Devil In The Waters, Book 3, Chapter 10 (complete)

In the burbling whoosh of the flushed toilet, he dried his penis and testicles with a hand towel that was ready for the wash anyway. Two times in a row, not too shabby. Two times to completion. Not too shabby at all, indeed.

He chuckled to himself, proud, and also still aroused. But hungry. Way hungry. Before he tossed the towel in the hamper, he paused, plumbing still hissing, sneaking a look over his shoulder. He hadn’t fully closed the bathroom door, but he could see movement on the bed, Kimmy still there. Now he frowned, pinched his inner cheek lining between his canines. Tossed another look over his shoulder back to the hamper . . . 

No, his wife didn’t have sex with Devlin today. That was crazy.

Yeah, he was pretty sure though that Kimmy’s wildcat prowess tonight was provoked somehow by Devlin’s stroking hand getting her purring. Not touching her, Kimmy wouldn’t allow it. But just proximity maybe.

Devlin was unpalatable. Kimmy didn’t like him. Not many people did. At least, not truly. Kissed his ass for what he might offer. But then there was still the issue of Kimmy’s restricted behavior.

A little sliver embedded in Josh’s psyche. It told him one more possibility: Kimmy wasn’t wearing panties. That’s why she’d flinched. That’s why she was anxious. That’s why she wouldn’t easily commit to a play session on the trampoline with her favorite niece Sophie . . . 

Outlandish, he knew it. But still, he backed his way to the hamper, eyes on that sliver of open-door making sure he wouldn’t be spotted for what he was about to do.

He tossed the hand towel onto the top, dipped, peeked inside. Kimmy’s bra was there. The one she would’ve worn today. He pushed it aside with his fingers, and underneath there were a pair of panties. Of course—he was being ridiculous. Why was it so much fun for him to poke and prod at this idea of his wife’s infidelity? What on earth about that would be arousing? Yet it was.

The panties were rolled into a figure-eight, and he shook them loose, took another careful glance over his shoulder before holding them up near his face. They smelled clean. They smelled like detergent. Jesus, he was going to have to stop this. Do you think Kimmy somehow moistened her panties so badly being with Devlin all day she had to throw them out? And then when she suspected you, Detective Columbo, might snoop in the hamper, she tossed a clean pair in there? That’s what you really think? . . . 

He tossed the panties back in the hamper, on the verge of self disgust. Pathetic. Poking through the hamper looking for her underwear. Fucking smelling it. Pervert level antics. He stepped away . . . stepped back. Plucked the bra from underneath the panties and returned them over top the way he’d found them. Interesting, though, that the panties didn’t match the bra. Would Kimmy mismatch her underwear? Maybe, what did he know?

***

From the bathroom cupboard, he plucked two hand towels. Fresh one for the bathroom, a fresh one for his wife. Put legs through pajama pants, shrugged on a T-shirt, came out to the bedroom to find Kimmy still in bed with the sheets pulled over herself, a triangle sail of bed sheet crossing from knees to chest, stocking feet stuck out below, her pretty face in a frame of bunched up kimono on the pillow. She said, “What took you so long?”

“I had to pee,” he said.

Kimmy held out a hand for the towel.

“Sorry,” he said, and they both laughed. How would he like it, someone dumping two loads inside him and leaving him in the bed to wait for cleanup. “I did—I really had to pee.”

She worked under the sheets, face going through a range of expressions, hands moving below as she wiped herself. Then she tossed out from under the sheet her panties—obviously soiled with his semen. He didn’t mention it, picked them up, grabbing her high heel shoes as well, going to the closet and filing away her footwear then putting her dirtied panties in the bathroom hamper.

When he came out she was still wiping. He said, “I want to grab that food. You stay in bed. I’ll bring it in, we can watch something on the laptop.”

She sat up, one hand with the towel pressed under the sheets between her legs, the other knocking her ponytail over her shoulder then straightening the kimono. “I think I’ll come out.”

“Whatever you like,” he said, “I’m going to get the food heated.”

