ACHES

12. innocent

It was becoming habitual, our relationship. I'd sit in my living room, eyeing the window, waiting to see a dark figure slouch up to my doorstep. I almost felt like a housewife, trying to prepare dinner for him after his nine-to-five, having a bottle of wine ready for the event that was his return home. Getting groceries and folding his clothes. He never asked me to take care of him, but it was an easy way to show him how much I loved him. I love you so much, take this, eat this, live here, forever. It can be like this forever.

He was writing everyday, which wasn't unusual, but he seemed to be struggling to write everything down. Sometimes, we would be in the middle of dinner, or a movie, or out on a walk, and he'd pull out a black Moleskine, scribble furiously, then tuck it back into his pocket or bag, apologize, and kiss my cheek. If I ever tried to grab it from his hands teasingly, he'd snatch it from me, or throw it across the room.

"Not yet, sweetheart," he'd tell me. Then distract me, drawing thick inky hearts on the inside of my wrists. Writing his name there. Drawing flowers and smiles and tracing Love You Love You Love You. I'd forget all about his notebook, discarded in the corner.

If he ever forgot that little notebook at my place, I knew I would read the entirety of it without remorse. I was obsessed with what he was writing, the secrecy of it. And I prayed that he would write about me, that I was the only woman he could think about, that I was the last woman he would ever write about. And I pleaded, at the same time, that he did not write a word regarding our relationship. I knew he would be honest.

"You're back," I grinned, offering him a glass of wine as he hung his coat on the rack.

"Hi, darling," he chuckled, kissing my cheek and squeezing my hip, letting me place the glass in his palm. "All dressed up just for me?"

I nodded, twirling for him. My dress fluttered at my thighs, and I curtsied like a clumsy child. I felt silly, and pretty. I felt like his girl.

He grinned, "So gorgeous." He took a sip of wine, watching me through his half-lidded eyes. I imagined that he was tired, his ears ringing from listening to the same few seconds of a song for hours.

"You have a nice day at work?" I turned, setting out his dinner plate.

"Looks nice," he nodded at the food, sitting at the table. I sat next to him, wanting to be within his reach. I wanted his hands pressed into my hips, his thumbs digging into me, his teeth in my skin. I wanted to be caressed, held carefully, carried from the couch to the bed. I wanted to be covered and drowned.

He reached under my chair, grabbing the leg of it, pulling me closer to him, "I had a good day at work."

"You write something for me?" I blinked prettily, all sweet and girlish. He put a hand on my thigh.

"Maybe."

"Come on, tell me one line," I poked at his shoulder.

"It's not as exciting as you make it sound," he rolled his eyes, chewing. I took a sip of wine from his glass.

"I'm not making it sound like anything," I pouted, playing innocent. He took his glass from my hand, smiling quietly into the rim of it, watching me huff and sigh. I liked how his eyes darkened.

"Take off that dress, I'll tell you one of my lyrics," he taunted. He set his glass on the table, turning it slowly. His hand was still gripping my thigh. "I'll read it straight from the notebook."

"If it's about me, I shouldn't have to work for it," I set my jaw. He swallowed, then leaned in.

"I like watching you work," his hand slid higher up my leg, my dress gathering at his wrist. His smallest finger brushed against the lace of my underwear. "I like you all exhausted. Panting over me."

My cool demeanor slipped momentarily, a sigh edging from between my glossed lips. He was staring, mouth wet and shoulders stiff.

I breathed in through my nose, raising my chin, "I'm owed it."

"Is that what you think?" He squeezed my thigh, kneading to keep himself busy. He was obsessed, watching my lips part, silky breaths falling from them.

"Unless you didn't write anything today," I said into his ear. "Were you too busy thinking of me?"

"I was thinking of you," he groaned, moving his hand under my dress to feel my hip. "That's always true."

"Nice things?" I gasped, his fingers hooking into the fabric at my hips.

"Not really," he muttered, nearly inaudible. I grinned at this, cheeks hot and blood rushing up my neck. He pulled at my underwear, but I pushed his hands away.

"I want to hear a lyric."

He sighed, "Really?"

I nodded. I stood, grabbing his notebook from his coat. I handed it to him. He shook his head slowly, laughing.

"Let me see you, then," he tilted up his chin, leaning back in his chair. He wet his bottom lip as he watched me unzip my dress. I let it slip off my shoulders, falling to the floor. I stepped out of it, and onto his lap.

"Your turn," I wrapped my arms around his neck, indulging in the way his eyes flicked over me. He opened the notebook, flipping through it. He frowned, muttering, turning to a different page.

"Now that I'm reading it, I don't like any of them," he closed the notebook.

I closed my eyes, "You can't be serious."

"You've got to give me more time, darling," he raised his arm, and threw the notebook into the living room. He grinned at me, kissing over my cheeks and the tip of my nose.

"I'm very upset," I crossed my arms, leaning back. "You promised."

"I didn't exactly say when I would read you the lyrics, did I?" He slapped a hand into my hip playfully, tilting his head to the side. "I'm too distracted to read, anyways."

"You're a complete ass," I mumbled, biting my cheek.

"Yeah," he moved a hand to the side of my neck, "And all yours, too."

"You'll make it up to me?" I smirked, laying my forearms on his shoulders.

He pulled my hips higher on his lap, "Don't I always?"