After being away a solid week and knowing he's leaving again on Friday, Eric finally returned home.
We were lost in each others eyes, soaking in familiar features, our hearts filling spaces that distance puts between us. I planned an evening of cuddling, hand holding and kissing.
Okay. Not really. I planned to get fucked, all night. No "making love", no "romance", no "tenderness". Just hours of pure raw sexual passion.
After dinner, Eric got a call from work. He told me he'd be gone for an hour or two. At the strike of three hours later, I whined. I complained. I went from flirty and playful to neglected and angry.
Eric told me I would be feeling his pain on the seat of my pants when he was done. He used phrases from the 50's. "Just wait until I get home, young lady. You are crusin' for a brusin'. I'm going to tan your hide. You're about to get a lickin' of a lifetime. If you want to cry, I'll give you something to cry about."
As my ass tingled in anticipation, I got a little less bitchy but then, the fatal text arrived.
"Honey. This is a grind. I'll be here all night. Sorry."
The wrong kind of "FUCK" escaped from my lips.
I started to scream at him but then he threatened to "wash out my mouth with soap" and I was reminded that this situation was certainly not his first choice. Ugh. I just want my husband back in my arms.
I get it. He'd rather be here but the job, always the job.