Page 57 of Love Wells Kept

Who am I kidding? I’m already well past that. I’m getting hard the moment she slips under the covers beside me regardless.

A valiant soldier for no good reason, I do my best to ignore the way my cock twitches and aches between my legs. The way my hips subconsciously thrust against the softness of the towel, desperate for relief. Finally reaching my dresser, I tug at the gathered corner of the towel responsible for keeping it tight around my hips, and a rush of cold air as terry cloth puddles around my feet almost makes my dick go soft. Almost.

It juts out from my body, proud and throbbing. A bead of clear liquid sits nestled in the slit. And I give it one quick stroke. That’s all. Just something to take the edge off.

Okay, maybe two strokes.

Now I’m fully fisting my cock, dragging a hand from root to tip, collecting slippery pre-cum on my palm and starting over with a low, rumbling moan. In a last-ditch effort to stop myself, my free hand yanks open the top drawer of my oak dresser, as if a pair of boxers is going to magically prevent me from fucking my hand.

I blindly feel through the drawer, fingers closing around something extraordinarily soft and untangling it from the mess of underwear and socks. Soft, thin, and light pink—I’m clutching a pair of Kate’s underwear. My breath stutters before turning to small, frantic pants. I stare at the fabric held between my fingers, tightening my grip on my cock until my vision becomes hazy.

Surely they got mixed up with mine while Kate was doing laundry, and she didn’t notice. She wouldn’t have slipped this pair of pretty pink panties into my drawer in the hopes I’d find them, not when her dresser is mere feet away, and I’ve had unlimited access to her underwear for weeks.

But then again…didn’t the pink stand out in a drawer of black and dark gray?

I stumble backward toward the bed, rolling the thin cotton between my finger and thumb. What I’d give to see Kate wearing these and nothing else. I prop myself up against the headboard, and the grip on my cock stills at the thought of Kate walking into the room and catching me masturbating with her panties. I watch the door, ears perked for the unmistakable floorboard creak of her footsteps, cock pulsing and dripping down the back of my hand. Without second thought, I use her panties to wipe the mess, then slowly brush them down my shaft.

I thrust upward into the fabric, pretending it’s the softness of her pussy enveloping my thick cock, and an unbidden moan escapes my lips. I immediately pause, eyes trained on the door handle, waiting to see if she heard the sounds of my agony and is coming to check on me.

For some reason, I think I want her to see this.

Feral, I fuck her underwear, sliding them up and down the length of my shaft. Silky and smooth on my skin. I shut my eyes and press my cheek to her pillow to help my fantasy.

I imagine Kate opening the door to see me with my legs spread wide in invitation. With a lustful smile, she’d shut the door and drop her clothes, showing off the body she’s been hiding from me. I’d make her crawl up the bed, and she’d do it because I know—based on the way her knees fell apart for my touch this morning—Kate’s hungry and impatient for my cock. She’d take its thickness in her soft hands, plump lips parting to welcome me into her mouth, tongue flicking across the tip.

I shift the pink panties, smoothing them over the head, moaning into Kate’s pillow. Picturing the way her pussy might feel as she straddles me in the middle of the bed and impales herself, soaking wet cunt gripping and squeezing the life out of my cock. My hand squeezes around my shaft like I’m trying to pull the thing clean off my body. Like I’m angry at it.

I am angry. At myself for the fact that I’m secretly fucking my wife’s underwear, and for the fact that I’m not charging out into the kitchen and dragging her back here so I can shove these panties in her mouth and thrust my cock so deep into her she feels it in her throat.

My teeth clench together. I know she’d sound unbearably sweet as she fell apart, her moans bringing life to the room, rough and smooth all at once. The daydream has my balls tightening with an all-over ache, my stomach and legs tensing and flexing as a familiar throbbing sensation overwhelms my senses.

I roll my wrist, squeezing the sensitive head. Kate’s panties are coated in my pre-cum, catching on the deep ridge and forcing yet another primitive grunt that has me burying my face into her pillow. Heat unfurls from my groin with the hard, fast fuck of my hand, until my muffled cry bounces around inside my skull and I spill hot ropes of cum across my bare stomach.

Entire body trembling, I loosen my hold on my cock and roll away from the pillow to catch my breath. Kate’s underwear swipes up my stomach, half-assedly cleaning the cum threaded through the thick trail of hair running from my belly button down to my dick, which is still twitching and bobbing.

I don’t remember losing my virginity, or being intimate with Kate, or even how many women I’ve slept with, period. It’s all foreign and yet I can picture her so fucking clearly I’m left wondering if the vision of Kate riding me, eyes clouded with lust and moans giving life to an empty room, is a memory I’ve somehow recollected.

I’m still clutching Kate’s pair of now-dirty underwear and honestly considering snooping through her drawer to see if she has more pairs like these. Something to aid in my future jerk-off sessions, because now that I’ve thought about her this way, I’m not sure it’s an image I’ll ever shake.

The air smells salty and sweaty, and I’m in need of a second shower to properly clean the sticky mess from my stomach. I slowly shuffle to the edge of the bed and toss Kate’s underwear into the nearby laundry hamper. Fingers rake through still-damp hair, and I take concentrated breaths until my heart beats steady and slow. My head hurts, but it’s a good kind of ache, like I’ve worked a muscle for the first time in a long time.

Also, good news: my dick works fine.

Kate

Outside, a spring storm whistles across the dead grass and pelts the house’s metal roof with thick curtains of rain. Naturally, the men are working regardless of the storm, because ranch work doesn’t stop even when Mother Nature is doing everything in her power to kibosh it.

I stare out the large kitchen windows at the porch swing twisting and rocking with sporadic wind gusts that swirl around in the covered porch, pattering delicate raindrops on the glass panes. So many things changed after Odessa’s birthday last week—good and bad. Good: I’m going to curl up beside my husband and sleep tonight, then hopefully wake up with his hands on me like I have every morning since he asked me to move back into the bedroom. Bad: I’m not entirely convinced by his insistence that talking about how much easier things would be if he was gone was nothing more than talk.

But right now, down the hall and behind the closed door of our bedroom, he has my laptop propped up on two stacks of books at the foot of the bed. He’s meeting with a therapist for the third time this week and, just as during his other appointments, there’s a thrum at the base of my brain when I think about it. Not panic. Not dread. More like…a heightened awareness, as if I’m waiting to hear a tree fall somewhere deep in the woods.

Which is why I’m aimlessly stirring a giant soup pot filled with chili, dragging my wooden spoon along the bottom of the pot, and staring at the jittery wood swing. The chili doesn’t need to be stirred, per se, because it’s been at a low simmer for the better part of the day, with Beryl watching it like a hawk. She knows I need a distraction, but when I nearly chopped my finger off after she tasked me with dicing onions, she decided this was a safer activity.

It’s for the best, anyway. If I started crying over onions, I’m afraid the tears would quickly become about something else, and they might never stop.

So Beryl’s seated on a counter stool, casually chopping onions on a chunk of butcher block. The best part about the men being gone overnight is that the wives get to enjoy some much-needed girl time. Apparently when the boys were young, the ranch housed a couple families—including Red’s—but by the time I came into the picture, this entire place was overrun with masculine energy. Sure, the occasional woman would come around until they realized dating a man who’s as committed to the ranch as these guys are wasn’t all they thought it would be.

But now we have a girl gang of sorts. Outside of Jackson and our kids, these girls are the best thing to ever happen to me.