'Was she any good?'
It's four in the morning, and I watch my husband undress. Aaron has just arrived home and, momentarily, I feel sorry for him as he finds it impossible to look me in the eye. He drops his jeans to the floor, leaving them in a crumpled heap, and that will probably infuriate me in the morning.
But, right now, his untidiness is irrelevant. I have other things to think about, more pressing issues. Such as, who has my husband fucked this time?
We have an 'open' relationship but, strangely, Aaron is usually embarrassed after he's been out with another woman. I flick off the bedside lamp, knowing darkness helps shut out the awkwardness he feels. When he climbs into bed, I quickly curl into his hard body and feel the warmth of his arm as he pulls me close to his chest, kissing me on the forehead.
'She was okay I guess,' he admits, his dulcet tones echoing in the inky darkness, and then he sighs. It's a heavy sigh, and I'm aware he's shaking his head up above me on the pillow. 'I always feel sorry when you ask me,' he murmurs.
My fingers curl among the hairs on his chest. I know Aaron so well; I feel like I know every hair on his chest and his head. I love him with every fibre of my being, which is why I permit his penchant for sleeping with other women.
We have a fantastic marriage; Aaron looks after me, and I take care of him. The other women? Well, sex is just sex, right? Plus, being honest, a part of me gets a huge thrill when he tells me exactly what he's been up to. I know it may sound a little weird but, somehow, I get a kick out of it because Aaron always returns to my bed.
However, the same rule doesn't apply to me. Aaron is insanely jealous of any man even being in a close vicinity to me, but that somehow makes me feel protected.
'So, tell me,' I insist, nudging him in the ribs.