09 Erotic Story: The Night They Started Again Slowly

For weeks, Sara and Tom had been too tired at the same time, or awake at different times, or already halfway through tomorrow before they had finished today. Then one night they tried to change that, and somehow made it worse. What should have felt familiar became awkward, hurried and quiet. Neither of them said much afterwards.

[No promises tonight]

Three nights later, Sara was in bed first.

She had a book open but had read the same paragraph four times. Tom was in the bathroom brushing his teeth. She could hear the tap running, the cupboard closing, all the ordinary sounds of a marriage that had lasted long enough for silence to become either comfortable or dangerous.

The other night had stayed with her. Not because nothing had happened the way they wanted. It was the moment afterwards, when she had turned onto her side and said, "I'm just tired," and Tom had said, "Me too," as if tiredness explained everything.

Tom got into bed beside her and reached for his phone.

Sara closed the book.

"Can we talk about the other night?"

His hand stopped.

For a second, Tom considered saying, What about it? It would have been easy. They had both become very good at easy answers.

Instead he put the phone face down.

"Yeah."

"I think I made it worse by trying to make it work."

Tom let out a breath. "I thought I did."

"You did a bit."

He laughed once, quietly. "Fair."

That helped.

He shifted onto his side. "I kept thinking you wanted me to keep going."

"I kept thinking you wanted me to want you to."

"I did want you."

"I know." She paused. "I wanted you too. My body just wasn't where my head was yet."

There it was. Not dramatic. Just true.

Tom reached across the space between them and rested his hand near hers.

"So what do we do?"

"Nothing."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Nothing has to happen," she said. "No goal. No trying to rescue the evening. We can just lie here."

"And touch?"

"If we want."

"And if we don't?"

"Then we sleep."

Tom nodded. "Okay."

For the first ten minutes, they barely moved.

Sara lay on her back while Tom traced the inside of her wrist with one finger. His fingertip moved over her palm, then back again. No grabbing. No question hidden inside it.

She turned her hand over and laced two fingers through his.

Tom felt something in his chest loosen. He had spent the last few days replaying the other night like a mistake he should know how to fix. He had forgotten that Sara was not a problem to solve.

He moved closer.

"Still okay?"

"Yes."

She touched his face. Her thumb ran over the roughness along his jaw, then into his hair. He closed his eyes.

She kissed him first.

It was not a hungry kiss. Their mouths met softly, separated, met again. Tom's hand settled at her waist. Sara felt the warmth of his palm through her T-shirt and let herself stay with that sensation instead of wondering where it was leading.

When his hand moved under the fabric, it did so slowly.

Her skin tightened beneath his fingertips.

"Cold hands," she whispered.

"Sorry."

"Don't be."

She pulled him closer.

The room was dark except for the small lamp on Tom's side. Sara could smell toothpaste on his breath and laundry detergent on the pillowcase.

Ordinary things. Maybe that was why it felt safe.

She ran her hand beneath his shirt, over his back, and felt him inhale. He kissed her neck. Then her shoulder. When his mouth returned to hers, the kiss had changed.

Not faster. Deeper.

Tom felt her thigh slide against his. His body answered, but he noticed without treating it like an instruction.

Sara noticed too.

She smiled against his mouth. "Hi."

He laughed softly. "Hi."

For a while, that was enough.

Then Sara reached toward the bedside table and opened the drawer.

Tom watched her take out the small bottle of water-based lubricant they had used before. No flourish. She simply set it beside the lamp.

"The other night," she said, "I think we should have used this sooner."

"Probably."

"I didn't say anything because I thought stopping would make it awkward."

Tom looked at her. "It was already awkward."

"Exactly."

They both laughed.

Sara pumped a little into her palm. The practical little sound of the bottle should have broken the mood. Instead it made the moment easier. There was relief in not pretending their bodies always arrived ready at exactly the same time.

Tom kissed her while she guided his hand.

"Like this," she murmured.

He followed.

She corrected him once. Then again.

Neither correction felt like failure.

By the time she pulled him closer, there was no question in her body anymore. Tom paused anyway, forehead against hers.

"Do you want to?"

"Yes."

"Sure?"

She kissed him. "Yes, Tom."

They moved together slowly.

There was no urgency to prove the night had turned around. No race toward anything. When they stopped, they stopped. When Sara wanted him closer, she said so. When Tom needed to slow down, he did.

At one point they both started laughing because the duvet had twisted around his ankle.

That might have been Sara's favourite part.

Not the sex itself, though that was good. It was the fact that nothing had been performed.

Afterwards, Tom lay on his back with Sara tucked against his shoulder. The small bottle was still on the bedside table beside two forgotten glasses of water.

"We should have talked sooner," he said.

"Yes."

"I hated that you thought I was disappointed."

"I hated that you thought you had to fix it."

He kissed the top of her head.

"We're very clever people."

"Debatable."

In the morning, nothing would be magically solved. They would still be tired. There would still be tired evenings when one of them wanted what the other could not give.

But tonight neither of them had pretended.

And somehow, that had brought them closer than pretending everything was fine ever could.

Slow had not been the compromise. Slow had been the answer.