Even though I knew Chris would probably wouldn’t be very interested in eating dinner, I’d made garlic bread. Garlic breath be damned. A salad was already put together and in the fridge, waiting to be dressed. I wasn’t wearing the green sweater dress Chris requested. Instead I wore a washed-out black fitted tee and a pair of jeans I’d had since college. They were faded, soft, and ripped across one knee and under my left butt cheek. The jeans followed every curve of my hips and ass and were incredibly comfortable. I had a bottle of red wine open and breathing on the counter and I was tempted to pour myself a glass to drink while I waited for Chris. Now that we’d had sex and I knew the devastation he could wreak on my body, my nerves were stretched taut at the thought of seeing him again. I jumped when he knocked at the door. I knew it was him by the three short, authoritative raps, as efficient and in control as the rest of him. I went to the door and put my eye to the peephole.
