Epilogue
I don’t think he’s expecting anything from me, when he comes in with the tray. He’s just focusing on doing something sweet, and not on the fact that I might want to do something sweet, too, to celebrate being on honeymoon with my husband. So I let him get back into bed, and tuck a napkin into my nightie, while I giggle.
And only then do I reveal what I’ve got.
The newspaper I sneaked from a vendor the night before, as we strolled the streets of New York City. ‘Which section do you want first?’ I ask him. And the look on his face is priceless. I could press it into my soul, and leave an imprint that will always last. My sweet man, my sweet husband, happy because I remembered what he said about all his dreams of being with someone.
Though I don’t think I truly process how good that dream is, until we actually do it together. He hands me politics, I hand him book reviews. He tells me that the new Ishiguro sounds fantastic, and the eight reasons that I’ll definitely love it. And all eight reasons are correct.
Then I tell him about the latest way the world is going to end.
To which he replies that if it’s like the book I’m writing, he doesn’t really care. ‘As long as there’s desperate doomsday sex to be had with the woman I love, I can face anything,’ he adds, as he absentmindedly bites on the incredible toast he made. He always browns it just right, and somehow keeps it warm, and his ratio of butter to bread is immaculate.
His lips are salty and sheened with it when I kiss him.
It tastes so good I don’t stop there. I carry on, until the newspaper he’s still holding in his hand is a crumpled ball in his fist. He hangs on to it, all the way through me finding his hard cock, and stroking him until he’s right on the brink. Teetering there, trying to hold on.
And only then do I stop.
‘Come on,’ I say. ‘I thought you wanted to go antiquing.’
Because the thing is, neither of us particularly like antiquing. We gave each other this little train-ride trip to some quaint little New England town as a nod to the other thing he daydreamed about. We didn’t do it thinking we’d really have a ton of fun. So I think this will be a good way to make it fun.
I want to watch him squirm in his seat as we rattle out of the city on the 10:45 to wherever it is, while I sit there all gleeful. But really I should know that he’s not going to let me get away with that. Not when he can wait until we’re almost late out of the door, then pins me to it.
And pushes my skirt up.
And kneels, so he can bury his face right there. Right between my legs, mouth all hot and hungry, tongue licking in a way that I shouldn’t feel so well through my panties. But somehow he makes sure I do. He rubs into that material, firmly enough that I’m shuddering within seconds, and pushing back against his face, everything forgotten except this and how good it feels.
I don’t even think about the fact that I just teased him and left him hanging.
Until he suddenly stands up. ‘Well,’ he says. ‘I think that should just about put you in the same pickle as me.’ Because he’s a little shit. My little shit, who took everything I thought he was learning so he could be good for someone else, to be the very best for me.
Better than that really.
Because I know he loves it, too. We were already everything we both wanted – from the old shows we watch together as we fall asleep, to the trips we plan with glee, to the stories I leave under his pillow when I’m away from him, to this right now. Getting into the lift and standing next to him, while we try to pretend we’re not dying of lust.
We don’t even make it to the ground floor.
He stops it halfway there, and says, ‘Screw it.’
Then just lifts me into his arms, mouth already on mine. Just like the main character in the book I’m writing does, when he can’t wait a second longer for the woman he loves. Because I know he makes notes on everything I write. And the notes aren’t just things like you’re leaning away from the sincerity, stop being afraid of writing about real feelings . They’re ideas he tucks away, for later. Ways he can surprise and thrill me – and it does, it does.
I moan before he does a single thing.
Then he does a single thing, and I moan louder. I feel his mouth on my throat and his hand tugging my panties down, and I make a sound like I’m drowning. Because I am, I am, I’m drowning in him. In the way his grip feels on my thigh and his dexterity gets me all stripped down, and then, then, then.
I don’t know how he manages what happens then.
All I do know is that he says, ‘I love you, Hazy,’ as I feel every inch of him easing into every inch of me. Slow, at first, like time stops for just that one singular moment of him claiming me. It halts on him staring into my eyes, lust-addled but still seeing me, seeing every part of me, all my hopes and dreams and desperate desires.
And I stare right back, and see all of his.
Sweet, so sweet I sigh his name when he moves at last. ‘Beck,’ I say, and he smiles slow as syrup as he rolls his hips into me. Like he knows exactly what that will do, and it does. That combination of him taking pride in how easily he can undo me, and the pleasure of every place he’s touching me – it just sends me so close to the edge. We’ve barely done anything and I’m already an inch away.
Because that’s how it is with him.
He shows me all the ways that sex can be intensified – not just with what we do, but how we feel. How much I trust him, how much I love him, how much I like every single thing about him. And when he sees those feelings all over my face, it only deepens whatever this pleasure is doing for him.
He tells me so, when he buries his face in my hair.
‘You are my bliss,’ he says. ‘You are my gloriously undignified wife.’
Because I’m everything he never knew he always wanted, and he is everything I never knew I did, too. And together we make something better, oh, it’s the best, the very best, and I know it always will be.