Flannel Games, Hidden Plugs

The flannel shirt had become my uniform. Not by accident—by deliberate, calculated theft that I'd been executing every Sunday for the better part of three years. Paul's old red-and-black Buffalo Plaid had survived eighteen years of marriage, roughly nine hundred washes, and at least two dozen incidents involving barbecue sauce, and somehow it had gotten softer with every assault. It hung to mid-thigh on me, the collar stretched just enough to slip off one shoulder, and the cuffs came past my fingertips in a way that made me feel like a kid playing dress-up in the best possible sense.

I was standing in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame, tugging at the hem of the flannel where it brushed my thighs. Just running it between my fingers, back and forth, the worn cotton familiar as my own skin. Paul was on the couch with the newspaper—actual newspaper, because he was the kind of man who subscribed to a physical paper in the year of our lord twenty-twenty-four and then read it with his reading glasses perched on his nose like some kind of sexy librarian who'd given up on life.

"You're doing the thing," he said without looking up.

"What thing?"

"The hem thing. The flannel hem thing. The thing you do when you want my attention but don't want to ask for it."

"I don't know what you're talking about. I'm standing. People stand in doorways. It's architectural appreciation."

He turned the page. "You're standing in a doorway wearing my shirt and nothing else, running the hem through your fingers like you're deciding whether to take it off or keep it on, and you want me to believe you're admiring the load-bearing structure of our kitchen entrance."

"The doorframe is very solid."

"Carrie."

"Paul."

He looked up over his glasses. His eyes did the thing they always did—the slow scan, starting at my bare knees, traveling up the flannel to where it hung loose at my chest, pausing at the shoulder where the collar had slipped, then finally reaching my face. Eighteen years and that look still made me feel like I was the only painting in a gallery.

"Solid doorframe," he repeated.

"Very."

He folded the newspaper and set it on the coffee table with the deliberate calm of a man who knew what was about to happen and was choosing to savor the anticipation. His phone was on the cushion beside him, and as he reached for his coffee, it buzzed.

He glanced at the screen.

His face did something complicated. Not shock—Paul didn't shock easily anymore—but a sort of frozen amusement, like a man who'd opened a Christmas present and found a live fish inside.

"What?" I asked.

He held up the phone.

I crossed the room and took it from his hand. The screen showed a text from a contact saved as "Greg (DO NOT TRUST WITH BEVERAGES)" and below the text, a photo. The photo was of Greg—Paul's colleague from the architecture firm—standing in what appeared to be his bathroom mirror, shirtless, flexing, with the caption: "Updating my profile pic. Scale of 1-10 how's the gainz?"

The gainz had a z.

I stared at it for a long moment. Then I looked at Paul. Then back at the phone. Then at Paul again.

"Greg sent you a shirtless selfie," I said.

"Greg sends everyone shirtless selfies. It's his love language."

"His love language is gym selfies with the z."

"He's very proud of his pecs."

I set the phone down on the coffee table next to the newspaper and crossed my arms. The flannel shifted with the movement, the collar slipping further off my shoulder, and I watched Paul's eyes track the fabric like a man following a tennis match.

"You know what this means," I said.

"Carrie—"

"This means you've been receiving unsolicited shirtless photos from another man and you didn't report it to me. Your wife. Your partner. Your loyalty auditor."

"Loyalty auditor."

"It's a real position. I appointed myself eighteen years ago. Very official. There was a ceremony."

Paul rubbed his face with both hands, but I could see the smile he was trying to hide. "What exactly does the loyalty auditor require?"

"A test." I held up my hand before he could respond. "The oldest test. The original test. The test that started this whole thing."

His eyebrows went up. "The blindfold test?"

"The blindfold test."

"That test was your idea, and it was originally about me allegedly flirting with the barista at—"

"It doesn't matter how it started. What matters is that Greg (do not trust with beverages) has sent you a lewd photo and I need to verify that your loyalties remain intact."

"Greg's photo wasn't lewd. It was tacky. There's a difference."

"The auditor disagrees." I held out my hand. "Come on. Up. You've been summoned."

