Perfect Together Read Online Kristen Ashley

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Angst, Contemporary Tags Authors: Kristen Ashley Advertisement

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My epiphany to being at one with this came when, one day, I heard that Tina Turner said she stayed in shape, and had those amazing legs, simply by walking every night after dinner.

That might be a fib, and it should be said she made this comment while she was touring, and I’d seen her on stage, so walking wasn’t all the exercise those great gams got.

But it made me think.

And after some reflection, I realized I liked to walk too. I also liked to stretch.

So I didn’t knock myself out, but I did both.

Not every day, but regularly, I’d walk. Sometimes I’d do it twenty minutes, sometimes I’d get into the music or podcast I was listening to, and I’d walk for over an hour.

But even if that was as and when, nearly every morning before I took a shower, I did some stretches and some crunches to keep my limbs supple and my core strong.

But that was it.

And unless I found something else I liked, it always would be and I was okay with that.

This was even if (the same as when I first met Remy) I’d carried extra weight. I’d then put on some when I was pregnant with the kids, and I didn’t take it off. And sadly, my coping mechanism after Remy left meant I’d added a size.

But two nights ago, my ex-husband said he wanted to fuck me in my tub.

And since then, I’d reflected on those words.

After he left, I’d convinced myself there was a time when Remy wasn’t attracted to me.

But taking some time (a lot of it), I realized he had never, not once, given me indication he was not attracted to me sexually or aesthetically, this being during pregnancy, post-pregnancy, in the years in between as life happened, which meant age happened, and both happened to me.

In fact, I’d always been curvy, from the minute I met him. Sure, I was curvier now, but he got three kids out of that.

I also remembered that I was not one of those women who had to put up with her man admiring other women, because he never looked. Never. Not once that’d I’d noticed in decades.

It was me for him.

He was just into me.

Then.

And, apparently, now.

Which might be why Myrna hurt as bad as she did and why I’d talked myself into thinking he’d lost interest in me.

For Remy, it had always just been me…until her.

Though, it was perhaps more important, after struggling with my body image and confidence as many girls and young women my age did, I got over it, and not just because my husband made no bones about the fact he was very attracted to me (even if that helped a ton).

I was around beauty for a living.

I saw it in its classic sense. I saw it in its atypical sense. I saw it in its edgy sense. I saw it in its unexpected sense.

And thus, I saw it was everywhere, in everyone, with one key component that was the same for all.

The people who had it knew they did.

If you thought you were beautiful, you just were.

When I realized the key to being beautiful was knowing you were, I realized I was beautiful.

And that was the end of it.

So there I was in Remy’s kitchen facing a version of us in food form.

Remy had his turkey and chicken, I had my beef and pork, and that was who we were. It always had been.

And it worked.

Not because he didn’t mind if I stole some of his, or I wouldn’t complain if he took a forkful of mine.

And not because I was a together twenty-something when he met me, and I got I was all that.

But because that was the place Remy put us from the minute he met me.

And he’d never moved us from that place.

Not even when he left me (no, I had not missed the admiring glances or even the smirks during birthday parties or Christmas Eve, not to mention some of the times he came over to pick a fight, I was just determined to think they were about something else).

If he’d been a different man, I might not ever have come to terms with my body, face and style. Say he’d been Bill, who was a nice guy, but I’d always cringed before he’d broken it off with Janelle and we were around them, and he’d say things to her like, “Babe, maybe you should lay off the fries.”

Remy would never do that, and not because it wasn’t nice or appropriate.

But because it wouldn’t occur to him. If I wanted fries, he’d want me to have them, and if they landed on my ass, he didn’t care because he loved my ass however it came.

Because how it came was with me.

“I’ve got a Zinfandel or a Bordeaux here,” he called, breaking into my thoughts. “But I can go to the wine room and grab something else.”

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