Leaving my fitted gray and oil-stained tee on, I slid out of my skinny jeans and panties. From my other old ankle boot, I retrieved a bottle of lube, the warming kind that made me tingle. I concocted it myself in my lab, but I didn’t sell it at the shop.
Dropping to the floor in the most uncoordinated fashion, I leaned against a stack of drawers, legs bent and spread wide. My heart raced, making a whooshing white nose in my ears, proof of how long it had been. The thought of tingling lube and Madonna had me very turned on. The wine might have helped too. I wasn’t really a Zinfandel person, but after the second glass, it tasted pretty damn good.
With one hand, I applied some warming lube, rubbing tiny circles over my clit and my opening. I closed my eyes and imagined Ronin’s mouth down there. He was so good at that—definitely an expert in that department. After a minute or so, I flipped on my Madonna, only … she didn’t move.
I opened my eyes and frowned at her under the dimly lit closet light where two of the three bulbs had burned out. Wiping my lubed hand on my already stained shirt, I removed Madonna’s batteries and put them back in, but she still didn’t work.
“Just my luck,” I whispered.
Fuck my life.
Really, if sitting in a closet close to midnight and getting stood up by a vibrator wasn’t the lowest of lows, then I don’t know what could have beat it. Maybe my next move …
“Fine, Madonna, we’ll go old school tonight,” I murmured, lubing her good and inching her into me while my eyes closed again. Not going to lie … I was tired. I really needed her to do some of the work, but I also needed to get off. So I worked my clit with one hand and Madonna with my other hand.
Stupid, terrible thoughts warred in my mind, like Graham gloating about giving me orgasms with his mouth. I pinched my eyes shut tighter and willed those away. I had no intention of getting off on the Devil that night. Instead, I thought of my first night with Ronin, the nights by the fire, the times (pre-kids) in the kitchen.
Yes … yes …
Those were the images that moved my hands faster, made my knees spread wider. I wasn’t ashamed of my needs as a woman. Humans were sexual creatures, even the ones dressed in robes, carrying crosses around their necks. If Ronin couldn’t give me what I needed, I’d capture it myself. It wasn’t the same. Madonna wasn’t Ronin no matter how hard I tried to make her mimic his rhythm, but six glasses of wine made her good enough.
Good enough felt really damn great at that moment.
“Need help?”
I jumped and my eyes flew open.
In one horrifying second, I sobered up.
I yanked Madonna out of me and clawed for absolutely any item of clothing to cover myself and hide my pink friend—the nearest thing being Ronin’s dirty shirt. The bottle of lube tipped over onto the carpet beneath my legs as I hugged them to my chest beneath his shirt.
All the blood in my body went to my head, filling my cheeks with fire and pushing beads of sweat out along my brow.
So.
Unbelievably.
Embarrassing.
Six years. In our six years together, Ronin had never seen me masturbate alone. He didn’t know I owned a vibrator. And I knew my selfish, drunken, late-night behavior had to make him feel like a failure.
He squatted in front of me, wearing a pair of silk boxers, resting his forearms on his legs. The corner of his mouth twitched as I panted like I’d just finished running a race.
What was I supposed to say?
Sorry.
Please forgive me.
Can we agree to raise the kids without ever making eye contact again?
“Can I get you new batteries? Three of my fingers? My mouth? My dick?”
I coughed a bit, parched from so much heavy breathing, or maybe his words choked me as I attempted to digest each one.
Did my eyes look as huge and dilated as they felt? Probably.
“I’m so sorry …” I whispered, scrunching my face and biting my bottom lip really hard.
His head cocked to the side as he squinted. “Sorry for what?”
Why did he have to completely humiliate me?
Making my point, he pulled his T-shirt from my legs, exposing Madonna and the lube. “You’re sorry about this?” He held up my dead vibrator. Poor Madonna.
I nodded, keeping a full cringe glued to my face.
“I have spare batteries in the garage.” He held it in front of his face, giving it a close inspection as if he hadn’t ever seen a vibrator before. And it’s possible Madonna was his first close encounter. That was something that hadn’t ever come up in conversation.
I snatched it from his hand and grabbed the bottle of lube while trying with clumsy effort to stand. “Please just forget you saw this. I need a shower.”