(Complete) Devil In The Waters, Book 2, Chapter 13

Ten o’clock was the time he told himself he would worry, and now it was a quarter after.

Steve and Meyer were still engaged in Modern Warfare but he’d sequestered himself to the arm end of the couch and had checked out now for twenty minutes. Two hours would be a long time to be at the gym. Three hours was too long. Something had happened. There was a feeling in them, that sixth sense thing again. Something not right. A disturbance in the Force.

And now there was a worry that Steve and Meyer would notice her absence, especially after the earlier discourse about potential problems in his relationship with his wife. Wow, Josh, awful late for Kimmy to be out . . . she usually at the gym this long? “No,” he’d say, “but it’s probably all right.” In juxtaposition with what had been said earlier, he would be ashamed in front of them.

And now a flash of anger.

Way to go, Kimmy. Even if you fell asleep on the elliptical, now you’re going to be coming home to my friends who think you might’ve been up to something dirty. Something nefarious.

Six empty bottles of beer were his claim to fame tonight—two on the coffee table, four more on the kitchen counter. The booze was a consoling friend. His mind tormented by his wife, by the texted taunts of his high school bully, and the phantom man who’d appeared inside his tent. Was that even real?

Of course it was real, the texts, Josh, he sent you the text. The text didn’t say he was in the tent. So what? For fuck’s sake . . . 

Surreptitiously, he checked his phone again. He’d been avoiding using the app to locate Kimmy because it was a terrible state of mind to put yourself in. But it was 10:15 now, an unusual time for her to come home from the gym, and any normal non-suspecting husband would also want to see if his wife was okay . . . 

Fucking right here. Blue pinging dot emanating right outside their address, her dot practically overlapping his dot.

He closed off the phone, cursing himself, cursing the weakness of his own mind. She was home. 10:15. It’s not like it’s two in the morning. She left at what—seven? Three hours at the gym? Maybe she took a class, maybe went spinning, perhaps an impromptu yoga session.

Maybe she’d met up with Devlin in a hotel room and fucked for three hours. Maybe that was tonight’s workout. Would she leave her phone at the gym? Maybe locked in her locker . . . ? He thumped a fist on his knee, grumbling and chewing the inside of his cheek.

Why would he think these things about her?

Meyer was looking over, looking at the fist still plopped on his knee. “What’s up?”

Before he could answer, the front door was opening, Kimmy coming in, the sound of her gym bag being thrown to the floor with a quiet whomp, door closing, keys jingling, latch turned to lock. It was another moment before she appeared in the doorway, gym bag held against her stomach, looking bright but noticeably breathless. She scanned the backs of Steve’s and Meyer’s heads, then watched the TV screen. Didn’t even look his way.

Game paused, Meyer hooked an arm around the back of the couch. “Hey, Kimmy, just in time to show Steve how this is done.”

Steve scoffed, said, “Yeah, right,” turned and nodded to Kimmy.

She said, “You guys still playing games?”

Meyer held up the controller in offer. “You want in?”

She said, “Where’s Sophie?”

Meyer said she was in their bed and Kimmy cocked her head, made an affectionate “Aw.” Finally her gaze oscillated toward him. Their eyes met and there was a small spark. Nothing bad glimmered. Kimmy smiled and waggled her fingers at him.

“Hey,” he mouthed, then cleared his throat and spoke louder: “Kinda late.”

“Yeah, sorry,” she said, dipping back into the hall and slinging away her gym bag like she didn’t want to have to go into the bedroom to return it and wake Sophie.

When she reappeared, Steve was at her defense. “I don’t blame her. Why the heck’d she want to be here with a bunch of dudes playing video games, farting up this place like a frat house and drinking too much beer . . . but you’re welcome to join us, Kimmy. Grab a beer, and if you feel like it toss up your leg and let it rip. We weren’t shy when you weren’t around . . .”

“Steve,” Kimmy laughed, “you’re so gross,” then came around the couch, pausing at Josh’s shoulder, touching fingertips near his collar and dipping down to give him a kiss.

