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The first Monday in November dawns wet and cold. Aleksander, with an 8 AM class to teach, wakes long before the sun is even a bleak suggestion on the horizon. As he always does on such days, he reaches for the outfit he set out the night before, dressing in the dark so as not to wake his wife. Gray slacks, navy button-down. No need for a sweater; his classroom is always too warm this time of year. His rain slicker, along with his shoes, wait downstairs by the door.
Alina is still asleep by the time he’s fully dressed, which brings a fond smile to his face. She’s laid out the same as always—beached on her stomach, face pressed into a pillow long since worn flat, dark hair completely obscuring her face. It’s grown past her shoulders recently, he notices with private appreciation. He hopes she won’t cut it as she usually does; he likes it best long, when the ends of those dark strands just start to cover the tips of her breasts. He blows a silent kiss in her direction before slipping down the stairs on socked feet.
His messenger bag is where he left it the night before, on the chair at the kitchen island. He starts the coffee before riffling through to confirm he has all of his class’s papers ready to hand back. He makes a couple eggs, scrambled with a bit of cheese, and sits by the window with his coffee to eat and watch the rain. By the slight illumination of the back-porch light, he can see the yard is waterlogged already. He’ll need galoshes just to make it to the car.
After draining the last of his coffee, he loads his breakfast things into the dishwasher. He leaves the pan out, knowing how his wife likes to make herself an omelet on leisurely Mondays.
At the door, he suits up in his rain gear, grabbing an umbrella to protect his leather bag. It’s a handsome thing: stitched by hand in Italy, an anniversary gift from Alina. Far too pretty to use, he’d sighed wistfully when she’d gifted it to him, after which he’d had to face her scandalized lecture that there was no point in having beautiful things if they weren’t going to be put to use. It isn’t for display, Aleksander, she’d chided him, and so he has dutifully taken it to work every single day since. Still, he’s careful to never get it wet or to set it down on dirty surfaces. Three years with the bag, and the only stains are his own foolish doing—uncapped pens loose in the interior, a bit of spilled coffee on one edge.
He never mentions that the gift he gave her the same year—a set of very nice pearl earrings she’d stared at longingly during their vacation in Maine months before—are kept under virtual lock and key in her jewelry box and rarely ever worn. Jewelry is different, Aleksander, she’d say loftily if he dared bring it up, and he supposes she’d be right. But he still catches her some nights in the bathroom, stroking the cool, soft surface of the pearls with a smile on her face. He needs to come up with an occasion for her to wear them. Some kind of event, maybe another trip out of state. Their town is too small, the restaurants too casual, to warrant wearing pearls on a regular date night. Something else, then…
By the time he reaches the university, he hasn’t come up with an answer, but that’s all right. The roads were busy, his usually easy commute slowed by the rain, and he had to jog to make it to his office with enough time to prep for class.
The students are sleepy and rain-drenched, each squeak of sneakers on wet linoleum announcing another arrival. They murmur quiet renditions of Morning, professor, or simply yawn as they pass by, and he nods at each, ticking off attendance. Only two missing today, not bad for a class of nineteen, though one absentee is forfeiting a letter grade by not showing up for the third time this semester. He’s sure he’ll find the girl at his office hours tomorrow, spouting apologies he will pretend to listen to before reminding her of the rules. He tells them on syllabus day at the start of every year: if you can’t wake up before eight, don’t bother signing up for my class.
The kids are well-behaved, though, despite the damper of the day. Utter silence for the first thirty minutes of the lecture, his every question to the masses met with dull silence, but by the latter half of class, they’ve perked up. Coffee cups drained, some even manage to make eye contact instead of avoiding him when he tosses out questions about antitrust regulation. He hands back the graded papers during the last five minutes, careful to keep his face blank amidst the excited whispers of As and Bs and the crumpled faces of those who sorely missed the mark. He offers a reminder of his office hours—Tuesdays and Thursdays, three to seven—and is pleased to see that those who would benefit most actually scribble down reminders.
Once the class clears out, he has a few minutes to go over the notes for his next lecture. The 10 AM Macroeconomics crowd isn’t much livelier than the early birds, but he’s used to the haggard faces staring back at him. The symphonic clicks of laptop note-takers fill the room as he moves from one slide to the next, content to ferry them along under the steam of his own effort so long as they do him the courtesy of paying attention.
