Mark watched his wife across the small expanse of their living room. Five years. Five years married, seven together. Comfortable. That was the word for it, wasn't it? Comfortable like old jeans, familiar like the worn spot on the sofa cushion where he always sat. Comfortable, and maybe, just maybe, starting to fray around the edges.
Sarah was curled on the armchair, bathed in the blue-white glow of her phone screen, thumb flicking rhythmically. She wasn't wearing much – just one of his old t-shirts that barely covered the curve of her ass, and a pair of soft cotton shorts that rode high on her thighs. Thick thighs. Mark loved her thighs. Loved the way they felt wrapped around his waist, the soft weight of them, the power hinted beneath smooth skin. He let his gaze linger there, tracing the line from her knee up to where the shorts disappeared. His cock gave a faint stir behind the zipper of his jeans. Predictable.
He dragged his eyes higher. Her dark hair was messy, piled loosely on top of her head, tendrils escaping to frame her face. Even distracted by whatever held her attention on the phone, there was something captivating about her profile. The slope of her nose, the soft bow of her upper lip. He knew the taste of that lip, the feel of it against his own. But lately, it felt...routine. The kisses, the sex, everything.
He shifted his weight on the sofa, the worn cushion groaning faintly. Sarah glanced up, a flicker of acknowledgment in her eyes before they returned to the screen. Was that boredom he saw there? Or just tiredness? Maybe he was projecting. He did that a lot lately. Saw his own simmering restlessness reflected in her quiet moments.
His gaze drifted down again, this time snagging on the soft swell of her breasts beneath the thin cotton of the t-shirt. Full breasts, heavy. He loved the weight of them in his hands, the way her nipples pebbled hard when he paid them attention. He remembered seeing her try on a new bra last month, the lace