In the kitchen, he opened their paper bag from Good Taste, touched container tops to find them still pretty warm. But when he plated their wing combos, he figured they should both go in the microwave, one plate at a time.

His was ready, hers in the microwave, when Kimmy emerged from the bedroom. He was saddened to see her in an oversized shirt. He showed her with an expression, then leaned over the island counter pass-through to see her feet in fuzzy slippers. He reached across, plucked up the bottom of her T-shirt to reveal cotton pajama shorts. “Can’t say I’m not disappointed,” he said.

She came around into the kitchen saying, “You want me to eat chicken wings wearing lingerie?” She thumbed the microwave door button and it swung open with a cloud of steam.

“You know,” he said, picking up his plate, “I have to admit, it’s kind of a fantasy.”

Her plate was too hot and she set it down on the counter, wagging her hands like she’d burned them. She sucked one of her fingers, said, “I will put it back on if you want . . .”

“Would you?”

“I kinda feel good in it. You want me to? . . .”

“Are you serious?”

“No . . . Well, kind of. I’d rather sit in pajamas if I’m eating wings, but . . .”

“Let’s just eat,” he said, thinking how you could take something too far. What was he going to do, sit and watch TV with Kimmy in her lingerie, making her perform for him while he ate dinner?

They brought their plates into the family room and turned on the television. Instead of sitting on the couch, they sat with their butts on the floor, their backs against the couch’s front face. He said, “You didn’t get a drink?”

Kimmy was untying her ponytail, re-tying it tighter. She said, “Do we have any wine?”

“You want a glass of wine?”

“I feel like a glass of wine.”

No further prompt, he jumped up and went to the kitchen, poured his wife a glass of red, feeling good now, grabbing himself a bottle of beer. Returned to Kimmy flicking through channels. He said, “Put on that Jenguk High, or whatever, that Korean show.”

“You don’t watch that.”

“You can show it to me.”

“Nah, it’s too much to explain. And, seriously, you’re not going to get it.”

“What— Korean culture’s so different than mine, but—”

“It’s kind of for girls, Josh. Teenage girls.”

“I’m not unlike a Korean girl.”

She nudged him with her knee for being silly, face still turned to the television, changing channels with the remote. Light flickered on her beautiful face, and he watched the muscles of her jaw flex as she chewed. Even like this, she was incredibly sexy, even wiping grease from her plump lips with the back of her hand. Absent-minded, not even aware of the effect she had on the guy sitting right next to her. Had she always been this hot? Stupid, because of course she was. But there was something different about her he couldn’t put his finger on. It was like you knew somebody for a long time, and they went and lost fifteen pounds and worked out, and all of a sudden you could see the angle of their jaw, or maybe the grace of their neck, something about the way their cheeks had sunk made them look suddenly sexy. Alluring. Kimmy had always worked out. Was always thin. What was it about her appearance that seemed so changed?

She couldn’t decide what to watch so she left it on the news, setting the remote down now, picking up a chicken wing in two hands and gnawing away the flesh. He joined in.

Without prompting—like it had been on her mind—out of the blue she offered up an explanation. She said, “I just didn’t feel clean.”

“What do you mean?”

She thumbed over her shoulder, wiped her mouth. “When we got in. I’d been sitting in a car all day long. I had to walk around the port out in Hamilton. It was hot today. I just didn’t feel clean. I was in and out of all these buildings, it’s the port, you know?” She shrugged, met his eyes. Then: “Here,” she said, taking her ponytail and smelling it. She leaned forward and presented the ponytail to him. “Do you smell chemicals? Fertilizer?”

“Fertilizer?” He leaned forward and smelled her hair. He told her he didn’t smell fertilizer.

She smiled again, then offered it once more, giving him a curious look. He leaned closer, smelled again. “No,” he told her. “I think I smell shampoo.”

She said, “You’re sure you don’t smell anything?” She scrutinized him with a strange expression, smiling lopsided, eyes narrowed.

He smirked, eyed her slyly in return. “You know what—maybe sweat. Maybe sex smell . . .”

She clucked her tongue and laughed, pushed him away with a hand. “Don’t, Josh, don’t embarrass me . . .”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” he laughed. “I don’t smell fertilizer.”

