He patted her hand, still clutching the letter, and caressed it. They looked at each other for a long moment. They rose for a hug – and held it. She began to feel the spark – and held onto it. Norman’s beard nudged her on the side of her neck. She ran her hands through his hair, stroking his jaw. Whether driven by acceptance of defeat, an instinctive revulsion to being abandoned, or desperate insanity, she still felt that electric jolt in his touch – and wanted his body, against her better judgment.
“Agnes, my lover. This is the only thing we want from each other.”
She felt that familiar wetness between her legs. Agnes placed her hand between his legs and discovered he was aroused, too.
“Norman Balmoral,” she said, hearing herself from far away, “stand still.”
She fell to her knees, unclasped his belt, and pulled his pants down. He stood directly in front of her, fully erect. He moaned when she took him inside her mouth. He removed his shirt, exposing the muscular chest and glistening hair that’d always made her tremble, and began thrusting inside her mouth.
Suddenly he pulled her away from him. “Not so fast. You always wanted to do this on the kitchen table. Now’s your chance.”
When they were finished, their clothes scattered on the floor beside them, they drank a bottle of wine and scavenged through the remains of their dinner. With disregard for the mess in the kitchen, she looked outside of herself at the scene in front of them – Agnes and Norman Balmoral, ending their marriage with intercourse on the kitchen table. Was there a better way to end a marriage? She began stroking Norman’s crotch once again. He became engorged. She led him upstairs to the bedroom for an intense, uninhibited night. She wanted it to be their last.
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