Something New by Janis Thomas Read Free Book Online Page B

and insists that she needs a glass of milk to help her sleep. I shake my head again and jab a finger at the stairs. Reluctantly, she and Matthew trudge to the second floor, where they and their older brother hurry through their nightly ablutions while I supervise.
    When at last all three are safely ensconced in their beds, I drag myself to the master bathroom to shower. I crank the water to hot and step beneath the spray, then stand unmoving for a full minute, allowing the hot stream to wash the profusion of sweat from my body. I reach for the soap and begin to lather myself, moving my hands over this body that has been mine, for better and for worse, for the past forty-two years.
    I have always had a little extra meat on my bones. Frankly, after the births of each of my kids, a little extra meat turned into a couple of porterhouse steaks. But I do have occasional moments of appreciation for what nature has given me. I may never have been rail thin, but I have always been strong and healthy. I don’t get winded easily, I have never been struck with serious illness, and I never need to ask my husband to lift heavy items. (Although I often do ask for his help in order to stroke his inner caveman.)
    Perhaps it is my imagination, or just wishful thinking, but as I run the soap across my torso, I can feel the definition of my rib cage more clearly than I did a few days ago. And my stomach seems to be a little less shelflike in its protuberance. I am secretly pleased, although I know I still have a long way to go to reach my goal, which is to fit into my wedding dress (I have no idea where the damn thing is, probably stuffed in a bag, tucked away in the attic next to my unfinished novel). But it’s a start, and I resolve to complete three miles on the treadmill tomorrow and promise myself that ne’er another Pop-Tart shall cross my lips.
    I feel a cool waft of air swirl through the bathroom, and a moment later, the shower door slides open. Jonah stands on the other side of the stall, naked as the day he was born, smiling at me.
    “Showering at night?” he asks slyly. “Want some company?”
    He might as well have asked if I want to get laid. I can tell by the low, lascivious tone of his voice, his nakedness, and the fact that the head of his penis is pointing directly at me.
    “Always,” I say. Although, in truth, sex in the shower is not one of my favorite pastimes. Unless your partner is six-five and can support all of your weight during the act, the sheer logistics are next to impossible to work out. And forgetabout oral, unless you have an affinity for drowning. But, in the interests of pretending to be spontaneous and carefree, I take his hand and lead him under the hot spray.
    He immediately palms my breast, a move I anticipate since it is always his first. His thumb slides over my areola, and I am surprised by the sudden heat that courses through me. This is the man I have been making love to for the past fourteen years, without exception, and it is difficult to believe that such a small, overused action can still arouse me. His hand slides down to my waist, coming to rest for just a moment on the spot where my torso begins to curve outward toward my hips. Then it continues its journey, around my hips and down to the top of my ass. Jonah grasps my left cheek and pulls me into him. I can feel his penis against my belly, hard and ready and twitching impatiently.
    Sex with Jonah has always been satisfying. We met in our late twenties, so our coupling was never the animalistic, firework-inspiring romp that postpubescents boast about and that I myself have never had the occasion to experience. But from the beginning, he and I fit together well, physically and emotionally. He is not selfish but is concerned with my pleasure. No matter how turned on he is, or how close to the brink he gets, he dutifully holds himself back until I have climaxed before he allows himself to come, shuddering spasmodically and making that low,