David watched Anita from the dressing mirror as she lay on the bed, her silk nightdress draped lazily on her smooth, glossy skin. With every subtle movement she made, the fabric shifted, exposing more skin.
She wasn't seducing him, not drawing his attention, David knew. Still, he couldn't help the bulge forming in his crotch - he has been hypersensitive and desperate to enter his wife these days, that everything she did – every batting of her eyelid, every purse of her lips, every fucking thing she did, turned him on.
Before, she would have sauntered over to get him dressed – buttoning his shirt, adjusting his tie, stealing kisses between movements, and even playfully massaging his groin. But now, she just lay there – not angry, not sad. Just… watching him.
It wasn't a suspicious, angry, or hateful look. No. But the kind of gaze that saw you, yet looked right through you.
David swallowed, his fingers trembling from holding himself back from pouncing on her.