It’s after lunch that he runs into his wife. A rare thing—usually their schedules run so counter on Mondays that they don’t see one another until long after dinnertime at home. This is a treat, he thinks happily to himself, hearing her voice echo down the hall before he sees her. She’s talking with Dr. Zenik from the sound of things, the other woman laughing as their shoes click on the linoleum.
And then he turns the corner, sees Alina, and the rest of the world falls away.
For there is his wife, looking positively radiant despite the dimness outside. The darkness of the day seems not to have touched her at all. She has her long black hair tied back in a messy bun, with a few too-short strands hanging free to drape over her chest. Her legs are clad in black jeans, held up by a worn leather belt with a faded brass buckle, into which she’s tucked an old white button-down, but none of that— none of that —is what stops him in his tracks.
It’s the sweater.
A lovely beige cable-knit sweater that does absolutely nothing to hide the sway of her breasts with every step.
He stares at her, speechless.
He’d bet his life she isn’t wearing a bra under that sweater.
He’s still standing there slack-jawed when she finally catches sight of him. Her face warms with pleasure, for their paths crossing is a surprise to her too.
“Professor,” she calls politely.
He turns right around and flees without returning her greeting.
He needs to get away. Has to get somewhere— anywhere —but here.
“Are you two still playing that game?” he hears Dr. Zenik ask faintly, but he’s already halfway across the building and nothing and no one could draw him back over there.
He makes it to the safety of his office and locks the door on instinct. All he can think about is her. The point of her chin, the bright white of her smile, the charming messiness of her too-long hair, the bounce of her little breasts—
“Fuck,” he mutters aloud, pacing furiously in the tiny space. “You’re fucked.”
He cannot possibly lecture in this condition. He can barely breathe in this condition. He drops into his desk chair, all the while wishing he could sink into the floor instead.
He’s heard the other male faculty bemoan spring and the scourge of college girls in flimsy sundresses and t0o-short skirts, but this is what derails him—late autumn, and his wife swaddled in clothes that obscure the figure he knows so well. It makes him want to slide his hands underneath, just to make sure she’s still the same: soft and plush and small. It makes him want to strip her naked.
He thinks of her soft little breasts underneath that sweater. He wonders if they’re cold. Knows his hands would warm them. His mouth, too. Can already feel the drag of her nipples, hard against his chest while she—
A rattle of the locked doorknob interrupts his frenzied thoughts.
He only has a split-second to wonder who in the hell is trying his office door without knocking first when suddenly the lock clicks and the door swings open.
“Hey! You can’t barge in—”
His wife smiles, pocketing her illegal copy of his key. “Can’t I?”
Oh, this is just what he needs.
He swallows a curse, trying not to flinch when she closes the door and begins moving towards his desk. It’s not good for them to be alone in a room right now. He’s far too keyed up, and it’s only the middle of the day. She has class in fifteen minutes, and he—
“What’s going on with you?”
He shakes his head, staring blindly at his dark monitor so he won’t have to look at her. He will not play this game with her. Not here and not now.
“Aleksander, you’re acting very weird. Why did you run off before? Is something wrong?”
He almost laughs. Four years of marriage, and she can’t read the desperate want burning through every cell in his body? Sometimes he wonders if she knows him at all.
The fact that she takes this moment to lean against his desk, her perfect ass cushioned against the flat surface, only proves his point. He nearly whimpers out loud when she crosses her arms beneath her chest, pushing her breasts up higher.
“Do you have to do that?” he asks piteously from his chair.
“Do what?” she replies, forehead pinching between concerned brows. “I’m just asking if—”
“Do you have to walk around wearing that?”
Confusion morphs to indignation. “Excuse me?” she asks coldly.
“The outfit, Linka. The fucking outfit you’re wearing, that goddamn sweater —”
Her voice rises to drown out his. “And what’s wrong with it, exactly?”
“What’s wrong with it? It makes me want to fuck you, is what’s wrong with it!”
There’s a moment where she doesn’t react. Where she still looks hurt, and angry, but then—
“I’m sorry?” she asks, laughter bursting through her words. “What was that?”
“Oh, don’t make me say it again,” he groans. It was bad enough the first time. He casts his mind about, searching for anything that might get her to leave. “Don’t you have cla—”
“Class isn’t for fifteen minutes,” she cuts him off. “Now tell me more, please, about this… problem you have.”
