I’m sitting at my desk late into the evening, once again unable to register the contents of the reports in front of me. It’s been three days since our confrontation in the kitchen, and since then, Lilibeth’s all that’s been running through my mind.
There was something about her that night, at the ball and later in the kitchen, that still clings to me. This whole time, I thought of her as someone I must share a home with and nothing more. But when she lifted her chin in anger and made it clear that I ought to treat her with respect—as an equal—I realized she’s the kind of woman one can’t ignore.
She commands attention, even demands it. She can be the brightest thing in the room, but when angered, she shows her teeth. There’s a sharpness behind those curves.Oh god, those curves.
I moan and rub my eyes, trying to forget how she looked three nights ago, in nothing but a T-shirt. That shirt barely clung down her ass, her nipples peaked through the cloth, making me note things I didn’t need to note—like she hadn’t been wearing a bra, for example.
I listened to everything she said, truly listened. I didn’t want her to feel unheard. But the closer she stood, the harder it got to focus on anything but the roaring in my ears, urging me to plant my hands on those juicy thighs, to pull her flush against me until she felt me harden between her legs.
That proximity changed everything. She had faltered in her lecture too, her rage simmering down as her eyes reached my lips, her breath hitching in her throat. We were both fighting, I could tell, not to make that first move. When she pulled back, I felt relieved.
Relieved because my body ached from not joining hers, ached from all the restraint I had to force myself to maintain around her. I foolishly thought that might have been one situation, for we both stood there half-naked so close to one another, but three days in, and I’m still left aching.
The fact that we now have dinner together—something I suggested to ease her mind after realizing she feels unwelcome in my presence—makes it all the harder to keep my hands off her. Every night, it’s a struggle to keep the sexual tension at bay.
I don't do this—this constant, gnawing desire. It’s preposterous, really. My body doesn’t ache; it never has.It shouldn’t.
I like to keep my life uncomplicated. While I enjoy the company of women, I tend to keep things casual. It’s always mutual—they warm my bed for a night or two, we say we had fun, and part ways with no expectations. It’s efficient, and it works.
A few hours of pleasure, no strings attached, and certainly no lingering thoughts or feelings. Yet here I am, plagued by the memory of not only Lilibeth's curves but also her mind, her sharp tongue, her laughter, and her smile.
My phone buzzes with an email, and I realize I’m doing it again—thinking of Lilibeth. I have to stop before I lose my mind. I shake my head to clear away the image of her and pick up my phone.
This marriage is a business transaction, nothing more. My wife might have curves that make my hands itch to trace them and a tongue sharp enough to make me forget what I’m saying. But none of that matters.
She and I? It’ll only cause trouble.
I send out the email and check the time to see that it’s seven-thirty. Dinner will be ready soon. I’d better wrap up some work while I can.
***
That night, I arrive at the dinner table and notice she’s already there. She’s wearing something different tonight: a gorgeous cream chiffon blouse with ruffles that falls loosely over a mermaid-shaped, ankle-length satin skirt, which highlights those dangerous curves across her hips.
She’s also wearing jewelry: a small pair of earrings and a bracelet, but jewelry nevertheless. A small voice in my head notes that she has dressed up. Another hopes it’s for me. The third silences both the other voices.
“Hey,” I say as I sit, my voice emerging hoarser than it should.
“Hey.” Her eyes meet mine, her voice soft.
Her blonde hair falls in waves past her shoulders, thick and luscious to the eye.
“You're punctual,” I say, placing my napkin on my lap.
She sips her wine and cocks an eyebrow in my direction. “And you sound surprised.”
“I am. Most women I know consider lateness a form of fashion.”
“Then you know the wrong women.” She leans forward and tucks her chin into her hands as she stares me down. “Most women I know value their time.”
She looks like she’s ready to go, to argue. This has become some sort of unspoken routine between us. Every night,over dinner, she reels me into a discussion, an argument, a challenging of our thought processes.
It never gets heated. Rather, even when I try to remain formal and change the topic to safer grounds, she cheerfully carries on as if no matter what either of us says, it won’t take away from the respect between us.
It’s a form of conversation I rarely have, one where we can share differences in opinion without causing or feeling hurt.
The maids arrive and lay out the dishes. Lilibeth dismisses them kindly before passing me the bread while she serves herself the salad.
“I always assumed women often arrive late to seem more valuable in the eyes of men,” I comment, picking up on the conversation where we’d left off as I cut into the roast chicken and lean over to place a piece on Lilibeth’s plate.
