Chapter 16
Evan
W hen my alarm goes off at seven, I’m momentarily disoriented. I’m in the same bed as usual, but there’s someone else in my bed, which is certainly not usual.
Jane makes a muffled sound and throws her arm over my chest.
“Do you want to work out this morning?” I ask.
“No.” Her voice is still heavy with sleep.
I hope she slept well last night. I did—much better than the night before, that’s for sure. But as my brain slowly comes back online and she presses herself against my side, I don’t feel quite so restful.
Did she simply want to do it once and get it out of her system? That doesn’t sound like Jane, but what do I know?
When she kisses my shoulder, my worries start to snowball. I sit up, rub a hand over my eyes, and put on my glasses. The sheet barely covers her chest. If I push it down an inch or two, I’ll be able to see her nipples, and while that’s appealing, the idea of doing more than that…
Jane sits up next to me and frowns. “Is something wrong? Do you regret it?”
Shit.
“Definitely not,” I say. “I’d been thinking about it for a while.”
She lifts an eyebrow. “Since before we got married?”
“No. A few weeks, though it feels like longer. What about you?”
“Since Monday. I’m not used to wanting someone like this, and I couldn’t deal with it. It was hugely distracting.”
I chuckle and consider how to express what I’m feeling.
“The fact that I’m not jumping you now,” I say slowly. “It doesn’t mean that I don’t want you, or that I don’t hope we do it again, or that you’re not beautiful first thing in the morning…” I pinch my brow. This is awkward, but I feel the need to be clear.
“Of course,” she says. “I mean, I’m not so sure about the beautiful-first-thing-in-the-morning business, but everything else…of course.”
“It’s just…in my experience…right after you start having sex…there is the desire…to do it over and over again.” To feel insatiable. “And that isn’t me, not anymore.”
“‘Not anymore’?”
I scrub a hand over my face. “The antidepressants lower my libido. Occasionally, they also make it harder to get an erection.”
“This was a problem in your last relationship?” she correctly surmises.
“Yeah.”
She nods. “Don’t worry, I’m not constantly horny. I was for the last three days, but now that we’ve done it…”
“You’ll want to do it again, I hope?”
“Yeah, but probably not today.”
I turn onto my side, pulling her against me. “Can we stay here for a little while?”
In response, she burrows against my chest. Mostly naked, but not as a prelude to anything. It’s nice to know that this is enough for now, and I haven’t disappointed her by not being up for more sex.
People don’t always say what they mean, but I believe she was telling the truth—and it’s not because she identifies as demisexual. She rarely feels attraction, but that doesn’t mean she can’t have a high libido, and it doesn’t say anything about how much she wants sex when she does feel attraction.
She runs her fingers over my neck.
“Is there a mark?” I ask.
“Maybe a faint one?” She tilts her head. “Or not. Hard to tell without the lights on.” Morning sunlight filters through the curtains, however, and I can see her reasonably well, even if she has trouble assessing a bite mark. “What else do you like?”
“Hm?”
“I mean, in bed. So I know. For next time.”
I’m glad to hear her talk about next time .
“I like and have done…lots of different things,” I say.
“You seemed to like when I bit you and pulled your hair.”
“Yes.” I pause. “I like being spanked, too.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
I exhale unsteadily, but it’s not as if I want her to spank me now, even if I look forward to it in the future. “And you?”
“I don’t like anything too rough, and I can rarely orgasm more than once, so don’t feel the need to try for multiple orgasms.”
A week ago, I wouldn’t have imagined I’d be in bed with Jane, talking about sex. But neither of us has spoken about what this means—and what it changes in our marriage.
While Jane’s in the shower, I get dressed and head downstairs. I start the coffeemaker, then debate what to do with Watson. I feel like he should have a special outfit today, but what? He’s already decked out in Mardi Gras beads, and in the past few weeks, I’ve gone through a good number of my accessories.
When I hear the water stop, I knock Watson to the ground, facedown, and set Mr. Frog on top of him. Then I head outside with our mugs of coffee.
A few minutes later, Jane steps outside in a camisole and shorts.
“What happened?” She nods toward the living room.
I shrug. “He had a busy night.”
She laughs, and I can’t help the joy that brings me. Yes, after sex and a good night’s sleep and a good morning after, I’m more relaxed than I’ve felt in a while.
“Any particular plans for the day?” I ask.
The sort of thing I might normally say. In some ways, this morning feels like all the others in our short marriage…but not quite. I reach for her free hand—the one that’s not holding her mug—and squeeze. Again, something I might have done just a few days ago.
“The usual,” she replies.
“Sounds good to me.”
We work in our separate offices, two floors apart. We eat lunch together. At the end of the workday, I go for my usual walk and come back extra sweaty because it’s disgustingly humid.
For dinner, we have leftovers, and for dessert, we finish the egg tarts. Once again, a crumb clings to her bottom lip, and this time, I feel free to lean forward and wipe it off. She licks the crumb off my finger.
“Can you watch an episode without jumping me today?” I ask with faux sternness.
“I think I can manage,” she says.
She cuddles up against me, and at one particularly romantic moment, she does kiss me—but without the urgency of the last two nights. We have to rewind the show, but only a minute or two.
I like these kisses, too. I hope they continue to be part of our marriage.
At the end of the evening, we stand in the upstairs hallway together, and she gives me a hug goodnight. As she steps back, the idea that she might sleep in a bed that isn’t mine…it makes me feel hollow.
“Would you like to sleep in my bed?” I ask. “Not for sex. Just because I want to have you there, but if you’d rather sleep alone—”
She cuts me off by placing a finger to my lips, then walks into my bedroom while my feet are still rooted to the floor. I admire her ass in those little shorts she wears to sleep, and unlike that time she was mowing the grass, I don’t feel guilty about it.
She settles under the covers on what is, I guess, her side of the bed, and puts her phone on the bedside table that I never use. I pull her against me and kiss her neck. When I shift back, I smile at her and brush the hair away from her face.
Like yesterday, she falls asleep quickly, but I don’t, much as I like having her here. I still have doubts about our sexual compatibility, given that it caused such problems in my last relationship. It’s natural for there to be differences in how often two people want sex—and what kind of sex they want. A little compromise isn’t an issue for me, but I still worry. What if it’s more than a little?
We can’t just “break up.” I mean, we can, but there’s a lot to lose. We made a commitment: we’re married and we own a house together.
Have we complicated everything?
And how, exactly, does she feel? Is her sexual interest in me a sign that her feelings are much deeper than before? I suspect it is—I know that’s how it worked for her in the past—and the idea delights me.
But maybe it’s different this time.
I fear I won’t be able to sleep, but eventually, the sound of Jane’s rhythmic breathing pulls me under.