She smelled like soap and toothpaste and a touch of perfume. He laid his hand over hers, now a wavering orb of guilt radiating from his heart the way her Find My Phone dot had been throbbing on his screen. Why would you think such terrible things about her?

Devlin makes you. Devlin puts it in your head.

Now she came around, plopped beside him, squeezed between him and Meyer. She laid out a hand, and Meyer put the controller in it. “How do I work my thingy,” she said, nodding to the bobbing soldier on the screen.

Josh watched silently sitting right next to her, Kimmy’s pretty profile going from controller up to screen, back to controller, thumbs working clumsily over the buttons. Later shaking the controller in frustration, gasping with anger when things weren’t going right and she was getting shot up like a rookie to Steve and eyer’s laughter. Josh alternated from smiling to careful scrutiny. Studying her. Looking for signs.

Signs of what?

Don’t let Devlin get in your head.

He stroked her thigh, pushing away those bad thoughts with a forced smile on his face, got closer, hip to hip and snaked an arm around her back. Kimmy leaned into it, cuddling against him, controller held up close to her face, jabbing thumbs, laughing and enjoying herself while the guys made fun of her.

***

When it was time for the guys to leave half an hour later, Kimmy told Meyer she’d go wake Sophie.

Josh was a minute behind, coming into the bedroom to see Kimmy sitting bedside shushing him, a finger to her pouted lips and telling him to be quiet.

Sophie lay curled on their still made-up bed underneath a pale yellow fleece blanket. She was asleep still, little head dented in the center of his pillow, black hair fanned out around her. A thumb was tucked in her mouth. Kimmy lightly stroked Sophie’s hair, tracing it back from her face. Her eyes looked wet and shining and her lips were tugged in an unflappable smile.

“What an angel,” she whispered as he came and joined her.

He sat down, knee to knee with Kimmy, resting his hand on Sophie’s little hip. He patted his niece, whispered gently, “Come on little girl, your daddy’s going home.”

They watched together in silence as Sophie came awake with a comical look of easy bewilderment, then sitting up looking around and rubbing her eyes. Both of them had the same dumb smiles. Their eyes met and he figured something was communicated there. This was what they both wanted, wasn’t it?

***

Kimmy was in the bathroom, closed in there by herself, sink running and the sound of teeth brushing. Everyone had left, just the two of them alone now and it was late. Work tomorrow. Josh was opening and closing drawers, changing, tossing his dirty things into the hamper getting into pajama pants and T-shirt.

The tapping of the toothbrush against the sink edge, then Kimmy’s voice coming through the door: “You guys have fun tonight?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I needed a night like that.”

“I’m glad,” she said, more running water.

“What did you do at the gym?”

Still through the door: “Cardio. Weights. I did a Pilates class. Then I . . .”

A pause for more running water. He waited. It shut off. “I had a smoothie at the juice bar. I was on my phone, turned around and hit it with my elbow and put green tea and kale all over my leg. I had another shower, then I sat in the sauna for a bit.”

“Then another shower after the sauna?” She would have been all sweaty . . .”

“Yeah.”

“That’s a lot of showers.” What the hell are you getting at?

The bathroom door opened, Kimmy flicking the light off. He darted eyes up, frightened like he’d been caught, like she’d opened the door and caught a glimpse of his thoughts as though they were playing out like shameful porno on his laptop screen. He jumped.

But now his eyes traveled his wife’s body. Her black hair had been pulled from her face, completely revealing it, tied back in a tail. She wore something new. A black robe thing, his mind catching up and saying wait, it’s a kimono. Black silk, satiny, shimmering in the light from their bedside table lamp. It was short, tied at the waist, a blossoming rose at her ribs. His eyes traveled lower, looking to her bare legs.. They weren’t bare. Or they were . . . But they were dull gray in color, a thin stitched band over her toes. Stockings?

Without faltering, Kimmy moved from the bathroom door and came to stand before him.

“What’s this?” He touched the sleeve of her kimono, the fineness of the fabric slippery under his thumb.

“You like it?”

“I do,” he said. “When did you get it?”

“Couple days ago.”

“It’s beautiful,” he said, then thinking Too beautiful for our plain old bedroom. She looked incredible, like she could get paid to model it.

