The Forgotten Wife

8. Domesticity... or Something

Meilani

I kick shut the front door and head towards the kitchen, my heels click across the hardwood floors announcing my arriving home. I toss my handbag onto a side table and shift the fabric bag of groceries into my other hand so I can flick on the lights. 

I slip off my heels and slide them under one of the island stools so they are out of the way. I shimmy around to the other side of the kitchen and I touch play button on my phone, it's connected to the audio system in the house and music blares out of the hidden speakers in the ceiling.

I dance over to the counter and take out a chopping board and some fish tweezes and begin pin boning the salmon fillets. I hum along with the song as I meticulously work my way along the fish.

I sway my hips gently in time with the music before spinning to reach for a pot. I stop short when I see Aiden leaning against a wall at the far end of the kitchen watching me. He's changed into a suit this afternoon then striped off his jacket and tie and loosened the top buttons of his white shirt. It stirs something inside of me seeing him looking so hot.

"How long have you been there?" I ask cautiously.

"Long enough to know I'm in for dinner and a show," he replies smirking.

"This dinner isn't free, there are some vegetable that need chopping," I say pointing at the potatoes with the knife in my hand.

I fill the pot with water and set it over the stove to boil while listening to him ratting around in a draw searching for the peeler. I focus on seasoning the fish and making a salad and try not to think about how domestic this feels.

We used to cook together most nights, singing poorly to music and telling each other about our days. Aiden would steal kisses and take every chance to touch me, it would drive me insane. It also led to many burnt meals when he would hoist me up on the island bench and peel my clothes off me one by one.

BANG!

I jump out of my skin and turn to see Aiden reaching to pick up a pan from the floor. "Sorry," he apologises putting away the pan and continuing to unload the dishwasher.

He walks back past me and I can feel the awareness between us grow. I turn my back to him and start working on the salad.

"You don't have to do that," he says from just behind me. I can smell his masculine scent surrounding me and enticing me to lean back into him.

"I don't know what you mean," I mutter.

"Yes, you do. Every time you start to feel something for me you pull away," he mummers seductively stepping closer until he is pressed against me. I can feel the hardness of his cock against my lower back and the warmth of his body heats my skin through the thin layer of my blouse.

I turn to face him and look up into his eyes, without my heels I barely reach his shoulders. "I feel nothing for you," I tell him firmly.

"I don't believe you," he states, tilting his head down closer towards mine.

I place both my hands on the hardened planes of his chest and push him away angrily. "You know what? Fine! I care!" I fume. "Forgive me, for giving a shit that when the hospital called me and said that you were in an accident and that they weren't sure you were going to make it, I felt something!" I yell at him.

"How could you be so stupid? You were driving that fucking death machine drunk. You slid out on a corner and hit a traffic light. You could have DIED!" I lecture him trying to make him see how stupid his actions were.