There haven’t been many rules in the short duration of my marriage to David. Of the short list of rules, the home by midnight rule is the simplest and the most dangerous.
After years of being my brother-in-law’s fantasy, David and I have an understanding. He doesn’t care where I go. He doesn’t care who I am with. Never checking my phone or asking for details. The only thing that matters to him is that I am always home by midnight. I have always followed that.
It’s really very simple. However, when the clock strikes midnight…. I walk through our front door. Underwear on or off, hair perfect or a knotted, lipstick smeared, heart racing, and soaking wet. None of that concerns him as long as I am home by midnight.
I live my evenings like borrowed time. The hours before midnight feel electric. Where my deepest desires are met. The things I never talk about in the light of day. I wear my sexiest lingerie and paint my lips a deep, crimson red. I laugh a little louder, breathe a little deeper. Find myself lingering over cocktails, flirting with handsome strangers, and letting my mouth go where it wants to.
Oftentimes, exploring forbidden territory with my greedy fingertips. Meanwhile, I`m dancing a little closer to the edge than I probably should. Every conversation, glance, laugh, and touch becomes more valued by the clock ticking in the corners of my dirty little mind’s understanding that I must be home by midnight.
And David knows this! My husband never texts to check in or see what I’m up to. No warnings, no reminders. No questions asked. As a result, there is no cold-shouldering or silent treatment the following day. He trusts me to be home by midnight, and I trust that he will be waiting for me. Always calm, always composed, warm and inviting.
The moment I walk in, the world outside disappears. Midnight belongs to David. He doesn’t rush or interrogate me. He looks at me the way a man looks at something he knows is his. No matter how naughty I’ve been in the hours leading up to being home by midnight.
Some nights, he reaches for me immediately. Fingers firm around my waist, pulling me in close enough that I can feel his hungry heat. Other nights, he makes me wait. Standing there in my sexy heels, pulse racing, feeling like a cheating housewife that’s about to get caught.
Being home by midnight isn’t about control the way most people think it is. It’s about an unspoken permission. My husband gives me the world until twelve, and I give him myself after. The choice is the real rule. And every night, no matter how far I roam before then, I realize something. I don’t race the clock because I’m afraid of breaking the rule. I do it because I want to feel the gratification of being home with my husband by midnight.
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