Chapter Seventeen
Marcus
Slowly, I open my eyes.
I’m lying in bed, facing the window. When I put out a hand, I discover I’m alone.
I’ve worked fourteen-hour days in the lead-up to the wedding. The big day itself was exhausting. There’s also been all the emotional strain, and the drive to the farm. And then, arguably, the best sex of my life with the woman I love. So I’m not surprised I dozed off.
My phone’s on the bedside table, and I lean across and check the time. It’s close to six.
I look out at the garden, and only then do I see Wren, walking along the stepping stones that lead to the pagoda at the bottom.
She’s taking her time and bends to smell the roses that grow beside the path.
She’s wearing a loose, cream summer dress that reaches her calves.
The sun is behind her, and I bet she doesn’t realize the dress is completely transparent and reveals her beautiful figure in all its glory.
Lying back down, I watch her mount the steps of the pagoda and sit on the bench, looking out at the view.
I know she felt emotional after we had sex. I did too; men just don’t tend to show it, that’s all. I think she was overwhelmed, maybe even shocked by the intensity of our lovemaking.
My lips curve up, just a little.
Rolling over, I get up, find a clean pair of boxers, some track pants, and a tee and pull them all on, then go out to the kitchen.
I stir the slow cooker and try a piece of the beef, which breaks apart with a fork, and start cutting up the loaf that Ruth made this morning.
I’m just buttering it thickly with Lurpak when Wren comes back in.
“Oh,” she says. “Hello.”
“Hey.” I put down the knife and go over to meet her where she’s paused by the sliding doors. She smiles, but her eyes are a little red. Suddenly, I’m not sure what to do. I want to hug her, but she left our bed, and I’m not sure she’ll welcome it.
To my surprise, though, she walks up to me, slides her arms around my waist, and rests her cheek on my chest.
Pleased, I put my arms around her and give her a cuddle. “Hello, gorgeous. Is it warm out there?”
“Very. I need to get myself a hat.”
“Yes, one of those big-brimmed ones. We’ll go shopping tomorrow.”
She chuckles. Then she rests her lips on my neck and inhales. “You smell nice.”
“Why thank you. So do you.”
She moves back a little, looks up at me, and says shyly, “Thank you. For taking your time with me.”
I cup her face and stroke her cheeks with my thumbs. “Of course. We’re in no rush. We have all week to get to know one another.”
She rests her hand on her stomach. “I keep thinking that it might already have happened.”
“Yeah, it could happen at any time.” I kiss her cheek, then her nose, then her mouth. “That’s so sexy.” I kiss her again. “I feel like a prize bull.”
“Which makes me a heifer.” She gives me a wry look.
I grin and take her hand. “Come on. Dinner’s ready, and I’m starving.”
“You’re always starving.”
“I worked up an appetite,” I reply, and she blushes.
I gesture at a bottle of red wine. “Want a glass?”
“I probably shouldn’t from now on,” she says.
“Oh… of course…” Our eyes meet, and we both smile.
We serve up the stew, take it outside, and eat it on the deck with chunks of bread.
We talk about the house in Stanley Point, and Wren tells me about her visit there, and how much she loved the place.
We discuss what decor we like, and what kind of furniture we’d have.
I purposefully don’t talk much about my visions of having three or four kids running around the place.
My relationship with Wren feels fragile, like a seedling that’s going to take time to nurture and grow.
After dinner, we decide to watch a movie. We find some ice cream in the freezer—mint choc chip for her and boysenberry for me—serve ourselves up some with a sliced banana, and Wren chooses a romcom. We settle down on the sofa, side by side, and eat our ice cream while we watch.
After we finish our desserts, I hold up my arm, and Wren looks at it, then gives a small smile and moves up close to me.
We watch the movie, and occasionally I give her long kisses, enjoying the lingering taste of the mint ice cream in her mouth. She returns them, but I can feel her slight hesitancy, and she grows quieter as the movie goes on.
I guess she’s thinking about the fact that soon we’ll be going to bed.
When we talked about marriage, I accepted her request to have her own bedroom because I knew she wouldn’t agree to marry me unless I did.
I haven’t mentioned it, though, and neither has she.
But the other bedrooms in the house are all made up, so if she wants to, she can use one of those.
The movie finishes, and while the sun sets and the house grows dark, we watch a few episodes of a new thriller series. I’m tired, though, despite the snooze, and as it nears ten-thirty, I say, “I think I’m done.”