She shrugged again saying, “I just thought I’d change and I . . . wanted a shower.”

“I don’t care,” he told her. “Clean, dirty—you know I’m not fussy.”

“No. But I am.”

“It was unexpected.”

“It was,” she agreed, starting in on a new chicken wing. “I’m so hungry,” she said, chewing on one side, rolling her eyes up, covering her lips with a hand while she spoke.

They were quiet, eating and watching news, but after a while, he couldn’t let it go unmentioned. “How was it? This your first day with Devlin?”

She nodded, scrunched up the paper towel he brought, wiped her lips. She set down the chicken bone, and wiped her fingers. “Yeah. I hardly see him, but today I spent all day with him.”

“You made it home in one piece.”

She made a funny face, like he wasn’t far off the mark.

“Did he say anything annoying today or was he bearable?”

“Bearable,” she said. “You know, to be honest, at work he’s really just about business.”

“Yeah, I guess. He likes to kick his shoes off and be an asshole on the weekends, though.” They both laughed, Kimmy hard enough she had to take a sip of the wine.

“Yeah. Maybe,” she said, “I don’t think you’re wrong.”

“What was in Hamilton?”

“We had to go out and meet some guy looking to set up a contract. Chinese guy. He had me to translate for the guy’s translator.”

“Talk about redundancy.”

She agreed, hmm’d, said, “He was looking for subtext.”

“And you gave him subtext?”

“I think so. I mean, my Chinese is not too bad, but still . . .”

“I have faith in you.”

“Thank you,” she said, reached over and squeezed his wrist.

He put his hand over hers. “I really do.”

“Good. I think Devlin does too. I think I did a good job for him today.”

“It’s a long way out to Hamilton. Long way back again. What did you guys talk about? You went in the same car?”

“Yeah. He drove.”

“That roadster?”

“The Mercedes? Yes. We drove to Hamilton, and I don’t know . . . we talked about whatever . . .”

“What’s his car like?”

“It’s nice, Josh—I don’t know what to say. I’m not really into cars.”

“Leather seats and everything . . .”

“Oh yeah, no, it’s really nice. And fast . . .”

“Was he speeding?”

“It didn’t feel like it, but, yeah, he probably was.”

“And what did you guys talk about?”

“I told you. Whatever.”

“Did you talk about me?”

She looked at him long and steady, trying to assess his meaning. He didn’t even know his meaning. He could tell she was chewing the inside of her cheek. She said, “I didn’t talk about you.”

He asked why not, though he wasn’t sure whether it was good or bad she hadn’t talked about him.

“You tell me. I feel like I don’t want to talk about stuff you don’t want to talk about . . .”

“With Devlin?”

“Yeah, you know. Maybe it’s like you don’t exist.”

It troubled him, and he searched for brighter meaning in her words, saying, “But I exist, Kimmy.”

“Oh Josh,” she said laughing, leaning away before swaying back. “You definitely exist.” She shrugged, looking up saying, “To me you exist. I just don’t want . . .”

“What—you think he’ll . . . what?”

“Josh, you don’t like him.”

He frowned, watching her. “You don’t think he likes me.”

“I don’t know. I just didn’t think I should talk about you. But out of respect for you, if you know what I mean.”

“But he knows you're married to me . . .”

She gave him a puzzled look; one bordering on disgust. She lifted her hand and showed him her wedding ring. “He knows I’m married, Josh.”

“To me,” he said.

“Josh, he knows I’m married to you,” she said chuckling.

“I know—I know he knows. It’s just . . .” His hand fell in his lap, and he shook his head.

Kimmy studied him, and he waved her away because he didn’t want her looking at him. His hand moved, his thumb bumping against his renewed erection. Just sitting here talking to his wife about how she sat next to his high school bully today—all day—in his expensive car got him rock hard again.

He said, “I don’t think I want to talk about Devlin anymore.”

“Fine by me,” she said, in a melody, like he couldn’t have spoke truer words.

She pushed the remote over to his side, picked up a fresh wing in two hands saying, “You find us something to watch . . .”