Paul looked at my outstretched hand, then at my face, then at the hem of the flannel which I was once again running through my fingers because I couldn't help it—the fabric was addictive, and also the effect on him was undeniable. His jaw tightened just slightly, a micro-expression that most people wouldn't catch but that I'd catalogued over nearly two decades of close study.

He took my hand.

I led him to the bedroom. The evening light was coming through the curtains in long amber strips, catching the lavender diffuser on the dresser and throwing the room into that particular warm glow that made everything look like a memory even while it was happening. The vanilla bean candle was on the nightstand—I'd lit it an hour ago, because Sunday evenings were for vanilla bean candles and strategic flannel theft, and I refused to apologize for either.

"Sit," I said, pointing to the edge of the bed.

He sat. He was still in his weekend clothes—faded jeans, a gray henley with the sleeves pushed up, bare feet because he'd kicked off his shoes hours ago. He looked comfortable and domestic and handsome in that infuriating way of a man who didn't have to try.

I opened the nightstand drawer. Not the adventure drawer—the other one. The one with the practical things: lotion, a sleep mask, hair ties, the small bottle of chocolate syrup I'd stashed there three weeks ago after a late-night online shopping expedition that I couldn't fully explain.

Paul watched me pull out the sleep mask. "That's my sleep mask."

"It's our sleep mask. Community property. Marriage is about sharing."

"You bought me that mask for my birthday because I complained about the streetlight."

"And now it's serving a higher purpose. Lean forward."

He did. I slipped the mask over his eyes, adjusting the strap so it sat snug against his temples, blocking out the amber light and the candle glow and everything else. His other senses would sharpen now—I knew this about him, had learned it over years of blindfold games and whispered dares. Without sight, Paul heard everything, felt everything, tuned in to the smallest sound and the lightest touch like a radio finding a frequency.

"Can you see anything?" I asked.

"Not a thing."

"Good." I stepped back and looked at him. Blindfolded on the edge of the bed, hands resting on his knees, waiting. Trusting. There was something unbearably attractive about a man who'd let you take his sight away just because you asked. "The test works like this. I'm going to ask you questions. If I like your answers, you get rewarded. If I don't—"

"Greg gets a better rating than me?"

"Greg gets reported to HR. Now. Question one. When Greg sent you that photo, what was your first thought?"

Paul's mouth twitched. "My first thought was that he needs to clean his bathroom mirror."

"Second thought?"

"That I should not show it to you because you would do exactly this."

"Too late. Question two. Has anyone else sent you inappropriate photos recently?"

"Define inappropriate."

"Photos that make you think about someone other than me."

His head turned toward me, blindfolded, as if he could locate me by sound alone. "No one sends me photos that make me think about anyone other than you. No one could."

I felt the warmth of that in my chest, spreading outward. "That's a good answer."

"I'm a good test-taker."

"You're a terrible test-taker. You failed your driving test twice. But that answer was acceptable." I picked up the chocolate syrup from the nightstand and the small hourglass I'd placed there earlier—a thirty-second timer, meant for board games but repurposed for significantly more interesting activities. "You get a reward."

"Is the reward chocolate?"

"How did you know?"

"You bought chocolate syrup three weeks ago. I found the receipt. You've been waiting for an excuse."

I uncapped the syrup. The smell hit immediately—rich, dark, sweet—and I watched his nostrils flare as he caught it too. "I'm going to put this somewhere," I said. "And you're going to find it. You have thirty seconds." I flipped the hourglass. The sand began to fall.

"Put it where?"

"That's part of the test. You have to find it without seeing."

He reached out, hands searching the air in front of him, and I caught his wrists. "Not like that. With your mouth."

His lips parted. Just slightly. Just enough.

I'd pulled the flannel hem up on one side, just above my hip, and I drew a slow line of chocolate syrup along the curve of my hip bone. The syrup was cool against my skin, and I felt a shiver run through me that had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with the way Paul's head tilted when he caught the scent, the way his tongue touched his lower lip unconsciously.

"Start at my shoulder," I said, stepping close enough that my knee touched his. "Work your way down. Find the chocolate."

