Separate Apartments

Warning: Explicit Erotica.
Josh and I still keep our own places. They’re matching small apartments, mirror images of each other, on either side of a u-shaped courtyard. Some people, Josh’s parents included, think this is odd and doubt our commitment, even though we were married more than a year ago after being together for three years before that. Most of our close friends understand, though. I’d worked hard to buy my place, to furnish it, to decorate it, to find the pictures I wanted and to be able to keep it as messy or as tidy as my mood demanded. And Josh loves his, doubly so because it’s where his grandfather lived and it has connections with the old man whom Josh loved dearly.
It also lets us surprise each other, or to give each other pleasure, in ways that a single house wouldn’t. Take this afternoon, for instance. I was preparing a meal for this evening and baking some scones; Josh had returned to his place to catch up on some work and do his ironing. As I usually am, I was naked in the kitchen, whipping some cream while the scones rose and swelled nicely in the oven. I thought Josh might like to know where I was up to. I took the whisk to the living room window and called him on the phone. He picked up as he came to his window and looked over. He was wearing a tee shirt and black briefs.