Every time she moved from the laundry room to the bedroom, she'd run her hand along the smooth leather of the armchair that sat between the two rooms. And every time, she'd shutter. Not only shutter, she'd tremble; shake like a leaf. In fact, the sensation of the leather against her skin would make her gasp and moan like she was coming in her panties. Every time. She'd pass that rich red leather chair and she'd remember. It was her go-to when he was away on business. It was her safe haven after a bad day. It was where she went when she missed him. And most importantly, it was where she went to feel close to him.
She would always go to the chair after midnight when he was gone, creeping around in the dark like a cat burglar. She'd stare at the shadows and imagine they were watching her like voyeurs. They were perverts, those shadows. But how could she blame them? Her dark olive skin was like an offering, bare to the moonlight that shone through the windows. Yet all she wanted was to feel the hard leather against her skin. The roughness always reminded her of his callused palms as they smoothed down the curve of her ass. And every time she felt this, she'd close her eyes to remember, to feel closer to him, to feel him in her. Honestly, there was nothing better.
Lord knows he'd fucked her enough times in that chair. He'd take her when she was polishing the wood floors in the hallway. Or when she was dusting the small end table that sidled up against the chair like a jealous girlfriend. Or when he'd stumble upon her draped across the chair, naked, swinging her leg from the arm as though she were waiting for a bus. The sweet, oaky smell, the deep rich red that looked like rose petals, the shape of the plush seat in contrast to the more narrow back. All of it became their throne; their marriage bed; a secret place where they were able to let go.
So as she hesitated, her hand dancing sensuously along the chair's curvy leather back, her pussy wept in agony. She actually cursed out loud when she felt her juices coat her lips and her nipples grow into hard, painful peaks. But it was the memory of the last time she sat in the chair that ultimately overcame her.
He'd been home for a few days and was searching through their bedroom closet for the purple tie that went perfectly with the shirt he was going to wear to the presentation on Wednesday morning. She watched from the hallway as he rifled around the closet floor, ass in the air, muttering obscenities the entire time. He was so damn sexy. Not traditionally handsome but so rugged, so commanding, so manly. Before she could think, she'd begun removing her clothes and flinging them in the direction of their bedroom door. Immediately, he stopped moving and slowly backed out of the closet. He reached back and grabbed a pair of pink lace panties that hung idly on the heel of his boot.