“Yeah,” she says, “I’m tired, too.”
We stack the dishwasher and pack everything else away. Only then do I realize I’ve left a few items out on the deck.
“I’ll finish up,” I tell her. “I need to check my emails, too.”
She nods and heads off along the corridor toward the bedroom.
I retrieve the plates, stack the dishwasher, and set it going. I open my laptop and spend ten minutes reading my emails, forwarding some to Caesar, and answering one from him.
When I’m done, I close the laptop, check the locks, and turn off the lights. Then, with butterflies in my stomach, I walk along the corridor.
I can’t see light coming from any of the other bedrooms. I stop at the doorway to my room and lean on the doorpost, hands in my pockets.
Wren is sitting in my bed, on the left side as I look at it, leaning back on the pillows, reading a book. She’s wearing a gorgeous scarlet satin nightie. Her hair is up in a loose bun. She’s removed her makeup, and her face looks flushed and young.
After about ten seconds, she looks up and sees me, and I watch a jolt pass through her. She blinks and gives a hesitant smile.
I smile back, but I don’t say anything. I grab a handful of my tee at the back of my neck and pull it over my head. Then I go through to the bathroom and brush my teeth. I come out, conscious of her watching me as I take off my trackpants and toss them over the chair.
She closes her book and puts it on the bedside table. “Which side do you prefer?” she asks quietly.
“This is fine,” I reply, just as softly. I slide beneath the duvet and lean back on the pillows.
Wren turns off the bedside light. I lift an arm, and she moves up close to me, then slides her arm around my middle. I wrap my arms around her, and we cuddle up.
“Everything okay?” she asks. “With your emails, I mean?”
“Yeah. I forwarded a bunch to Caesar, and he’ll deal with them.” I kiss her hair. “How’s your prep going for the start of term?” I know she starts back next week with a few teacher-only days until school opens on February 2nd.
“I’m pretty much done. I tried to get it all finished before the honeymoon. There are a few meetings next week, and then it’ll mostly be getting the classroom ready. That’s always a fun part.”
I remember what she was like at the Christmas Eve carol service: warm, funny, and capable. I like to think of her new class coming in, nervous to meet their new teacher, and Wren putting them all at ease. She’ll make a great mum.
I brushed up on my school biology regarding fertilization when I first found out Wren wanted a baby.
At some point this week, her ovaries will release an egg, and it’ll begin the long journey along her fallopian tubes.
My little swimmers will be doing the breaststroke, desperate to be the first to reach it.
When one does, it will unite with the egg to form a zygote, which will begin to divide as it travels to the uterus to implant.
How amazing is that? The miracle of life.
“I hope I can have children,” she murmurs, so she’s obviously thinking about it, too.
“Yeah, me too.”
“I know a lot of people have trouble conceiving. They never tell you that when they’re warning you about pregnancy in Sex Ed classes at school.”
“No, that’s true. But I guess that’s because most people don’t have an issue. Only one in seven couples have trouble conceiving, and eight out of ten conceive naturally within a year of regular sex.”
“Hmm, I suppose.”
“If we don’t fall pregnant the first time, we’ll have to keep trying.”
“Oh no,” she says, acting devastated.
“Yeah, it’ll be a real tragedy, but we’ll just have to get on with it.”
We both chuckle.
“Are you secretly praying it doesn’t happen?” she jokes.
I smile, but inside I give a little sigh.
It’s possible she’ll get pregnant right away.
And what will happen then? Will she pull away as soon as she gets what she came for?
I would have said yes, because I know she’s worried about being hurt, but that was before we made love.
Before I was able to give her an orgasm.
Before I walked in and found her in my bed.
“Sorry,” she says, “my feet are cold.”
“I don’t mind. I’m like a portable heater. Warm them up on my legs.”
She laughs and tucks her feet between my calves. Her soft body is now pressed against me. I can smell her perfume, which is becoming synonymous with her—light, flowery, sensual, sexy.
I could easily make love to her again. Part of me wants to cram as many lovemaking sessions in as I can, just in case when we return to Auckland she announces it’s over. But I can’t live like that. I have to believe this is real, or it all becomes a farce.
And anyway, I don’t want to make her sore. We’ve got all week, and this is as much about showing her affection as it is giving her orgasms. I don’t think she’s had much of either in her life, and I want to be the only person who gives her both for the rest of her days.