Angie Spivey (not_a_spy) wrote in musemusic, @ 2009-02-13 03:44:00 |
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Entry tags: | angie spivey, chaoticasylum |
Who: Angelica Spivey
Fandom: My Own Worst Enemy
Prompt:Hands
She should have been able to tell, right? That was the thought that kept going through her mind. She wasn’t really the romance novel type, but she’d read her fair share in college – who hadn’t? And every story involving twins, the true love was always able to tell them apart. So what did it say about her that for so long, she’d simply accepted the idea of mood swings in her own husband?
In hindsight, she could tell, or at least she thought she could The shorter temper, that ridiculous dress for Ruthie. And of course, there was the Hummingbird. Oh god, the Hummingbird. And therein lie most of her guilt… It wasn’t that she had slept with Edward, really, although that had it’s own level of regret… but she’d enjoyed it. She really, really enjoyed it. God, that man could do things with his mouth… not that Henry couldn’t, but Edward had the confidence to just do what he wanted. The whole time she thought her husband was spicing up their marriage, she was sleeping with another man.
But the real difference? The real difference had been in his hands. Oh, they were the same hands, of course… both before and after they were in separate bodies. But it was the way he touched her. Henry was gentle caresses and sweet passion. Edward… Edward had been heat and hunger. The way he slapped her ass, or grabbed her waist. To him, she was an object, a warm body. To Edward, she was nothing more than someone to be used, for his own agenda. She had to believe that. Vilifying Edward was the only thing keeping her from a dilemma of conscience.
There was no question in her mind or in her heart that Henry’s hands were the ones she wanted caressing her, or brushing her cheek, or wrapping around her waist while she worked on dinner. It was Henry’s hands she wanted holding their little girl, his hands she wanted teaching Katherine to tie her shoes or brushing away tears when she fell.
And if she occasionally missed the feel of that objectifying slap against her thigh? She’d simply keep that to herself.