Janice Sims - Valentine's Fantasy

“Easy. Easy,” she coached, wanting him to slow down and enjoy the ride. Instead, her husband skipped foreplay and went straight for the main attraction.

He entered with one mighty thrust and nearly split her in two.

What the hell?

Chanté gripped his bulging biceps and tried to hold on during the ride. However, she was nearly rendered senseless several times as her head was rammed into the headboard. Meanwhile, Buddy continued to bark his head off. This was like nothing she’d ever experienced before.

“Shh, Buddy. Shh, Buddy,” Matthew hissed in between his “Oh, Gods.” His hips hammered away while his eyes damn near rolled to the back of his head.

Chanté watched in resolute boredom until Matthew stiffened with one last thrust, and then collapsed in a sweaty heap.

Is that it?

“Oh, baby. I missed you so much.” Matthew panted and peppered sloppy kisses across her face and eyes.

“Uhm.” She searched for the right words. “Matt?”

“Hmm?”

“I, uh, didn’t...well, you know.”

Matt lifted his head and stared down at her. “You didn’t?”

Chanté shook her head. Not even close.

“I, uh, I’m so—well, I guess, I did get a little carried away. It being a while and all.” He absently wiped the sweat from his brow.

She nodded in feigned understanding. “That’s all right. You can try again.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He smiled and wiggled his hips.

To Chanté’s dismay, she noted Matt Jr. wasn’t exactly standing at full salute.

“Just give me a minute to...catch my breath,” Matthew panted.

Chanté’s brows furrowed, but she had no choice but to bob her head in agreement and wait for her husband to catch his second wind.

Two minutes later, Matthew was fast asleep.

* * *

At breakfast the next morning, Seth decided it was time he dusted off his culinary skills to make his wife breakfast in bed. Unfortunately, his specialty was cold cereal.

“Oh, honey.” Edie smiled brightly when he appeared at their bedroom doorway with her breakfast tray in hand. “You shouldn’t have.”

Seth beamed proudly as if he’d prepared a five-course meal. “My baby deserves the best.”

“Special K, huh?”

“Special K with strawberries.”

“Then bring it on!” Edie set aside the pamphlets in her lap and punched up her pillows before her husband delivered her meal.

“What are these?” he asked, picking up one of the pamphlets.

“Some brochures I picked up yesterday before my talk with Chanté.”

Seth frowned as he opened one and then another. “Sex therapy? I thought the idea was to get them to see a real counselor?”

“They’re real.” Edie snatched one of the brochures back. “I’ve heard some great things about these places.”

“Where? On one of those women’s talk shows?”

Edie poked out her bottom lip as she shrugged her shoulders. “What if I did? A reference is a reference.”

“Okay, this job just went from difficult to impossible.” Seth laughed. “Sex isn’t the problem. Their ability to stay away from sharp objects is.”

“Are you sure about that?” she asked, scooping out her first spoonful of cereal.

“No,” he acquiesced. “It’s not the sort of thing we talk about.”

“Well, what do you talk about?”

“His lack of sex. Five months and counting.” Seth shook his head with great sympathy. “I don’t care what anyone says, that’s cruel and unusual punishment. No wonder he’s demolishing cars.”

“I hear you.” She chomped away for a moment while her gaze returned to the pamphlets.

“Actually, I really think I’m on to something here. Last week when Chanté stormed over here about the Letterman incident, she said that Matthew used to be great in bed.”

“What the hell? Do you two give each other blow-by-blow recaps?”

“Don’t worry, sweetie. You’re still a ten in my book.”

Seth straightened his shoulders as his chest swelled from the compliment. “Ten is easy when I have an eleven in my arms.”

For that, he was rewarded with a kiss.

“So you think this sex therapy will work?”

“It certainly can’t hurt.”

“Not unless there’s a chainsaw on the premises.”

Edie chuckled.

“Any idea how we’re going to get them to one of these places?” Seth asked.

“Yes. We lie.”

Chapter 8

Chanté was beyond pissed.

No car. No foreplay. No orgasm. Enough was enough.

She slammed the kitchen cabinets as she made coffee, took her morning pills, and slaved over the hot stove. Every time she thought about last night’s lousy performance, she broke a glass, a cup or a dish. How and when did Matt become so selfish and so clueless in bed?

Not only had he fallen asleep, he snored loud enough to wake the dead.

Crash!

Another plate bit the dust.

“Good morning.”

Chanté’s gaze snapped to her husband as he entered the kitchen, and for a brief moment she weighed the consequences of smashing his head in with a frying pan.

The temptation nearly won out—especially since the bastard had the audacity to be in a cheerful mood.

“What smells so good?” he asked, with a beaming smile.

“Breakfast,” she answered with an overdose of saccharine. “Hungry?”

Suspicion glimmered in Matt’s eyes. “You’re cooking me breakfast?”

“It’s not unusual for a wife to cook for her husband.”

Matthew’s brows shot up.

“Why don’t you just take a seat at the table? The food will be right out.”

Matt didn’t move. Instead, he studied the angles of her plastic smile. “Uh...about last night,” he began. “Did we...you didn’t come to my room last night, did you?”

The jerk doesn’t even remember! Chanté crossed her arms and weighed her options. “Only in your dreams,” she lied bitterly.

“Oh, I didn’t think so.” He shook his head and gave an awkward laugh. “I knew I had a few too many.”

Chanté glared and contemplated the frying pan again. “Breakfast will be out in a minute.”

He hesitated again.

“Go on now. I’ll be out there in a second.”

Finally, he gave her a slight nod and then turned in the direction of the dining room.

I’ll fix you breakfast all right. One you’ll never forget.

* * *

Matt knew he was in trouble. Why on earth would Chanté fix him breakfast after what Buddy did to her room? The way he saw it, he still had options. He could either run from the house screaming like a banshee, put in a precall to 9-1-1, or drop to his knees and beg for mercy.

The first option had potential.

“Breakfast is ready,” Chanté sang, carrying plates to the table.

Too late. Matthew swallowed a lump in his throat while his brain threatened to short-circuit with trying to come up with an excuse to miss breakfast.

“Uh, Chanté.” He followed his wife to the table.

“Yes, dear?”

Dear? “You know, I’m not all that hungry,” he said with a nervous smile. However, the sight of fluffy scrambled eggs, crisp bacon and golden-brown biscuits made his stomach roar at the lie.

Chanté lifted an inquisitive brow.

“Maybe I am a little hungry.”

Chanté smiled and pulled out a chair. “Sit.”

Matt hesitated. His fear accelerated at the sight of her lips sliding wider.

“Come on.” She patted the back of the chair. “You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

How could he back down from a challenge like that? “Of course not.” He walked over to her, searched her eyes for any telltale signs and then slowly eased into the offered chair.

“There. See?” She patted his shoulders. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

The corner of Matthew’s lips quivered and then he glanced down at the meal before him. Everything looked good—perhaps too good.