What My Husband Did to Me Before We Went Into the Bedroom

It was almost midnight and I was still staring at the ceiling in the living room, not quite knowing what to do. It had been one of those long Sundays that leave you drained without having done anything important: lunch with my parents, a park in the sun, baths, stories, and tantrums. The children had been asleep in our bed for an hour, the two of them curled up together as if that had always been their place.

My husband was still on the sofa, his phone lighting up his face and his feet crossed on the coffee table. We hadn’t spoken in the last twenty minutes. Not because we were angry, just out of inertia. Sometimes that silence comforted me, but that night it felt different, heavy. As if the two of us were waiting for something neither of us dared to say.

I got up from the sofa and straightened my cotton pajamas. I wasn’t wearing a bra; I never sleep in one. I walked slowly down the dim hallway, trying not to make a sound with my bare feet. I reached the bedroom door and stopped there, hand on the knob. I closed my eyes for a second and took a deep breath. I didn’t want to go in yet.

I heard him move on the sofa, set the phone down on the table, stand up. Each of his steps came closer down the hallway and I still didn’t open the door. I knew he was coming toward me. I know him well.

—You’re not coming in? —he asked softly, right behind me.

I didn’t answer. I felt the heat of his chest against my back and then his arms circling my waist. He kissed my neck slowly, right on that spot he knows makes me weak. I lifted my arms above my head and interlaced my fingers behind his nape, stretching back against him like a cat. It was the first time we had touched all day.

—The kids are in there —I murmured.

—I know.

He said it almost against my ear and his kisses grew hotter. They moved down my neck and reached the hollow of my collarbone. My arms were still up, my eyes closed, letting him do whatever he wanted. My body reacted before my head did. I could feel it in my skin, in my nipples hardening beneath the cotton, in the heat beginning to rise inside me.

His hands left my waist and moved up very slowly. I felt them beneath the pajamas, warm, rough. They reached my breasts and he took them fully in his hands from below, lifting them a little. I have big breasts and nipples that react to the slightest touch. He kneaded them calmly, unhurried, as if we had the whole night ahead of us. I had to clench my teeth to keep from letting out a moan.

—Shhh —he whispered—. You’ll wake them.

That made it worse. Knowing I had to stay quiet turned my head upside down. I pressed my forehead against the cold wood of the door, trying to focus. Behind me, my husband kept kneading my breasts with one hand while the other started to trail over my belly. His fingers moved very slowly over my navel, drawing little circles, not going lower yet.

I was already wet in my panties. I could feel it without needing to touch myself. I’d reached that stage where every brush of fabric against the clit felt like a tiny shock. And he knew it. That was why he took his time, why he avoided passing his hand there. He loves making me wait.

I pushed my ass back against his crotch. I felt him hard through the pajama pants, throbbing, wanting out. I nudged my pelvis back a little and he answered by pressing against me. It was a silent conversation, body against body, each of us understanding the other perfectly.

—You’re shaking —he said.

—I’m cold.

—Liar.

I smiled against the door. I wasn’t cold. My legs were weak and there was a hot knot between my thighs that wasn’t going to unravel easily. I slid one hand down under my pants myself, not to touch yet, just to adjust the waistband of my panties, to feel myself. The fabric was soaked, soft, clinging to my lips.

He noticed. Of course he noticed.

—So soon —he murmured, amusement in his voice.

He pulled my pants down to mid-thigh, not taking them off completely. Then he caught my panties with two fingers and tugged them up a little, pushing them between my buttocks. The fabric slipped in, fitting tightly against my sex, separating my lips just enough. I let out a breath I couldn’t control.

—Quiet now —he reminded me.

I bit my lip and nodded. I pressed my forehead harder against the door. My right hand slipped on its own to the top of my pubis, over the wet fabric. I started rubbing myself slowly. I’m shaved, smooth, with no hair, and that makes every touch feel multiplied. I focused on the clit, on tiny circles, while he kept kneading my breasts through my T-shirt.

