Mark kissed the top of his wife's generous hip roll. Then his lips moved down to the fleshy valley of her waist.
He wanted Kara so badly he actually considered lubing up and penetrating her while she slept. Her body lay before him in bed's center semi-fetal, like a pale comma on the dark surface. He could penetrate her from behind, or attempt to. But he could imagine how that would go over.
His lips kissed back up to her hip, and then downward over left cheek's plump curve as his hand stroked her thigh, upwards from the knee. So much bare flesh! So much to want, to need, to love! He wanted to spread her cheeks and kiss her hole.
Kara flinched. But whether the motion was voluntary or reflexive, it—her prone body—sent Mark an unmistakable message: Bug off! He sighed. Backed off the bed to the floor and stood, looking down. It was the old story. Same chapter, different verse. Kara was not his to have, not tonight.
Mark glanced at the bedside clock. It was barely eight p.m. Christ! Three hours ago he'd picked Kara up at the airport following yet another business trip. This one to Phoenix, for the better part of a week. Ever since her promotion, and elevation to a hefty six-figure salary, Kara spent more time on the road than at home. Mark sensed some of it was voluntary. She spoke often, and warmly, about her co-VP of marketing, a guy named Brett. Or Britt. She also joked about the air miles she was accumulating. Paris next spring?
Once back from the airport Kara had downed two Jameson's on the rocks—she'd started drinking Scotch—on an empty stomach and declared herself, after showering first, ready for bed. She was exhausted. On top of her twice-delayed flights was the loss of time, traveling west to east. Plus, she claimed, she'd hardly slept "a wink" the past two nights.
"Why couldn't you sleep?"
A shrug. "You know I don't sleep well when I travel. Strange rooms..."
Mark noted the plural. She'd spent the whole week at the same convention hotel. Perhaps it signaled something, perhaps not.
Now Mark walked in heavily muted light to the side of the dresser, where Kara's suitcase, unpacked, lay open. She traveled so frequently that one of those fold-up luggage stands remained a permanent fixture in their bedroom now, as if this were just another hotel stop on the itinerary. To the right of the suitcase, on dresser's edge, lay Kara's carryon bag, also unzipped. Mark reached in and—quietly—extracted Kara's laptop. Then he left the master bedroom.
Mark was no stranger to its smaller companion down the hall, one of their two—three now that Brittany was away at college—spare bedrooms. Increasingly he found himself banished here, especially on nights, like this one, when Kara was back from a long trip. Mark understood, to a degree. His wife needed some peace and quiet, she wanted to be left alone. Their desires were at opposite ends of the spectrum: Mark hungered for overdue sex; Kara for her own soft bed, and the deep sleep it would bring.
Mark set himself up, bedside lamp on, against a stack of headboard pillows. He liked this room. The bed was over against the only window, a large one that, drapes back, looked down on his front lawn and the peaceful neighborhood street beyond. Suburban tranquility. The master bedroom was cavernous; this one intimate. A refuge where, at least, when banished, he could freely masturbate. Something he certainly couldn't get away with while lying beside Kara's disinterested body.
Mark propped the laptop screen against this thighs, while the keyboard rested on his belly. He'd put on some weight of late. Too many beers, too much processed food. Too little exercise. He had to do something about that, the telltale of being virtually wifeless. Alone. Lonely.