He can hear the snicker in her voice and it makes him want to bury his head in his hands and scream until he wakes up from this nightmare. He settles for staring at the floor instead.
“It isn’t a problem,” he mutters. “It’s fine. It’ll be fine. I’m fine. I just need you to—please leave—and… and…”
He loses the ability to speak when she pushes off from his desk and leans over his chair. She’s close enough that he can smell her now: her perfume, the soap they share, and that scent that is just hers. Placing her palms on the armrests of his chair, she lowers herself until they’re face to face. And Aleksander can’t help himself—he gives in to her and looks up.
And then he makes the mistake of looking down.
Down at her chest.
Down at the shapeless bulk of her sweater.
Down at the collar of that damn shirt that is entirely blocking his view of her delicious cleavage—
“Now why,” she asks in that terribly coy voice, “do you want me to leave, hm?”
She’s closer now. Somehow, she’s much closer.
He blinks, and then—
She’s in his lap.
He swears as the chair rocks back, gripping the armrests as it threatens to unseat them both, but then it steadies. She settles, so light and yet somehow so heavy, right in his lap. He knows he should push her off, but he can’t. He should tell her to stop, but he can’t. Her arms are already around his shoulders, her hands cupping the back of his neck, her thumbs stroking his earlobes.
“Look at me.”
He’s powerless to disobey.
Somehow his hands are on her waist. When did that happen?
“Look at me, Aleks, and tell me…” She tilts her head to the side, affecting the most perfect pout he’s ever seen. “You don’t really want me to go, do you? We never see each other on Mondays.”
“Alina…”
“Don’t you want to see what’s under my sweater? Hm? Since it’s been bothering you so much? Tell me, baby, do you want a peek?”
He does.
He really, really does.
Fuck.
“Please.” His voice is a rasp, a dying man’s final wish. “Please, Alina.”
“If you want to take a look,” she tells him, “then take a look. Or better yet,” she adds, taking his hands in hers and sliding them under, “have a feel.”
He doesn’t have the wherewithal to swear anymore.
He can’t even think. He just does as she says—moves his hands beneath, beginning at the steel supports of her abs and then moving up, traveling over the worn fabric of her tucked-in button-down until— there —he can feel flesh. But it’s only the hard bone of her sternum, and it just makes him want more. Frustrated, he pulls his hands free and then dives from above, rushing through her buttons—
“This—fucking— wrinkled shirt —”
“Didn’t have a clean one,” she gasps. “No time for laundry.”
It’s absolute madness, the way those words turn him on.
He gets through only three buttons, but it’s enough for what he needs. He draws the v-neck of her sweater aside, and with her shirt open, he’s able to pull one of her breasts free with ease.
No bra, just like he expected.
“Saints alive, Alina.”
“What?” she asks, oblivious to the strain in his voice as she leans into him. “What’s wrong now?”
“You can’t—” He can barely keep his voice steady. Barely stop himself from stripping the rest of her naked right here, right now. “You can’t walk around without a bra, Alina! Not at work!”
“Oh, stop it.” She rolls her eyes. “No one can tell.”
“I can tell!”
“Well, good.” She grins. “You’re the only one I want to know, anyway.”
He has no retort for that. But nor does he care, because he finally has her in his hands—
Breath hisses between her teeth as he squeezes her breasts, and just like that: everything shifts. She sinks into him, giving in so happily, and he takes over gratefully, surging with purpose. He rubs his thumbs over her lovely little brown nipples, and is treated to the transformation of soft, lazy flesh into hard, eager peaks. A smattering of freckles is spread out across the tops of her little breasts, matching those splayed over the bridge of her nose and the roundness of her cheeks.
“Pretty little tits,” he murmurs, ducking his head to her chest and kissing one freckle after another as she squirms, rocking her hips into his. “My favorite little tits.”
“Aleksander, please…”
“Shush,” he says, quieting her whining. “Let me have a suck.”
“Oh, fuck.”
“Mm.” He wraps his lips around one nipple and sucks hard, channeling all his frustration into his mouth. Alina writhes in his lap, breath catching in the softest, most desperate whimpers, but he can hardly enjoy her little noises. He is consumed by arousal, starving for another taste.
