Chapter 4
She woke up slowly. No countdown, no cover, no calculating the angle of light to determine how long she’d been asleep.
Just the gray-blue of early morning through curtains someone had opened, the weight of the quilt across her hips, and the dull sweet ache in her body that meant yesterday had been real.
He was still in bed, on his side, facing her, one arm tucked under his pillow. His eyes were open. She didn’t know how long he’d been watching her sleep.
She stretched, and her body reported back. Her ass, her thighs, the insides of her wrists where the stocks had pressed. Her jaw. Between her legs. She catalogued it all without urgency, the way she’d check the weather. Sore. Everywhere. Good.
His hand found her hip under the quilt. Just resting there. His thumb moved against her skin, slow and absent, the kind of touch that didn’t ask for anything.
She rolled toward him and pressed her face into his chest. The V-neck was gone.
He was bare-skinned and warm, and she fit against him the way she always had—her forehead against his collarbone, her knee sliding between his.
His arm came around her back, and his hand spread wide between her shoulder blades.
She breathed. He breathed. The house was quiet around them, the furnace ticking, a bird outside the window she couldn’t identify.
His lips found her forehead. Then her temple.
The bridge of her nose. She tilted her face up, and he kissed her slowly, his mouth soft and unhurried.
She kissed him back, and her hand came up to his jaw, the stubble rough under her palm.
She could touch him. Both hands free, no wood, no rope, no rubber between her teeth.
She ran her fingers into his hair and pulled him closer.
He shifted over her, settling his weight between her thighs. She opened for him and winced, the tenderness immediate.
He paused.
“I’m fine,” she said. “Don’t stop.”
He pushed in slowly. She was sore and swollen, and she wanted him, anyway, wanted this, the simple fact of him inside her with nothing between them.
She wrapped her legs around him, and he started to move, long and easy, no pace to keep, no endurance to prove. Just his body and hers, and the creak of the bed they’d bought together ten years ago.
She watched his face. She could do that now. His eyes were half-closed, his lips parted. He looked like a man who was exactly where he wanted to be.
She touched his chest, the patch of gray hair, the scar on his ribs she’d asked about on their second date. Her hands moved over him freely, greedily, relearning what thirty-seven days had blurred.
He kissed her neck. Her collarbone. The hollow of her throat where the collar had been. His mouth was gentle on the places that were marked and gentle on the places that weren’t, and she couldn’t tell the difference anymore.
She arched into him, and he went deeper, and the sound she made was just a sound, not muffled, not distorted, just her voice in their bedroom on a Wednesday morning.
“Eli.”
His name in her mouth.
He pressed his forehead against hers, and she said it again, quieter, just for the feel of it.
His rhythm didn’t change. His hand found hers on the pillow, and their fingers laced together. She came like that, holding his hand, saying his name, with tears running into her hair that had nothing to do with pain.
He followed her. Quiet. His face buried in her neck, his breath hot against her skin. No sound except a long exhale and the grip of his hand tightening around hers.
They lay there. His weight on her, softening inside her. She didn’t want him to move. Her free hand traced the knobs of his spine, up and down, and he let her.
Eventually, he rolled off her and onto his back. She curled against his side, her head on his shoulder, and listened to his heartbeat slow down.
“Coffee?” he asked.
“I’ll make it.”
She didn’t move. Neither did he. The bird outside was still going. She closed her eyes and let the sound fill the room.
After a while his hand found her hair, the same slow stroke from last night, except now it was just a man touching his wife’s hair because he liked the way it felt.
She sat up. Swung her legs off the bed. The floor was cool under her feet. The stocks were propped against the wall. She walked past them on her way to the bathroom.
She brushed her teeth. Splashed water on her face. The woman in the mirror looked tired and raw—entirely herself.
Downstairs, she filled the kettle and spooned grounds into the French press. The kitchen was bright with morning light. Her running shoes were by the mudroom door, right where she’d left them five weeks ago. She’d go tomorrow. Maybe the day after. No rush.
The kettle boiled. She poured. The smell of coffee filled the kitchen, and she stood there in one of his T-shirts with her bare feet on the tile, waiting for it to steep.
She poured two cups and carried them upstairs. He’d pulled on his jeans and was standing by the window, looking out at the yard. She handed him his mug and stood beside him.
The lawn needed mowing. The neighbor’s cat was on the fence again.
“I might go for a run later,” she said.
He sipped his coffee. “Take the long route. It’s supposed to be nice out.”
She leaned her shoulder against his and watched the cat pick its way along the fence posts. The coffee was good. Not as good as cold brew, but close.
Here’s our newest giant bundle! Released in December of 2025!