Disclaimer: Desperate Housewives absolutely is not mine, nor do I make any claim to it.
Story Summary: They've been having weekly phone calls for awhile now…
Quicksand
A story by Ryeloza
"What are you wearing?"
She is the middle of folding laundry when he asks this. Sitting cross-legged on the bed with a basket of clothes in front of her. It's become habit, having something to occupy her hands when they have these phone dates. The menial work seems to calm her, to keep her nerves from completely unraveling (because the truth is that she's been so anxious about everything lately that her stomach is perpetually in knots). It's casual—almost like she can pretend it's not so long ago, back when everything was fine. Back when he would be calling just because he was away on business and he missed her, and she'd be in the middle of getting things done around the house and their lives were normal.
Of course, he's just teasing her. Teasing her in a way that's so sickeningly familiar that she doesn't know how to respond to it under these new circumstances, and all she can manage is this tight, nervous laughter that bubbles out of her and pops dully in the air. It's so forced that immediately the tension between them thickens, both of them lost in the mystery of being so utterly uncomfortable with one another, so unable to walk the line they've created in their marriage.
Together but separated.
Hurt but longing.
Familiar but lost.
So lost.
He clears his throat, and she can practically feel the awkward attempt to change the subject vibrating through the air toward her. Or, even worse, maybe he's about to apologize. That thought trips so haphazardly into her mind that she doesn't even think before she interjects. "One of your old t-shirts."
One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine-ten-eleven… She's counting so fast the numbers blur together, and still the pause that follows seems infinitely long. Yet the sting of rejection would still be much easier to take than her fear that he might actually try to apologize for (maybe) flirting with her. There have been nights when he's given her the cold shoulder, but he's never, never, never thought twice about trying to charm her.
She doesn't want to give him the chance to change that.
"Are—Are you serious?"
She lets out a breath she didn't realize she was holding. He sounds different now, like the veneer of humor has faded and left behind only the uncertainty and anxiety and secret longing that she's sure are mirrored in her own tone. "Yeah," she says, glancing down at herself as though to reaffirm that fact. It feels like giving him an advantage, though, and she adds (with a guilty glance at her freshly laundered clothes), "No clean pajamas."
He doesn't need to know that for the better part of the summer, she's been wrapped up in the only part of him she can physically cling to.
"You…" His voice cracks, and she drops the shirt she's still holding back into the basket. "You really shouldn't…start…this."
"Start what?" As innocent and coy as that should sound coming from her (as it has on so many other occasions), tonight it is all trepidation. She suddenly feels on edge. Every nerve ending in her body tingles; her heart is pounding against her chest. She's like a teenager again, playing this innocuously dangerous game for the first time, only now it's amplified a thousand times because she's not just some silly girl. She's a woman who hasn't felt her husband's hands on her body in over two months, not even just to hold her as the world burns down around her.
She slides back on the bed and lies down. There's no use pretending either of them is going to back down at this point. They are still them, deep down. And she's coiled so tightly that her body already aches for release, her fingers sliding down over her breasts, stomach, hip to the place where she's already throbbing. "I'm touching myself," she says, and she's proud of the façade of control she manages to project this time. He won't, she thinks, be able to tell that it's all an act.
"Fuck." The word is relief as it hums through the phone. "Oh, fuck, we're really going to do this."
They're really going to do this.
"Are you hard already?" She slips her hand beneath her panties, curving her fingers and just barely twisting them up inside of her, palm pressing against her clit. It's beautifully sad how close she is—not that this moment could be anything else.
"Yeah. God, I've been hard since you told me you just got out of the shower."
She giggles—can't remember the last time she's done that—but it's almost ridiculous. "That was twenty minutes ago."
"Yeah, well, then I wouldn't expect this to last long…"
"No." She presses her fingers further inside of her and gasps a little. "It's been too long, and I am so fucking horny."
"Jesus…"
"My panties are already completely soaked through."
"Oh God, beautiful—your voice…"
And just like that a lump forms in the back of her throat making it impossible for her to speak because she can't remember the last time he called her any pet name, let alone that special one that only he has ever used. Suddenly everything about this—his voice and the excitement and the wanton feeling of desire for the first time in too long—it isn't enough. She wants him here, in her arms, in their bed, and how could she not have seen this coming?
"Lynette?"
She tries to speak, but her voice is strangled on the sob stuck in her throat. Fortunately, he can't tell; he groans at the sound, probably thinking she's coming unhinged (she is, but not in the way he thinks), and says, "I am so close, baby. Are you close?"
She's can't tell him the truth and she can't let him know she's about to cry and she can't even breathe. She grinds her palm against her clit and moans, shutting her eyes as the tears leak out unbidden. "Yes," she gasps, swallowing several times as she tries to calm her nerves; it's an impossible situation. "Talk to me."
"I dreamt about you the other night." His voice is hoarse, shaky in that way it always is before he comes, and her back arches as the sound of it washes over her. She begins to move her fingers faster, still so desperate for that release that she can't stand it. "We were on my old boat, and we couldn't keep our hands off of each other. I woke up so hard, like I am now, and God, babe, I was thinking of you while I jerked off. Thinking of your lips and your tongue and that look on your face when I'm inside of you."
Her fingers move frantically now, pressure building inside of her, and it's all too much. She gasps as she comes, breath hitching, and the sound seems to drive Tom over the edge. She hears him breathing heavily, grunting, and she knows he's wracked with pleasure.
It's so unsatisfying. It's nowhere near enough.
He laughs shakily as she feels her breakdown building; her face contorts visibly as she tries to hold back the sobs until he hangs up because she can't let him know how much she needs him right now. Not when they're taking so many steps forward; not when they've just had their most intimate moment in months. Tom whispers compliments in her ear that she barely hears, and in between silent sobs, she finds the strength to end this.
"I have to go," she says, and she knows it's too abrupt. She tries to explain, can only manage: "Early meeting."
"Oh…Sure. I…Yeah."
"Goodnight."
She's not sure if she even gives him time to return the farewell as she clicks off the phone and tosses it aside. She just breaks, completely, curling into a ball and crying herself to sleep.
A/n: This was originally intended to be a chapter of "The Sun Sets Gray…", but I honestly don't know if I'm ever going to finish that fic (which, to anyone reading that, I do apologize. I know I always hate it when writers just abandon a fic halfway through). If I ever do finish it up, I can just rework this scene to fit back in, but since I have had a decent chunk of it written for awhile and I really like this one, I figured I'd post it as a one-shot.
Thank you to everyone who has reviewed my work (especially in recent weeks). Your support means the world to me. I truly couldn't ask for more wonderful readers.
-Ryeloza