Breaking the Bank by Yona Zeldis McDonough Page A

caused Mia to cross the room and slip into the air-filled bed beside him? It didn’t matter. Julie’s warnings echoed faintly in her brain, but she quickly shushed them.
Nothing is going to happen,
she silently argued with Julie.
You don’t have to lecture me.
Carefully, she settled in, trying not to wake him. There. She drank in the sense memory of his arms, his shoulders, the familiar rise and fall of his chest. She moved, ever so slightly, and her hand grazed his bare skin—she had guessed correctly, still no pj’s—and she let it stay where it was. He was no longer her husband, but he had been once. And that meant something, although she was not sure what.
    Husband.
Such a cozy, happy-sounding sort of word. When they first got married, she would repeat it in the privacy of her own mind, and found numerous excuses to work it into the casual exchanges she had with other people.
My husband loves that cut of beef,
she could remember saying to the butcher.
I’m looking for a sweater for my husband,
she told asalesman at Bloomingdale’s.
It’s his birthday next week.
But now all that was over. Instead of a husband, she had an ex. She even hated the sound of the word—just a short vowel away from
ax
—and brimming with a kind of latent violence that was an affront to her sensibility and her soul.
    Tentatively, she moved closer. He was warm. He smelled good, too—a combination of some new, citrus-infused aftershave mingled with his own, inimitable odor. Here he was. Her ex. The father of her only child. In her apartment, naked. And she was right next to him.
    She continued pressing, and though she thought he might have still been asleep, she felt him stir. Which, she realized, was exactly her aim. She hadn’t had sex in ages; she hadn’t wanted to. Right now, though, she very much wanted to have sex. And crazy as it was, she wanted to have sex with Lloyd. She knew him, and she had loved him. Maybe she still loved him, hard to know when she was always so angry with him. But even if she didn’t, he was her past, and, in some perverse way, she felt like he was still hers.
    â€œMia?” he asked quietly. So he
was
up.
    â€œWere you expecting someone else?”
    â€œWhat are you doing?”
    â€œI think it’s pretty obvious.”
    He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t try to stop her, either. Mia felt his body responding, and his breath quickened, just the slightest bit, in her ear. This was permission enough, and she guided Lloyd into her from behind, a position they had both always liked. She shuddered when the connection was made. Had she thought it didn’t matter about his having a big dick? Well, she was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. She started to move against him and placed his hand between her legs, so that he could stroke her, too. She loved those big hands of his, with their skillful, knowing fingers, she always had—
    But then he stopped and eased himself out of her. “Where did you go?” she said.

    â€œThis is not a good idea.”
    â€œNo, it’s not,” she agreed.
    â€œThen why, Mia? Why do it?”
    â€œFor old time’s sake?” She tried to be jaunty but failed miserably. At least she wasn’t crying. Not yet anyway.
    He was silent, and so was she. When the silence stretched a little longer, Mia tried willing herself to get up and off of the mattress, but it was no use. She was lonely, she was heartsick, she missed Lloyd and the life they used to have together. She was drunk, too—weepy, self-pitying drunk as opposed to angry drunk, jolly drunk, or philosophical drunk. Weepy drunk, she knew from experience, was the worst.
    Then she felt him move against her again, and within minutes, they were at it in earnest. It was wet, it was hot, and it was over all too soon. Lloyd came with a small grunt, and then remained still, breathing hard. Mia didn’t know what to say, so she waited; when