His mouth found my shoulder through the flannel, pressing a kiss to the fabric before sliding to bare skin where the collar had slipped. His lips were warm, deliberate, moving with the same patience he brought to everything in the bedroom. He kissed a slow path along my collarbone, and I tangled my fingers in his hair—not guiding, just holding on.

The sand was falling. He didn't rush.

His mouth traveled lower, following the neckline of the flannel, kissing the hollow of my throat, the upper curve of my chest. He paused at the scar on my sternum—the small one, from a biopsy three years ago that turned out to be nothing—and pressed his lips to it the way he always did, like it was a mark that belonged to him, a place on my body that he'd claimed through worry and relief and eighteen years of knowing exactly where every line and imperfection lived.

"Lower," I whispered.

"The sand—"

"I don't care about the sand. Find the chocolate."

He smiled against my skin. I felt it more than saw it—the curve of his mouth pressing into my flesh, the huff of breath that was almost a laugh. His hands found my waist, gripping the flannel, and he used it to orient himself as he kissed a path down my ribs. His mouth was thorough, exploring every inch of skin the flannel exposed, and I was breathing harder by the time he reached my hip.

He found the chocolate with his tongue.

A long, slow stroke that followed the line I'd drawn, and the sound he made—a low, satisfied hum—sent a pulse of heat through me that had nothing to do with the syrup. He licked the path clean, then kissed the spot where the chocolate had been, pressing his open mouth against my hip bone in a way that made my knees feel unreliable.

"Found it," he murmured.

"You found it. With three seconds to spare."

"I'm motivated."

I stepped back, just half a step, and his hands tightened on the flannel, holding me in place. "Not yet," he said. "The test isn't over."

"I'm the auditor. I decide when the test is over."

"Then ask me another question."

I looked down at him—blindfolded, chocolate on his lips, looking up at me even though he couldn't see me, his hands still gripping the hem of the flannel like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. The candle flickered. The lavender settled.

"Question three," I said. "What do you want?"

His tongue traced his lower lip, catching the last trace of chocolate. "I want to watch you."

"You're blindfolded."

"I want to feel you watching me. I want to know you're standing there in my shirt, looking at me, deciding what to do with me next. I want to know you're thinking about the drawer."

The adventure drawer. He knew I was thinking about it. I'd been thinking about it since I'd opened the other drawer and seen it sitting there, patient and familiar, holding its collection of things we'd accumulated over years of Sundays and Saturday nights and the occasional ambitious Tuesday.

"Specifically?" I asked.

"The dildo. The plug." His voice was low, steady, certain. "I want to use them on you. I want to use them on you while I'm inside you. We haven't done that."

My breath caught. We hadn't. We'd done the toys, we'd done the combinations, we'd done the slow and the fast and the everything in between, but we hadn't done that—the dildo inside me while he was inside me, the plug adding its pressure, all three at once. It was the next frontier. The unexplored room in the temple he'd been worshipping in for eighteen years.

"That's ambitious," I said.

"I'm an ambitious man."

"You peaked creatively. You told me so."

"I lied about peaking. You know that."

I reached over and pulled the blindfold off. His eyes blinked against the candlelight, adjusting, and then they found me—standing in the amber glow in his flannel shirt with chocolate syrup on my hip and my heart doing something ridiculous in my chest.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi."

"I found the chocolate."

"You did."

"I'd like my next reward now."

I looked at him. At the chocolate still glistening on his lower lip. At the way his hands were still holding the flannel, not pulling, just present. At the dark eyes that had eighteen years of memory in them and still looked at me like I was something new.

"Open the drawer," I said.

He did. The familiar sounds—the click, the rustle, the quiet clink of glass and silicone. He set things on the sheet beside us with the care of a man laying out surgical instruments, and I watched his hands, those hands I knew better than my own, arrange the dildo and the plug and the bottle of lubricant in a neat row.

"Take off the shirt," he said.

I pulled it over my head and dropped it on the floor. His gaze traveled over me—slowly, thoroughly, the way he read blueprints, looking for the details other people missed. I stood there in the candlelight and let him look, because looking was its own kind of foreplay and because after eighteen years, being seen by him still felt like being discovered.

