"Ouch!"
He flinched as the match he was holding burned down to his fingers. The faint scent of burned flesh mixed with the aroma of the vanilla-scented candle. At least he'd gotten the damn thing lit.
The points of dim light in their small bedroom made his shadow dance on each wall, and the wine already flowing through his system only added to the surreal environment. Rose petals littered the bed and floor, mixing with the vanilla wax in a scent that oozed sex.
The sun wasn't down, but would be by the time she got home, and he didn't want to be caught, so to speak, with his pants down. This was a night he'd had been planning for weeks. Nothing was going to ruin it.
He knew his wife would be home by eight, and also knew he was running the risk of her being tired, or worse, upset. Her weekly get-togethers with her friends rarely amounted to anything constructive, but it was her way to release and vent. They were good friends, but significantly older, and often begrudged her her youth and good looks. And her husband.
He looked at himself in the mirror. 5'9", sandy blond hair. Not much in the way of muscles but a lanky toughness that resembled the athlete he had once been. He had actually lost weight since graduating from college, but was far from a health nut. His "lucky" boxers hugged his waist snugly. If Nichole thought he was hot, that was enough.
He checked his shave one more time and went to the freezer. The bucket of ice belched vapor when he opened the door, the opened (and sampled) bottle of wine at the ready. He checked his watch.
7:50. She had probably found the note on the seat of her car by now.
He rearranged the sampling of lingerie on the back of the couch for the umpteenth time. Surely there was something there she would be comfortable in. He personally hoped she'd choose the black one, but any would do. Hell, her flannel pajamas would do, but they weren't an option.
He scooped up his bottle of wine from the coffee table and sipped. Riesling wasn't his favorite, but it was hers. That's what mattered. She'd had a tough week ... they were all tough. Since he'd taken his new job, things hadn't been as passionate between them as they had both hoped, but he had never had a day job before, and was learning to appreciate her early mornings and 10:30 bedtimes. With any luck, they'd be in bed much earlier this Friday night.
The ring of his cell phone startled him. For a moment he considered ignoring it, and would have if her name hadn't popped up on the caller ID.
"Hello?"
"What's this all about?"
"Just follow the directions."
"What are you doing."
"Just do it, I'll see you in a few minutes."
"You're crazy. All right, bye."
"Bye."
He knew the tone in that voice. Tired, but curious and in a good mood. He thought of her breezing down the road with the top down on her convertible, her sassy "car hat" pulled down tight over her ears. He smiled.
He went back to the fridge one more time and pulled the tray of chocolate-covered strawberries from the top shelf. They weren't part of her diet, strictly speaking, but he didn't care. Frankly, he could have cared less if she ate a single one. He considered them more visual foreplay than anything.
He dimmed the lights and carried the wine and strawberries to the bedroom, where he shut the door. He flopped down on the bed and tried to relax. So much preparing for something that a couple married a year and a half usually did without thinking. And that was the problem.
Involuntarily, his penis twitched in his boxers. Lord, he was getting hard just thinking about it. He closed his eyes and reached into his pants, gripping his member. Damn, his hand was cold. He knew she hated that. Well, no better place to warm them up.
The relaxation was shattered by the rumble of the garage door and the grinding of tires on the gravel driveway. Shit, she must have flown. He wondered if she was feeling excited at that moment, too. Had she been feeling her own wetness as she drove home? Probably not, but the thought made him even harder.
He heard the front door open, and a soft "Huh?" as she obviously spied the buffet of unmentionables spread out on the back of the couch. Then he heard a full-out laugh.
"Where are you?!"
"Just get dressed!"
"I am dressed!"
"Undressed then!"
The thump of shoes and the rustle of clothes told him she was playing along. Good girl.
The rustling stilled. He knew she was looking at the lingerie, some of which had been wedding shower gifts, worrying about what would fit. It was a battle she waged with herself constantly, one that he knew he couldn't fight for her. The truth was, though she might have gained a few pounds in the past 18 months, she was still beautiful and knew exactly how to use what she had. Firm, smooth legs. Perky breasts of the perfect size. And the sweetest honeypot any man could ever hope to lay eyes - or tongue - on.
The rustling resumed, followed by footsteps. He rearranged on the bed to hide his erection, but the footsteps continued past the bedroom to the bathroom. He heard water run and the soft "psst" of perfume. A good sign.
The water stopped and he heard the doorknob begin to turn. She peeked around the door, a single eye glistening in the candlelight. A spill of shoulder-length red hair showed itself, and then a bare foot, leg and knee. She opened the door wider, and his breath caught.
She was most definitely playing along.
It was the black number, all right. It seemed whenever that one came out, it was a night to remember. She turned around and shut the door, the bottom of her smooth ass visible just under the sheer silk. A spaghetti strap slipped off one shoulder. Not as tight as she thought, apparently.
