Confessions of a Kinky Wife

I reverted to my normal techniques and came, tearfully and breathlessly, on the carpet, my cheek pressed into the scratchy pile.

I felt groggy for a long time, overheated and sticky in my clothes. Eventually I dragged myself into the shower and began to think about covering my tracks.

If Dan came home to find the book out on the coffee table …

Not that I was going to be able to keep my secret perusal under wraps for long. After all, I’d crossed out a whole chapter. Presumably he would notice. Or perhaps he hadn’t read that far and he would think the author had done it … Hmm. But I mustn’t lie or look for ways to wriggle out of trouble. That wasn’t what all this was about.

I’d defaced his book and I’d have to own up to it.

And he couldn’t do anything advanced yet, surely. No running before we could walk.

All the same, I took care to replace it in the box file and stack it carefully on the shelf, only making it into the kitchen to think about supper when I heard his key in the lock.

It was both of our customs, when we were the last one home, to try and establish what might be cooking by sniffing the air.

Dan was no different, peering around the kitchen wall to try and work out what he would be eating later.

‘Running late,’ I said apologetically, a saucepan in each hand.

I put up my face to be kissed.

‘Busy day?’ he asked, stepping back once the greeting was performed.

‘Well, not busy, as such, but … distracting. Spaghetti carbonara? OK?’

‘Sure.’ He flicked his eyes, quickly but unmistakably, towards the top of the bookshelf. ‘So, what was so distracting?’ He put his arms around my waist and whispered into my ear. ‘Not got a secret lover, have you? You don’t usually shower in the evening.’ He took a big lungful of the citrus-scented shampoo in my hair.

‘I do if I’ve been outside with the crew all afternoon, doing basketball hoops.’

It was only half a lie. I had, in fact, been doing that.

‘Right.’ He chuckled and turned away. ‘Yeah, carbonara. Got any garlic bread?’

He wandered out into the living room area and flicked on the TV.

I wondered when he would find the book with the scribbled-out chapter.

Tonight?

Tomorrow?

Next week?

I put the pasta on to boil, threw the bacon into the pan.

I had to bring the subject up, or I would be pussy-footing around it all night.

‘So, how’s it going with the new book? Any important insights?’ I poked my head around the kitchen units, mock-casual.

As I did so, he dropped on to the sofa a long, thin paper package he’d been holding.

‘What’s that?’

He coughed. ‘Just, um, nothing. Why are you asking me about the book? Guilty conscience?’

I left the cooking to itself and headed to the sofa, wanting a closer look at the mystery shopping.

‘Oh, y’know, curious,’ I mumbled, peering over the sofa back. The bag was plain brown paper, the top sellotaped over. Whatever was inside was long and very thin. ‘Did you go shopping after work?’