When the married couple fucked, a rarity by design, their passion seemed immeasurable, and there wasn’t a single sex act they did the same way twice. They had found, if they treated sex as a luxury, and not as a daily meal, they both appreciated it tenfold. The pair had no problem going to bed aroused and resisting certain urges each and every night, because they knew what they were gaining by doing so.
Tom’s denim jeans came off next, then his socks. He crawled into their bed in nothing but his boxers and let the day’s stress that his body had endured, sink into the cool mattress. Callie, wearing a light blue nightdress that cupped her breasts, held her waist and dangled its jiggly silk flounce off her ass–washing the fabric over her creamy thighs like velvet waves–exited the bathroom, lowered her hair to her shoulders and slid in next to Tom. She reached for her nightstand while Tom watched her body bend so elegantly, seductively; she clicked off the lights and as Tom closed his eyes, he reached down between his legs and gripped his massive hard-on. He gave it a squeeze, wanting so badly, in this moment, to ejaculate all over his pretty wife’s delicate, needful face.
***
When the hallway light outside Tom and Callie’s bedroom door clicked on, Tom’s eyes opened. He looked at the clock next to the bed: 12:02 a.m., then heard a creak in one of the floorboards. His fingers slid over the grip of his forty-five that he kept in the drawer of his bedside table.
“Grace?” he called, waiting to see if the next footstep was heavy or light, the boot of a man or the barefoot of his girl.
He let go of the grip when Gretchen’s pretty eyes and half smile flashed at him from the doorway.
“Sorry if I woke you,” she said and stepped into the room.
He shook his head and exhaled a quick relief-filled breath. “It’s alright. What’s going on? You okay?”
She stepped into the room and Tom got his first look at her pjs: short cotton shorts and a tight little t-shirt. As usual, she wasn’t wearing a bra, her legs were visibly smooth and, in this moment, he wished to God his wife was anywhere else in the whole world.
Gretchen pressed her legs together, fidgeting her fingers, clearly unsure of how to proceed. “I had a dream,” she said as she closed the bedroom door nearly to the jamb, cutting off about ninety-percent of the light from the hallway. She moved to the bed and carefully sat on the mattress next to Tom.
“Was it a bad dream?” he asked, looking into her gorgeous green eyes. “A nightmare?”
Gretchen shyly eyed Mister Leary; he saw there was something in her gaze, a concern or, maybe a worry. The seasoned firefighter was great at reading a room … a situation, but apparently not so great at reading eighteen-year-old girls. She shook her head. “It was a good dream. It was about you.” She bit her lower lip, just enough to make Tom’s dick jump.
She scooted closer to him.
Her fingers held his hand and guided it to her lap. Tom watched her spread her legs a bit, then she leaned back and slipped his hand down into her shorts. His fingertips traced over smooth skin, a soft patch of hair, warm lips and when she pushed him down deeper … wet flesh. She inhaled deeply as she continued to guide his movements: slow motions, opening up her folds of soaked skin, gliding up and around to her swollen clitoris with each pass.