He felt my hand right away. He didn’t move it away. On the contrary, he let me take care of my own pleasure while he focused on other areas. His free hand went to my hip and squeezed my ass hard, lifting me slightly off the floor. I was on half-tiptoe, balancing with my forehead against the door and my own hand between my legs.

—I want to see you —he said suddenly.

—You can’t —I answered in a whisper—. We have to be quiet.

—You don’t need to speak to see you.

He moved back for a second and I heard him kneel behind me. The cold of the hallway hit my bare ass and my whole skin prickled. I felt both his hands slowly spreading my cheeks. He still didn’t come closer. He was just looking. My eyes were closed, but I could feel his breathing low on my back, then lower still. He was inches away and not touching me.

I held my breath.

His tongue reached my anus first. A short brush, almost shy, that made me clench my teeth. Then it moved up, slowly licking the space between the two things, and stopped at the entrance to my sex. There he stayed. I felt him open my wet lips with two fingers and run his whole tongue over me, long and flat, from bottom to top.

I was biting the back of my hand so I wouldn’t make a sound. My other hand was pressed against my left breast, pinching my nipple without me even realizing how much force I was using. Each lick pushed me one step higher, and I didn’t want to come back down.

—Put them in me —I whispered, and I was surprised to hear my own voice.

He obeyed. I felt one finger go in first, slowly, all the way to the bottom. He moved it a couple of times and took it out. Then he went back in with two. I spread my legs more, as much as the pants at half-mast allowed. His fingers moved in a slow rhythm, curling upward, finding that spot that makes my knees tremble.

His other hand kept squeezing my ass, pulling it apart for better access. And his tongue had gone back from my sex to my buttocks again. It moved up and down without order, without predictability, and that was what was destroying me most. Not knowing what was coming next.

I took my hand back to my clit. I had two of his fingers inside me and my own hand rubbing me from the front. I lubed myself with his saliva and my own wetness and started making circles faster and faster. I knew I was close. Too close. I didn’t want to come that soon, but my legs were no longer holding me up.

—Wait —I told him, and I pulled my hand away for a second.

—No.

He grabbed my wrist and brought it back to my sex. Not only that. He slipped my two fingers in alongside his, inside me. Four fingers at the same time. I covered my mouth with my free hand and felt like I was about to scream. I had never felt anything like it. My fingers and his moving slowly, filling me, while he stayed behind me on his knees, licking whatever was left free.

—Please —I begged—. I’m going to come.

He pulled his fingers out. Mine too. And then he got between my legs, I’m not quite sure how, and I instinctively leaned farther forward, opening wider, offering myself to him. His tongue reached my clit from below, flat and hot, and stayed there.

I started moving on my own. I couldn’t help it. My hips were driving themselves against his mouth. I had both hands pressed against the door, my forehead glued to the wood and my eyes full of tears from holding back pleasure. His fingers went back inside while his tongue kept sucking my clit, and that was the end.

—I’m coming —I murmured, almost without a voice.

He increased the pace. One hand gripping my hip, the other inside me, his tongue moving fast and steady. I flattened myself against the door, lifted one knee just a little, pinched my nipple with all my strength and let out a stifled moan against my own hand.

I came.

It was one of those long orgasms, arriving in waves, seeming never to end. My legs were shaking, my sex contracting around his fingers, my forehead sweaty against the wood. He felt the spasms and slowed down gradually, letting me come down without cutting it off abruptly. He knows my body better than I do by now.

When I could finally move, I turned to face him. He was still kneeling in the hallway, his chin shiny and his eyes heavy with desire. I let myself drop down, straddling his legs, and kissed him. I kissed him like I hadn’t kissed him in months. Deeply, without haste, savoring the trace of myself in his mouth.

—Thank you —I whispered against his lips.

—Don’t thank me. Next time it’s my turn.

—Next time I’ll give it all back to you.

He smiled. I rested my forehead against his for a second, catching my breath. Behind the door, the children were still asleep. They hadn’t noticed a thing. We weren’t going to tell anyone either.

Some confessions stay there, between the hallway and the door, and nobody else needs to know them.