Behind His Back Read Online Free PDF

to shift gears and take control. I grind harder and faster, squealing with physical elation and mental frustration, and when I realize he’s in no mood to take charge, I take matters into my own hands and climb off. I lie on my back beside him and spread my legs.
    “Fuck me,” I say.
    He stares at me like I asked for directions in a foreign tongue.
    “Let’s take it upstairs,” he finally says. Either he wants more room to maneuver, or he just wants to lie down.
    “Fine,” I say. I take his weakly pulsing cock into my hand and guide him up the staircase, giving him a show of my hard little ass. If he likes what he sees, I might even let him fuck it—a thought I’ve never entertained before.
    Clearly the view doesn’t do it for him, because he’s softer by the time we reach the bedroom. To rectify his receding hard-on, I sit on the edge of our bed and pull him toward me. I take his cock in my mouth and pump away with my head as he drops his pants and unbuttons his dress shirt. I break the suction, stretching strings of saliva between my lips and his cock, and lie back on the bed.
    “Why don’t you climb up here and fuck my mouth?” I say.
    “Faith, this isn’t really—look, let’s just do this like normal people, okay?”
    Like normal people? What does that even mean? Like Ross and Rachel from Friends ? Like a couple of robots going through the motions? Am I some kind of demented slut for wanting the man I married to be a little rough with me?
    “Whatever. Just do what you want,” I say.
    He clumsily kicks his pants away from his feet and climbs aboard the S.S. Unsatisfied for a sterile bout of unfulfilling missionary sex. Despite my efforts to wrap my legs around him and quicken his thrusts or pull him deeper by digging my heels into his lower back, he maintains a plodding pace. After a few minutes of mindless pumping, I resort to watching my own tits bounce out of boredom. If he were fucking me harder, I’d find that imagery hot. But with David setting the speed, it’s like watching a pair of sea sponges sway in a tropical current. If I weren’t so frustrated, I might fall asleep.
    After I’ve given up and my eyes have started to glaze over, David cums in three short bursts that, based on his muffled moans, give him the same amount of pleasure as a soggy microwaved pizza. I’ve made more of a ruckus trying to squeeze my quads into skinny jeans. We exchange looks of relief—partly because he finished and partly because the ordeal is over—and he slumps off of me to lie next to my body and breathe heavily like he just finished a workout at Rev.
    “That was nice,” I say.
    “Yeah,” he says, still huffing.
    I head to the bathroom to clean up, and when I return to bed he’s beneath the duvet, sleeping silently with his mouth half open.
    At least he tried. I suddenly feel guilty for forcing my libido on him after his gruelling flight. I run my fingers through his thick hair, telling him telepathically that he’s going to lose it if he keeps letting himself get so stressed out.
    My mind churns as I crawl into bed beside him, and I start wondering whether the sexual pressure I’m putting on him is causing his stress—and whether that same stress is killing his cravings. What’s worse, though, is that it might not stress him out at all. Maybe he’s just one of those people who’s perfectly fine living without sex.
    The thought terrifies me. Because I don’t think I could ever feel that way.

Chapter 3
    I look up at Nicole in my office doorway, and she pretends to blow her brains out with her hand. She’s smiling as she does it. I look back down at the Matrix’s greasy, dandruff-speckled hair, and he doesn’t notice a thing. He’s sitting at my desk, fidgeting with my iMac. I’m behind him, leaning against the windowsill. Beside me are two Tupperware containers—one with four hard-boiled eggs, another with a handful of almonds—and a black Venti Starbucks coffee.
    Between sips, I’m