Chapter Thirteen November Fourteenth
Pine Ridge, New York
“Last dose! Who’s a healthy little cutie pie?” I give Laurel her liquid medicine like a pro now.
I feel like a pro at so many things after this week.
“Who’s the best wife and mom ever?” Artie says in an exaggerated voice, coming up to kiss my neck as I hold Laurel on one hip and stir the minestrone with my free hand.
“Dinner smells fantastic. Oh, Immy, look at Laurel. She’s licking her lips.
Aww, baby girl. Next year at this time, you’ll be eating all the good things.
I’m done with my meeting. Want me to take her? ”
“Sure. I’m making garlic bread, too.”
“Where’d we get the huge pot?” Artie asks. “And how’d you learn to do this, you domestic superwoman, you?” Another kiss as he whisks Laurel away, but he doesn’t leave the kitchen. He starts getting out plates and bowls.
“Sophie from book club loaned it to me. She has two kids, and her youngest is going to be a year old in January. And the recipe is from Charlotte. Her husband is a vampire, and their little boy will be one in December. Also, so is Sophie’s.”
“I thought you said in January?”
“No, her husband is a vampire, too. But don’t worry, there’s no blood in the minestrone.
It’s just any vegetables you have, an onion, cans of beans, cans of crushed tomatoes, chicken broth, and lots of herbs and spices.
The herbs and spices are so expensive at the store.
Libby gave me a bunch of fresh ones from her windowsill garden. ”
“Gosh, are any of the women married to regular humans? I feel... inferior.” Artie puts spoons next to the mismatched bowls we’ve thrifted.
I turn and look at him as he sets the table. He pats the mini pumpkin they gave out at story hour this week that is resting on a bed of flat, colorful leaves Laurel and I have collected on our walks.
I have soup on the stove, and bread that smells like heaven—even if it’s just been buttered and sprinkled with garlic powder before being put in the oven. Our baby girl is healthy. We both have birth certificates coming, and I’m listed as the mother.
I walk over to Artie slowly, grabbing his shoulder and kissing him hard. “It’s been a long, busy week.”
“I know, babe.”
“Laurel’s finally sleeping better.”
“Mmhmm.”
“Last Friday night was date night. Can it always be date night?”
“Always.”
I kiss him again, and Laurel gurgles and bats my chest as she’s sandwiched between us. “You are in no way inferior. Do you think I am?”
“No. You’re perfect.” Artie’s hand slides to my waist. To my hip.
I’ve taken to sleeping in his bed, falling there, exhausted, to curl up beside him and feel his arms around me.
He wakes up at odd hours to go handle something in Tokyo, or Seoul, or New Delhi, and even though I’m the one “hired” to take care of the baby while he works, he often brings Laurel with him once she wakes up.
“A long, busy week,” I whisper. “And tonight is date night with the man who gives me happiness, a home, love, safety... Happiness. My cute pumpkin centerpiece on our little table. I feel like I can say ours.”
“You can. Should.”
“And I feel like Laurel is ours.”
Artie swallows and nods. “I was scared about that at first, but I don’t know why. If having one person to protect you and take care of you is good, two is even better.”
“I love that she’s ours. Mine. But I want to be yours.”
“You already are, as long as it’s okay to say that, to be mine when I don’t have much to offer.” Artie gives me a slow, sweet smile. “And I’m already yours, Imogene. Can’t you tell?”
My heart leaps. Soars. Is this what it’s like to feel like you belong? To be loved? To have someone that they can’t take away? “I was hoping.”
Another kiss. We sway, dancing without music, unless you count Laurel’s babbling as music.
I kind of do.
Artie’s head rests on mine. My eyes are closed, but I hear him sigh. “You deserve to be wined and dined. Have all the beautiful things. I can’t even buy you an engagement ring. Or a wedding ring.”
“I don’t care about that.” I cup Artie’s face, fingers going down his narrow jaw. I love this face. “Rather have you than any piece of metal or shiny rock,” I whisper. “After dinner, want to watch something...romantic?”
“After dinner, we could have dessert.”
“Oh! I finished off the ice cream, and I didn’t try out that cookie recipe we talked about. I could—”
“No, sweetheart. I think we could have a very special dessert.” Artie’s eyebrows raise—then fall. “I’m trying to flirt. I’m bad at it. I meant...”
“Ohhhh. Oh, dessert!” It’s my turn to raise my eyebrows and swivel into him, showing that I understand. “Let’s hope Laurel sleeps through the night.”