"You're beautiful," he said. Not a compliment—a statement. A fact he was observing, like noting the position of the sun.

"You're biased."

"Extremely. Lie down."

I did. The sheets were cool against my back, the pillows soft beneath my head, and Paul knelt beside me with the patient intensity that made every encounter feel like the first time and the thousandth time simultaneously. He picked up the chocolate syrup and drew a line from my navel to the hollow of my throat, then set it aside and began to follow the line with his mouth.

Slow. Deliberate. His tongue tracing the sweet path up my body while his hands skimmed my sides, my hips, the tops of my thighs. I arched into his touch, into his mouth, into the building warmth that centered wherever his lips landed and radiated outward like ripples from a stone.

His hand slid between my thighs, and I parted them, and his fingers found me the way they always found me—with expertise and reverence and a patience that bordered on agonizing. He circled slowly, reading my breath, adjusting pressure, and I let out a sound that was half sigh and half surrender.

The dildo pressed against me a moment later—cool, slick, familiar. He slid it inside with agonizing slowness, watching my face, pausing at every increment. The fullness was immediate, the stretch achingly present, and I breathed through it while his thumb continued its maddening work above.

"More?" he asked.

"More."

He pressed deeper, and I gasped, and he held still while my body adjusted. Then the plug—small, cool, slick—pressed against my other entrance, and I breathed out the way he'd taught me, letting myself open. He worked it in with the same exquisite patience, pausing, murmuring, his free hand resting on my hip like an anchor.

When everything was in place, I was full—overwhelmingly, exquisitely full—and every nerve in my body hummed like a struck chord. Paul lay beside me, his body pressed against my side, his hand resting on my stomach, feeling the rhythm of my breathing.

"Now you," I said.

"Now me what?"

"Now you. Inside me. With everything. The way you said."

His breath caught. I felt it—the slight hitch in his chest, the way his hand tightened on my stomach. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. I want to feel you. All of you. With all of this."

He kissed me. Deep and slow, his tongue sliding against mine, and I tasted chocolate and coffee and eighteen years of Sundays. His hand moved from my stomach to my hip, positioning, and I felt him against me—warm, hard, ready.

The sensation as he pressed inside me, alongside the dildo, was unlike anything I'd felt before. Not pain—something beyond pain, beyond pleasure, a fullness so complete it bordered on transcendent. I made a sound that didn't have a word, and Paul froze.

"Okay?"

"More than okay. Don't stop. Don't you dare stop."

He moved. Slowly, carefully, reading every tremor and gasp, and I clung to him with my face pressed into his neck, breathing him in—sweat and soap and chocolate and the lavender that rose from the sheets like a spell. The dual pressure inside me was building something vast and shimmering, and his mouth found my ear.

"I'm here," he whispered. "I've got you."

"I know."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"I know that too."

The wave was building. I could feel it at the edges, gathering force, and I pulled him closer, and he held me, and the candle flickered, and the vanilla bean scent wrapped around us like something we could touch—

And Paul's phone buzzed on the nightstand.

We both froze.

He reached over, still inside me, still connected, and glanced at the screen. His face did the complicated thing again.

"Greg?" I asked.

"Greg. He wants to know his rating."

I started laughing. The kind of laughing that shakes your whole body, which was an experience given the current configuration, and Paul groaned and pressed his face into my shoulder.

"I'm going to kill him," he said.

"After."

"After."

"Tell him a four. His bathroom mirror is a disaster."

Paul dropped the phone on the floor. "Greg can wait. Greg has waited his entire life to be relevant and he can wait a little longer."

The laughter faded into something warmer, something softer, and Paul's mouth found mine again. The wave was still there, patient, shimmering, waiting for us to return to it.

"Where were we?" I whispered.

"I believe I was proving my loyalty."

"Prove it."

He did. Slowly, thoroughly, with the dedication of a man who took his audits seriously and had no intention of failing. And somewhere on the floor, Greg's text went unanswered, which was the highest loyalty rating of all.