She slipped hands under his arms, touching his waist and getting his stomach fluttering, hugging herself to him, and laying her cheek on his collar. “I love you,” she said.

He put his arms around her, held her. “I love you too.”

Face turned against his neck, she kissed him below his ear. She whispered, “I don’t want to stress you out with dirty talk . . .”

“You didn’t stress me out,” he said, showing an awkward smile to the ceiling. His hands dropped to the slimness of her waist.

She said, “So let me do the dirty talking.”

“Oh yeah?”

Up on tiptoes, her lips touched his earlobe. She whispered, “I’m going to suck your cock.”

His stomach jumped in two tight bounces, Kimmy’s words completely unexpected. With the mention of dirty talk he’d thought it was going to be about how they were going to roll around on the bed and the things she wanted done to her. “What?”

She’d dipped down to her heels again but bounced back up on her toes. Lips on his earlobe, she cupped a hand against his ear (like this addition would be terrible if it were overheard). “And you’re going to come in my mouth.”

“Hoo . . . what . . .?”

Back down on her heels, she kissed his T-shirt above his heart, ran her hands up and down his shoulders. He held her still, cupped a hand behind her head, wanting to see her face. He guided her to look at him. Her eyes were still wet, her smile hesitant. “I love you,” she said again.

He kissed her, and she kissed him back; they held each other’s necks while they did. Then she was guiding him backward, and he was going.

More guilt—maybe because of the terrible things he’d thought of her earlier, or maybe just a generalized guilt over receiving pleasure without reciprocation—made his mind race to offer up alternatives that would be for them together, show his consideration for her: “Do you want to get on the bed?— Do we have condoms?”

She said, “We don’t need condoms tonight.”

“But I thought we were waiting. You just started the pill again . . .”

She sat him down, put her hands on his shoulders and looked in his eyes. “You’re going to come in my mouth.”

And now he was frozen. Jaw immobilized. Stunned like she just flashed high beam lights in his face. It was that lawyer Kimmy. That mean one, the one you couldn’t read. But there were cracks in the facade. What was shining through those cracks wasn’t high intensity lumens, it was glowing like warm ardor. Like she really wanted to do this for him because she loved him.

He said nothing, stared at her stunned. She smiled sideways, displaying a momentary look of trepidation. Then stood, hands undoing the knot on the kimono’s belt. It opened, she thrust it backward and it fell soundless around her heels.

“Holy . . .”

Again, speechless. Kimmy, his wife, in black lingerie . . . black triangles over her breasts, black panties with smoky jade-colored roses done in ruffled embroidery. And a garter belt. A real live garter belt like she was out of a Playboy magazine he found in his grandpa’s brother’s attic when he was little. From the garter belt, straps extended down to hold a pair of stockings mid-thigh.

His hand went out like he was still that little boy in the attic finding that wondrous magazine, touching his fingers to the image of his first naked woman. Touched her hipbone, fingertips gliding along her thigh to touch the stocking. She’d struck him completely dumb.

Kimmy slapped his hand, and when he looked up she admonished him. ‘No touching.’

His stomach did that bounce thing again, and he swooned. Hands out behind him, he leaned his weight back. Kimmy dipped forward and ran a knee on the underside of his erection that had tented upward the crotch of his pajama pants. He let out a moan. She stroked her knee on the underside of his hardness, then gradually lowered, got down right between his open legs at the side of their bed, and his heart raced and pounded in his ears, a herd of horses thundering over the plain . . . 

Hands tucked into his waistband, she worked the pants downward, snagging them on his upright erection, snapping it free and making it jitter, him lifting his butt off the bed, putting his weight on his hands. She pulled them down, and he was awkward kicking his legs around, trying not to knock her over when she was so low to the ground.

And there he was, wearing just a T-shirt, pantsless, legs open, his incredibly beautiful wife between his knees running her warm hands up and down his naked thighs.

“It’s beating,” she said, studying his erection. He looked down, could see it bobbing with his heartbeat.

“You’re so hot,” he said.

“Thank you,” she said, hands coming up to touch his hipbones, getting closer and closer and closer . . .