She pushes her chest into his face, trying to nudge her other breast towards him, as if he could take both inside his mouth at once. (He can’t. He’s tried. They really are too small.) Still, he keeps the seal on one nipple, careful to leave the other neglected, allowing his free hand to span her ribcage instead. Holding her in place, hoping to give her a taste of the desperation he felt in that hallway.
“Will you do the other one?” she begs finally, and he pulls off, relishing the sight of her shiny tit and hard little nipple before lifting his gaze to her pleading eyes.
“Will I do what with the other one?” he asks, breathing hard.
“Will you—” Her cheeks flush, even after all this time. It embarrasses her so when he makes her talk through it, but he knows she loves it too. Loves being precise—in work, as in play. It’s in both their natures; it’s the reason why they fit so well together. “Will you suck my other tit, please?” she whispers.
“Tell me.”
His breath, hot across her skin. Mouth open, ready to devour, but waiting for a signal.
“Tell me how I should suck it, Linka. You know I’ll always do what you say.”
“Mm.” She squeezes his shoulders, nails digging in deep the only thing belying her impatience. “Gentle,” she whispers. “Slow at first.” He knows a reprimand when he hears one—he went too hard, too fast on the other. He rubs her back in silent apology. “Slow, ease into it, then…”
“Then?” He flicks his tongue out, tasting the tip of her nipple, making it thrum.
She chokes back a squeal, but thrusts her chest forward.
“Then, then, then—anything you want,” she babbles. “Anything you want, just—oh, Aleks, don’t stop this time.”
Music to his ears, the way she begs so sweetly for him.
“Please, honey, want your mouth.” Her hands sliding through his hair, fingertips digging into his scalp. “Want you to wrap your lips around my—my—”
She’s cut off by her own moan. Soft, weak, overcome. She isn’t a screamer, his wife, and never has been. She’s so quiet when she comes, near silent at times. The first few evenings they went to bed together, he worried she hadn’t felt anything at all, and feared that he’d completely disappointed her. She wasn’t shy, not by any stretch of the imagination, but she was so very quiet. It took him some time to learn that volume, for her, did not correspond to excitement or satisfaction.
He’s grown to enjoy it over the years. Grown to cherish the little whimpers, the soft gasps. The silent tears that roll down her face when she’s experiencing the most intense of orgasms. He’s learned to read her pleasure through touch, not sound: her thighs clenching around him, her nails breaking through his skin, her teeth gnawing on the meat of his shoulder—
Or now, the ways she’s thrusting her chest into his face, all but begging him to engulf her whole.
A phone alarm interrupts, and they both swear. He, unlike her, makes no attempt to modulate the volume of his voice. Alina reaches for her back pocket, silencing it, as Aleksander buries his face more fully between her breasts and groans aloud.
“Can you cancel the rest of your classes for the day?” he mumbles into her chest, and she shakes with laughter.
“No, honey,” she says, cradling his head. Her fingertips slide against his scalp, back and forth, back and forth, mussing his hair just the way he likes, the way only she can. “I cannot cancel my classes because of your libido.”
“Mm,” he says, kissing the valley between her breasts, tasting the salt of her sweat there, “it’s yours too.” He licks along the twin chains of the two necklaces she wears, precious jewelry they exchanged years ago in lieu of rings. “Don’t act like I’m being selfish here when you’re the one who broke into my office and sat on my damn lap.”
She chuckles, ducking down to press a kiss to the crown of his head. “I’ll see you later tonight, okay?”
He sighs in defeat, releasing her.
He leans back in his chair, watching in silent disappointment as she rises to her feet and fixes her clothes. She swoops down to press a kiss to his temple before stepping away, her heels clicking against the linoleum as she heads for the hall.
“Love you,” he calls out gloomily as she reaches the door.
She turns, one hand on the frame, smiling in amusement at his morose tone.
“Hon.” She waits until the self-pity leaves his eyes before adding gently, “I love you too.”
There’s a flare of hope within him, and for a second he thinks she’s going to walk back over and crawl into his lap once more, eager to finish what they started—
But then she shakes her head, smiling like she can read his mind. Maybe, after all, she can.
“After class, okay?” She taps her knuckles against the wooden doorframe. “I’ll be all yours once I’m home, I promise. However you want me.”
“I want you wearing that sweater.”
A pleased smile curls across her mouth. “Then I’ll wear the sweater.”