Total pages in book: 235
Estimated words: 227851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1139(@200wpm)___ 911(@250wpm)___ 760(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 227851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1139(@200wpm)___ 911(@250wpm)___ 760(@300wpm)
She tucks in, and I discreetly lean over to check the meat situation. How well it’s cooked. Jesus, it’s sacrilege, really. Everyone knows beef and lamb are ruined if they’re overdone. Anything past medium is overdone. But it’s also safe.
Ava pauses, her knife and fork still on the plate, looking up at me, catching me in the act. Then turns her cut of lamb toward me. I hardly conceal my recoil; it looks cremated. How hard will I need to chew to get through it? It would have been insensitive to ask for my meat rare when Ava can’t.
“May I?” Ava asks, her fork at her mouth, a piece of burnt lamb on the prongs.
“You may.” No chance of any blood being in that, really, is there? And now I have to lie through my teeth. I take a piece, chew, and swallow. “You can cook, wife,” I say. Shame on me.
“I’ve never said I can’t,” she says, happily chewing her way through her first bite. We might be awhile. “I just don’t like doing it.”
“Not even for me?” Please say no. Maybe I can fly Cathy in.
“I don’t mind.”
“I like you cooking for me.” That’s not a lie. I do. But maybe not lamb in future. “It’s kind of normal.”
“Normal?”
“Yes, normal. Like what normal married people do.”
“Normal, like the wife cooks and the husband eats?” she asks, interested. She’s trying to corner me. Prove something? “That’s a bit chauvinistic.”
There she is, putting words in my mouth. But I won’t bite. Well, I will. Through this lamb with some effort. “Isn’t this normal?” I ask.
“You mean having dinner together?”
“Yes.”
“Yes,” she says, casual. “This is normal.”
And Ava and I aren’t normal. Never will be. Normal people don’t love like we love. Normal people don’t connect like we do. Normal people don’t need each other to survive. Constant contact. Various forms of fucking. I smile to myself, but it falters when I consider the arrival of the babies. Two babies. Not one, but two. A true blessing. But . . . wherever, whenever will be a struggle. “What about if I spread you on this table during dinner and fuck you?” I ask, nonchalant. “Would that be normal?” No. And there will be no spreading Ava on anything in front of the kids. Which means I’ll have to choose my moments. And then maybe she’ll be exhausted, because . . . twins. Maybe I’ll be exhausted too. I mean, I have stamina, but . . . twins. Fuck.
Ava’s chews falter, as does her cutlery on the plate, and her lip definitely twitches a fraction, evidence the lust has been stimulated. I shift in my seat, making room for my own stimulation. But can I control it? No. And that may be a major fucking issue when the babies are around.
“Our normal is you taking what you want, when you want,” she says, composed, accepting. Correct. “You can chuck in a meal cooked by your wife, if you like.”
No, thanks. “Good.” I smile to myself and return to my dinner, avoiding the lamb. I’ll always take what I want, when I want.
You deluded idiot.
Twins.
“I like our normal,” I mutter.
“Is something worrying you?” she asks, studying me.
“No.”
“Yes, there is. Are you suddenly considering the possibility of no wherever and whenever with two babies around?”
Fuck, how did she know? “Not at all.”
“Look at me,” she orders shortly, pulling my surprised eyes her way. “You are, aren’t you?”
“Wherever, whenever,” I growl like a chump, my grip of the cutlery firming, my dick dying down. This is terrible. The dynamics of our relationship will change completely.
“Not with two babies around.”
Is she holding back a laugh? This is funny? Need I remind my wife that the physical side of our marriage is as essential for her as it is for me?
“They’ll need a lot of my attention,” she goes on, casual, munching her way through her dinner.
Funnily enough, my appetite has run for the hills, and it’s nothing to do with the cremated lamb. It pisses me off that she’s taking such delight in this realization. “Yes, your primary role will be the care of our children,” I say, stern. She should punch me. I deserve it. “But a close second, and I mean a very close second, will be for my indulgence.” And yours, lady. “Wherever, whenever, Ava. I might need to control my craving for you to a certain extent”—Christ, Lord, and all that’s holy, help me—“but don’t think I’m going to sacrifice devoting my life to consuming you. Constant contact. Wherever, whenever. That’s not going to change, just because we have babies.” You see it all the time in couples. Normal couples. The babies arrive, the sex leaves. That will not happen to us, because we’re not normal. I fill my mouth with food before I add to my rant and get myself a slap.