“SHE’S HUM-SNORING. Her little tail tip is fluttering. It’s so adorable. Look, I took a video.” Imogene shows me the image on her phone, beaming proudly.
It’s not the kind of foreplay most guys expect, but I love it. I curl up with her on my bed, arms around her waist as we giggle and aww over the video.
When it’s done, she drops the phone. My mouth moves to the back of her neck, pushing her thick, silky pink hair aside so I can kiss all the spots that make her moan and arch her breasts into my hands.
“Do you need to get the—the things you bought?”
I know Imogene is referring to our trip to the store with its in-market pharmacy. We got the baby her antibiotics, a vaporizer for her room, and a pack of condoms.
“I put one on the nightstand,” I murmur into her ear. “But we don’t put it on until we’re ready to use it.”
“Aren’t we ready?”
“Nope.”
I know that some guys would be excited that their partner is planning to take the romance to the next level and rush to the “insert penis here” section of the evening.
I don’t feel that way with Immy. I want everything to be slow and soft, so perfect that there’s nothing but good memories, no discomfort.
.. I suddenly wish I’d had sex with more people, or at least more times, because I want to be an expert, someone who makes her come over and over.
Of course, being on the computer all day has some advantages. During my lag time, I’ve been looking up ways to make things special, ways to make sure Imogene gets what she needs.
“We don’t have to rush,” I whisper, rubbing my hands up and down her back. “I don’t care if it doesn’t happen tonight, even though I’d like it if it did.”
Imogene surprises me by turning to face me. “I’m not scared. Or nervous. Not with you. I don’t want to rush, either. I’m just ready.”
She slides her legs over mine, so flexible and bendy, and for a moment I wonder if krampuses have special joints. Her arms slide around my neck, pulling me close for a kiss that turns into one long, unending kiss. It doesn’t stop; there are just pauses to breathe and nod at each other.
I’m glad she’s leading the way with kisses and no conversation. I can’t put into words what I’m feeling anyway, how incredible she is, how incredible all of this is, and how this feels like it for me. Like after Imogene, before Imogene, there was never and will never be anyone else.
My hands skim up her shirt, and I realize she’s not wearing a bra.
I don’t know if she ever does. Her skin is a little thicker and more supple than mine, and her breasts—her perfect, gorgeous breasts, just stand up like soft hills on a muscular background.
Oh, she doesn’t look like a bodybuilder.
Just like one of those pilates instructors you see on the fitness commercials.
Toned, not through exercise, but through survival, and now through being a hardworking “wife and mom.”
Her shirt slips off over her head, and my mouth connects with the dark cherry nipples that make her moan, and my hand strokes down between her thighs.
I work each nipple with kisses and sucks, until the sucking motion becomes Immy’s favorite, well, that in tandem with my hand pressing between her thighs.
My fingers turn and rub, determined to make her come like this, with her breasts in my mouth and my hand on her clit.
WHATEVER ARTIE IS DOING isn’t fair. Well, not if he wants me to stay coherent.
I’m just a babbling, sighing mess on his lap, not making any words, just happy sounds.
His hands and mouth are in perfect harmony, pulling a symphony of pleasure out of me—and this isn’t even sex.
This is foreplay. If sex is supposed to be better than the foreplay part. ..
I don’t want to be selfish, though. My hands connect with the hem of his shirt, then pull it up, over his head, fingers trailing back down to admire the lean torso and ridges of muscle.
Artie doesn’t look like some big, buff guy, the shirtless ones on the covers of romance novels.
He looks strong, like the kind of person who only has muscle, no fat, not from dieting and exercise, but just from life, from doing everything for himself, and then for his daughter, without help.
But I’m here now. We take care of things together. We take care of each other. My hand works into his jeans, unzipping him and letting his erection spring free. It fills my hand in length, and I wrap my fingers around it easily, grabbing onto what’s mine.
“Can we take these off?” Artie asks, pulling on my flowy cotton lounge pants.
I nod, fighting down a little wave of nerves. Artie loves me. He won’t care if I look different. He won’t point and look sickened at what used to be a tail.
I stand up, and the pants slip to the floor easily.
Artie follows their path. His kisses move from my breasts across my belly, and his hands massage my cheeks. He moans, which surprises me.
“You have the best butt in the universe. And this... Oh, this is going to be one of my favorite spots to hang out,” he murmurs, kissing his way down to my soft, smooth patch of hair, pale pink and short. His lips press below my navel, and I grip his shoulders with a gasp. “Not good?” he asks.