to mention spoiling for a fight.
Keeping her eyes slitted so that she could feign sleep if necessary, she studied her husband’s face. His features were even, his mouth wide and mobile, his hairline receding. Craig Blumfeld had once made her heart race and her pulse skitter. But the reality of eighteen years of living together was a high hurdle to jump.
How did you forget the snores and snorts, the burps and farts? The toilet seats left up—or even worse, down—and the dirty underwear piled on the floor? These days when he reached for her those were the things she saw; the everyday familiarities that did, in fact, breed contempt.
Turning her back, she curled into a ball and willed herself to sleep, but her mind refused to leave the path she’d set it on. Was it possible to keep things fresh and exciting when you’d been sleeping with the same person for twenty years? Could this be done without Saran Wrap? Or greeting one’s spouse at the door wearing nothing but a bow?
“Jude?” Craig’s arm slid across her waist and his hand searched out her breasts, which admittedly hung a little lower than they used to. “Wanna fool around?” He asked the question as he always did, as if it were some sort of erotic invitation she couldn’t possibly resist.
A wave of annoyance washed over her and she opened her mouth to refuse, but at the last moment she couldn’t do it.
She couldn’t even remember the last time they’d made love; absolutely could not recall the last time his request had prompted anything resembling a positive response.
Her eyes squeezed shut. How many headaches could a woman claim? How many times could she say no before her husband took that as permission to ask elsewhere?
Craig’s hand skimmed over her breasts then moved lower. Judy lay perfectly still, careful not to encourage or discourage, while she tried to tap into the excitement she’d once felt for him. Unfortunately, the vein seemed to have run dry. It was dry as toast, just like her.
Of course, if she was honest, a lot of that original excitement had had more to do with his suitability as a spouse than his prowess in bed. Craig Blumfeld had been so absolutely what she’d been looking for that just having him want her had been a complete aphrodisiac. She’d been downright orgasmic—multiply so—right up until the time her honeymoon tan had peeled off.
She opened one eye and stared at the wall. She was awake; she didn’t have to be up with the kids or rushing out the door. She already knew she wasn’t going to say no. She was just having a hard time saying yes with any enthusiasm.
Craig nibbled on her ear and pressed his growing erection up against her bottom and Judy tried, again, to dredge up some real enthusiasm for what was about to happen.
Ten minutes later she was staring at Craig’s back and listening to his contented snores, and feeling none of the lazy comfort she’d felt earlier. Getting up, she showered quickly, drew on her robe, and padded quietly downstairs wishing, not for the first time, that she’d been born second so that she could run around and have a good time and sleep with hunky men like Trey Davenport whenever she felt like it.
Their mother could harass Shelley about getting married all she wanted; Judy knew which one of them was leading the more interesting life.
chapter 11
W iley Haynes was ferret-faced and towheaded, with two oversized front teeth that would have done Bugs Bunny proud. He met Shelley and Ross in the Tire World parking lot, barely nodding at Shelley before reaching out to pump Ross Morgan’s hand. “That’s one fine car you got there,” he said, nodding to Ross’s Porsche Boxster. “But that right rear tire’s lookin’ a little iffy. You want me to have my boys put it up on the rack and give it a goin’ over?”
Morgan swallowed and blanched slightly, which was the most emotion Shelley had seen him display that day.
“No, thank you, Wiley,” he said. “It’s due for
Keeping her eyes slitted so that she could feign sleep if necessary, she studied her husband’s face. His features were even, his mouth wide and mobile, his hairline receding. Craig Blumfeld had once made her heart race and her pulse skitter. But the reality of eighteen years of living together was a high hurdle to jump.
How did you forget the snores and snorts, the burps and farts? The toilet seats left up—or even worse, down—and the dirty underwear piled on the floor? These days when he reached for her those were the things she saw; the everyday familiarities that did, in fact, breed contempt.
Turning her back, she curled into a ball and willed herself to sleep, but her mind refused to leave the path she’d set it on. Was it possible to keep things fresh and exciting when you’d been sleeping with the same person for twenty years? Could this be done without Saran Wrap? Or greeting one’s spouse at the door wearing nothing but a bow?
“Jude?” Craig’s arm slid across her waist and his hand searched out her breasts, which admittedly hung a little lower than they used to. “Wanna fool around?” He asked the question as he always did, as if it were some sort of erotic invitation she couldn’t possibly resist.
A wave of annoyance washed over her and she opened her mouth to refuse, but at the last moment she couldn’t do it.
She couldn’t even remember the last time they’d made love; absolutely could not recall the last time his request had prompted anything resembling a positive response.
Her eyes squeezed shut. How many headaches could a woman claim? How many times could she say no before her husband took that as permission to ask elsewhere?
Craig’s hand skimmed over her breasts then moved lower. Judy lay perfectly still, careful not to encourage or discourage, while she tried to tap into the excitement she’d once felt for him. Unfortunately, the vein seemed to have run dry. It was dry as toast, just like her.
Of course, if she was honest, a lot of that original excitement had had more to do with his suitability as a spouse than his prowess in bed. Craig Blumfeld had been so absolutely what she’d been looking for that just having him want her had been a complete aphrodisiac. She’d been downright orgasmic—multiply so—right up until the time her honeymoon tan had peeled off.
She opened one eye and stared at the wall. She was awake; she didn’t have to be up with the kids or rushing out the door. She already knew she wasn’t going to say no. She was just having a hard time saying yes with any enthusiasm.
Craig nibbled on her ear and pressed his growing erection up against her bottom and Judy tried, again, to dredge up some real enthusiasm for what was about to happen.
Ten minutes later she was staring at Craig’s back and listening to his contented snores, and feeling none of the lazy comfort she’d felt earlier. Getting up, she showered quickly, drew on her robe, and padded quietly downstairs wishing, not for the first time, that she’d been born second so that she could run around and have a good time and sleep with hunky men like Trey Davenport whenever she felt like it.
Their mother could harass Shelley about getting married all she wanted; Judy knew which one of them was leading the more interesting life.
chapter 11
W iley Haynes was ferret-faced and towheaded, with two oversized front teeth that would have done Bugs Bunny proud. He met Shelley and Ross in the Tire World parking lot, barely nodding at Shelley before reaching out to pump Ross Morgan’s hand. “That’s one fine car you got there,” he said, nodding to Ross’s Porsche Boxster. “But that right rear tire’s lookin’ a little iffy. You want me to have my boys put it up on the rack and give it a goin’ over?”
Morgan swallowed and blanched slightly, which was the most emotion Shelley had seen him display that day.
“No, thank you, Wiley,” he said. “It’s due for
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