Chapter 1
LILY
A voice filters in, low and off-key, crooning Amazing Grace. Its my husband, Ken in the bathroom rinsing himself clean and holy while my body aches filthily in bed.
I don’t have to open my eyes to know he’s getting ready for the dinner at his parents’ tonight. I should be doing the same.
Instead, heat curls between my thighs, tauntingly.
A wicked thought slips into my mind and I giggle to myself. I strip bare and pad to the bathroom, naked and my skin pricks with anticipation.
Standing beneath the steaming water, is my husband with his back glistening, my mouth waters at the sight.
I press myself against him, my breasts flattening against his slick back and my hips grinding forward. It’s been months of lonely nights, of my own fingers never being enough, of stuffing down desire until it threatened to choke me.
“Ken…” I whisper, my lips grazing the nape of his neck as my hand slides down, lower, aching to wrap around what I need.
His fingers clamp around my wrist stopping me inches before I reach him.
“Aren’t you on your period, Lilian?” He asks, his voice dripping with disdain.
“I still have a week before that,” I reply, rocking against him harder now. “And you’ve barely touched me in months.”
My need makes me so bold that I want him to slam me against the wall and take me until my legs give out, but instead he turns, and the irritation in his gray eyes temporarily snuffs out every spark in my body.
“Lilian, we have to be at my parents’ in less than an hour. I’m a minister, for Christ’s sake. Who do you expect to lead the opening prayer if not me?”
I almost laugh because in this moment I don’t want a minister, I want a flesh and fully blodded man.
He shakes his head, “If you respect me, if you respect God, you’ll understand.”
And just like that, he exits the bathroom, leaving me wet in more ways than one, aching, unsatisfied and humiliated.
I lather soap over my breasts and down between my thighs, scrubbing too hard, as though I can wash away the ache and the shame of wanting more than the good wife I was raised to be.
But still, my nipples tighten against my palm, aching for the squeeze of a hand that isn’t mine. Heat pulses low in my belly, and I press my thighs together, desperate for friction, for something, that Ken refuses me.
I had been raised in a house where desire was filth, where women weren’t allowed to want, molded, groomed and shaped into the perfect “minister’s wife.” A woman who smiled politely, folded her hands, and tucked every hunger beneath lace and scripture. Even in college, when I tried to let loose, flirt, touch, I froze every time.
The fear of judgment strangled me before I ever got close. So I married safe and respectable. Here I am, years later, still choking on unshed need.
The ache between my legs sharpens until my hand slips lower. Just one touch, just a quick circle over my clit, and I gasp against the shower wall. I bite my lip to muffle the sound and pull back, shaking in guilt. Ministers wives don’t touch themselves in the shower like desperate schoolgirls, we swallow the ache and pretend we’re whole.
I rinse off quickly and get out of the shower to get dressed for the anniversary.
Ken’s parents have been married for a little over thirty-five years, and ever since their pearl jubilee they’ve been throwing week-long anniversary parties to celebrate each new milestone.
It's admirable, an example of love to aspire to and an opportunity for the entire family to travel from all over the country and be together.
But all I can think about as we drive up to their house is how long it’s been since Ken touched me the way a man should touch his wife. Lately my ache just lingers, a constant throb I smother with prayers and forced smiles.
We live twenty minutes away and though his parents have pleaded with us to spend the week at theirs, Ken insists we keep our distance, claiming that too much time with extended family as a minister of God can lead to temptation; drinking, swearing and the likes. He always says it with a righteous tone, as though lust, the real temptation that keeps me up at night, doesn’t live right under his roof.
“Lily,” Stephanie, my sister-in-law, greets me warmly, pulling me into a hug. It’s a bit awkward with her protruding stomach, but she looks radiant. Her auburn curls are twisted into a loose bun, and her sparkling grey eyes pull me into the softness of her glow. She has the kind of joy only pregnancy seems to bring.
Her belly brushes against mine and a sharp pang goes through me and it's not of joy.
“Seven months,” she says, patting her stomach. “Can you believe it?”
I force a smile. “You’ll be holding her before Easter.”
“Her big brother is more excited than I am.” She laughs, rubbing her belly.
When we detach, I can’t stop staring at the swell of her body. It’s a body fed, loved, claimed. We would have had a child of our own by now, if Ken had kept his hands on me instead of the ministry. Instead of disappearing before dawn and returning long after I’ve gone to bed, leaving me to curl my fingers between my thighs just to remember what release feels like.
“So how are things?” Stephanie asks, still glowing.
“Well…” My answer is cut short by my mother-in-law, who sweeps onto the porch, all smiles.
“Come on in everyone, the celebration is about to begin.” She beams, tucking a stray curl of silver hair into her bun. The wrinkles around her eyes deepen with joy, and I can almost believe in the beauty of devotion as a wife.
We go inside, the house buzzing with chatter. The table is already set, family members filling the seats. I offer polite greetings, then slip to the kitchen to help with dinner.
Stephanie is there, as well as Zoe, Ken’s youngest sister. We fall into an easy rhythm, arranging plates and shifting steaming dishes to the dining table.
When the food is set and we take our places, I see Ken slide easily between his father and uncle James, leaving me stranded. The only empty chairs are far from him. I hesitate, waiting for him to notice, to motion me closer, but he doesn’t.
He bows his head in prayer, and I force myself into the empty chair at the far end, still playing the perfect wife.
The other empty chair sits beside me; it's been empty for the longest time left waiting for the black sheep of the family. The one who never comes– Kieran. The chair serves as his mother’s stubborn act of faith.
I stare at it too long, wishing Ken would glance at me, wishing he’d read the tension in my body and see how close I am to unraveling, but he doesn’t, he only clears his throat, head still bowed.
“Dear Lord, we want to thank you for this time of the year again and for—” The dinner table hushes further as a heavy knock strikes the door. Even Ken falls silent.
I lift my head, glancing around and see that everyone is looking towards the front door.
Another knock comes, yet no one moves.
Ken’s eyes snap to me, expectant. The dutiful wife, sent to be inconvenienced.
I push back my chair and make the walk to the door.
When I open it, an intoxicating wave of a woodsy, masculine cologne crashes into me.
There he is.
A grin slashed across a face I could never forget; intense grey eyes half-hidden beneath his unruly chestnut hair, a jaw cut like stone, a mouth created for sin.
His broad shoulders that fill the doorway, blocking the light just like the way he did on the day of my marriage to Ken. I remember his teasing, the one I’d brushed off as a brother-in-law’s jest.
“I’d be here Lily, in case Ken can’t handle you. I definitely can.” The words had riled something forbidden inside me and made my insides curl up in heat.
As I look at him, I forget how to breathe and my thighs clench beneath my skirt.
“Kieran,” I whisper, heat rushing through me in places that haven’t been touched in months. “Welcome home.”
Behind me, the silent house erupts into chaos.
