This is my fantasy. Some of you probably won't like it. I don't care much. If you do have fantasies like mine, I hope you enjoy this one. Thanks to my editor and muse, who was relentless in his attacks on my earliest efforts. I take back some of those nasty names.
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I watched my David remove his jacket at the door, hanging it neatly on a hangar. He turned his briefcase on its side, and placed it on the small table in the entryway, centered. Only then did he look up, his eyes scanning the entrance. They landed on me, sitting in the living room, and lit up.
"How's the love of my life?" he asked, and I felt the small chill I always got when he said that. Still. After seven years.
"Missing her handsome man," I responded, standing, waiting for my hug. Itching for that feeling I get when his arms embraced me, surrounding me completely, pressing my body to his. Smelling him, that incredible scent. The only man I knew that didn't wear aftershave or antiperspirant. That would be a shame, hiding his essence. So much better that he kept himself clean, even using unscented soap, covering up nothing.
His long confident stride brought him to me in only a few paces, and I opened my arms to him, wrapping them around his hard body, inhaling deeply. I felt a tingle down below. You know the one, that little itch, that said for tonight, I was his for the asking. He was going to get lucky.
I felt the soft tug at the nape of my neck, tilting my head back so he could kiss me. His warm lips descending on mine. His breath minty fresh. I had learned that secret years ago. In an instant, I was reliving that day, all my senses combining to overwhelm me.
- ( . Y . ) -
I'd seen him looking in his car mirror adjusting his hair, and popping the tiny mints into his mouth, before entering the house. For a moment a spike of jealousy had hit me, then the total devastation that came with knowing I wasn't enough for him. He'd found me crying in the study.
"Who is she?" I'd sobbed, all those years ago.
"Who is who, Anita? What's wrong?"
I should have looked at him, seen the concern in his eyes, listened to his voice. It was all there to see. He was mine, totally, without limit or reservation. He had never given me any reason to believe otherwise. Still, I'd cried.
"I SAW you!" I shrieked. "Fixing your hair, wiping your face, taking a mint to hide the evidence. Who is she?"
Some men might have laughed at me. Others would have been pissed off. Not my David. He lifted me easily in his powerful arms, and held me in his lap. "Her name is Anita. I've loved her all my adult life. I never want to come home to her with onions on my breath from lunch. I want to look my best for her, so I always check myself in the mirror before entering our home. Her name is Anita. She's the only woman in my life, now and forever."
I knew it was true. I felt shame for doubting him. I clung to his neck as he carried me up the stairs, my face buried in his chest. I was still crying, unable to stop. I don't know why. It was idiotic.
No that's a lie. I did know why I felt that jealousy, and it was no fault of my husband's. David is an Adonis. Six feet three inches tall, one hundred ninety-eight pounds. Never under one ninety-five, never over two hundred. His 'V' shaped torso, broad shoulders, and powerful arms broadcast his manliness. His movie star good looks were head-turning. He was not a pretty boy, not by any means. He was dark, brooding, with deep set eyes, and brown wavy hair he struggled to keep tame. Sharp features, chiseled. More Sean Connery than Brad Pitt.
His presence was commanding, his confidence overwhelming. When he walked into a room, heads turned. Women sighed, their eyes following his trail. They would flock to him, insipid little things, reaching out to touch him, his arms, shoulders, playing with their hair, laughing at his jokes, hanging on his every word. All for nothing, because he was mine. And everybody knew it.
That day he'd taken me to our bedroom, wiped my tears away with his kisses, undressed my body, slowly, teasingly, worshiping me. He'd taken me as only he can, playing me like a maestro, making me cry for him, tremble, scream, moan, and ultimately come for him, over and over. He pumped his creamy essence into me four times that night, letting his passion and love reassure me.
I had lain there, exhausted, helpless, while he wiped me down with a warm washcloth, before pulling me into his arms. "Never doubt my love for you, Anita. YOU are my one true love. Nothing I've ever felt comes close. I never want you to feel jealous. No matter how many women I meet, how many throw themselves at me, there's only one true love for me, now and forever. You have to believe that. You have to, Anita. I couldn't take it if you doubted me. Not you."
I felt a trembling in his body, and my heart shattered into a million pieces. My idiocy, my unfounded jealousy, the way I jumped to the most asinine conclusion had wounded my man. My man!
"No David, I don't doubt you. I'm sorry I behaved as I did. I was watching a stupid movie, and I think I let it get to me. There are so many failed marriages all around us. The Beales down the street, they're separating. The Wardens are fighting again over weekend custody. Dan Vargas is cheating with his secretary. I know it's silly, but I get nervous sometimes, without cause. You are the perfect husband, and I know it. You deserve better than me, and better than my behavior. I'm sorry."
His large hands stroked my skin, and I cuddled into him. His lips traversing my flesh, he whispered his love for me, his innocent touches suddenly less innocent. I reached down and felt his over-sized hardness, large, like everything about him. I moaned as he slid inside me, stretching me. He was like this sometimes, insatiable. I knew I'd be sore for days, unavailable to him for most of the week until I recovered. It was worth it. Always.
That night he calmed my fears, and I hadn't had an outburst like that in years. I trusted him utterly, completely. He'd never given me any reason not to.
- ( . Y . ) -
Now I was in his arms again, my senses overwhelmed. I'm sure I whimpered when he released me. He would change now. That was what he did. He'd carry his jacket upstairs. Turn on the shower. Hang up his suit pants on the press. Remove his tie, and place it back on the tie-rack, in the single vacant opening. Remove his dress shirt, folding it once in each direction before placing it in the dry-cleaning container. Peel off his V-neck undershirt, step out of his silk boxers. Deposit those in the laundry basket, before stepping under the shower-head for a quick rinse. He wouldn't shampoo his hair, all he did was wash away the grime of the day, a couple of minutes at most, before stepping out of the glass booth, refreshed and perfect.
I watched him as I often did, getting his towel for him and placing it at the ready, picking out a pair of jeans to wear, and a casual shirt. Placing his shoes on the shoe rack.
He'd often talk of his day, new accounts, upcoming events, meetings, travel. Too much travel for my taste. I hated every minute he was away, but it was rarely more than two or three nights, every couple of weeks. Mostly to boring places that had me feeling pity for him. I'm sure the places aren't really boring but they held no allure for me. Cleveland, Cincinnati, Baltimore, St. Louis, Charleston, San Antonio, Albany, Pittsburgh, Denver, Sacramento, Phoenix, the list was endless.
