Is that offer still good?"

"Absolutely."

She slapped him on his butt, then rolled out of bed. "Great. Now let's see you work that vacuum cleaner."