20. Willow #2
“The kiss was a moment of weakness. A very pleasant moment of weakness.” I let myself smile, just a little. “But it was also a promise. That I’m willing to try. That I haven’t given up on us yet.”
“That’s enough.” His voice is thick with emotion. “That’s more than enough.”
We finish our cold breakfast, and the silence between us is different now, nothing like the cold emptiness of estrangement or the heavy weight of unsaid words.
I’m putting the plates in the sink when I feel it, a flutter low in my belly, stronger than the ones before. I press my hand to the spot and feel it again: movement, unmistakable this time.
“Willow?” Corey’s voice is worried. “What is it? Are you okay?”
“The baby,” I breathe. “I think, I think I just felt the baby move. Really move.”
He’s beside me in an instant, his hand hovering near my belly but not quite touching, waiting for permission. I take his hand and press it to the spot where I felt the flutter.
We wait. One heartbeat. Two.
And then it comes again, a tiny ripple of movement under his palm.
His breath catches. His eyes fill with tears.
“That’s our baby,” he whispers. “That’s really…”
“Yeah.” I’m crying too now, but for the first time in months, the tears don’t taste like grief. “That’s really our baby.”
We stand there in the kitchen, his hand on my belly, both of us crying, both of us feeling the impossible miracle of the life we made together moving for the first time.
And for just a moment, everything else falls away, the pain, the betrayal, the months of silence and separation. There’s only this: his hand, my belly, our child announcing itself to both of us at once.
It’s not forgiveness or resolution. But it’s something.
It’s a beginning.
I excuse myself back to the garden room before either of us can say a word that ruins it, and I close the door and lean against it with my heart hammering and my whole body awake in a way I have no intention of naming out loud.
The lock clicks beneath my hand, and I stay against the door with my eyes closed, trying to convince myself that putting a piece of wood between Corey and me will settle what he started in the kitchen.
It doesn’t.
He’s still close enough that I could open the door, take ten steps, and find him standing where I left him.
His hand was warm on the curve of my belly less than a minute ago, and when the baby moved beneath his palm, his entire face changed.
I watched his eyes fill before I walked away because seeing him cry made me want to touch him, and wanting that felt far more dangerous than anger ever has.
Now my nipples are tight beneath my shirt, my underwear is damp, and the ache between my legs pulses every time I remember his mouth on mine.
“Fuck,” I whisper, wrapping my fingers around the ring hanging against my sternum.
The metal presses into my palm while I tell myself this is nothing more than hormones. Pregnancy has my body running hot, especially now that the sickness is easing and I’m starting to feel human again. Sensitivity doesn’t equal forgiveness, and being wet doesn’t mean I want my husband back.
Unfortunately, my body doesn’t care about any of those distinctions.
It remembers the kiss from this morning with perfect clarity.
Corey started gently, cupping my face in both hands while his thumbs moved across my cheeks, but the second I grabbed his shirt and opened my mouth beneath his, his control slipped.
I can still feel his tongue against mine and the small pull of his teeth on my lower lip.
Twelve years with him means I don’t need to imagine what would have happened next because I know every step, every touch, and every filthy thing he says when he stops trying to behave.
My hand slides beneath the waistband of my pants before I consciously decide to move it.
“No,” I mutter, although my fingers have already reached the soft curve of my lower stomach.
I pause there and look down at my body. The baby has made the curve impossible to dismiss now, and my throat tightens when I remember the wonder in Corey’s face when the baby moved beneath his palm.
None of this is simple, but I’m too tired to pretend that wanting him means I’ve forgiven him.
It doesn’t. Touching myself doesn’t change my boundaries, and remembering exactly how my husband makes me come doesn’t give him permission to do it again.
That reasoning is weak, but it gives me enough room to stop fighting.
I cross the garden room while shoving my pants and underwear down together, then step out of them beside the bed.
Morning light pushes around the blackout curtains, leaving a pale border against the walls, while the brass bell sits untouched on the nightstand.
I could ring it once and Corey would come, because every night his footsteps stop outside this door and every night he chooses not to knock.
My thighs press together at the thought.
“Not happening,” I tell the empty room, then sit on the edge of the mattress and spread my knees.
Cool air reaches my wet skin. When I drag two fingers between my folds, they come away slick enough to make me swear again, and the sight of them only makes the pulse in my clit stronger.
Corey would look.
He has always liked watching me, especially when I’m already wet. He’d sit between my knees, put those big hands on my thighs, and spread me wider before taking his time with his eyes.
Don’t make me wait.
Why not? You got this wet for me.
The remembered answer makes me tighten around nothing.
“It isn’t yours,” I whisper, but I’m already rubbing slow circles over my clit.
The first pass is almost too light, so I press harder on the next one and let my head fall back.
Pleasure moves quickly through me, sharper than it used to be, and my hips follow my hand before I can stop them.
Corey would notice the change immediately.
He notices everything, including the exact pressure that makes my breathing catch and the places where my body has become more sensitive.
My free hand slips under my shirt and pulls one cup of my bra down. I cup my breast, testing the weight and tenderness before pinching my nipple between two fingers.
The combined sensation makes me gasp.
Too much?
“Don’t fucking stop.”
Wasn’t planning to.
His voice is so clear in my head that my fingers move faster. I rub my clit while squeezing my breast, and when I close my eyes, it’s easy to remember his mouth replacing my hand. He would suck gently at first, then harder when I pulled his hair, while his fingers worked between my legs.
A quiet moan escapes me as I slide lower and circle my entrance.
One finger pushes inside without resistance. I curl it forward, searching for the pressure I need, but it isn’t thick enough and it can’t reach as deeply as Corey’s hand does.
I add a second.
The stretch pulls another sound from my throat, and this time I don’t bother holding it back. My hips start moving with the slow thrust of my fingers while the heel of my palm presses against my clit, but the angle keeps slipping and frustration cuts through the pleasure.
Corey would fix it without making me explain.
What do you need, Willow?
“You know what I need.”
Use your words.
I pump my fingers faster, curling them each time they slide deep, and the wet sound fills the dark room.
“More.”
More what?
“Fuck you.”
His remembered laugh is low and rough.
Not yet. Ask properly.
My pussy clenches around my fingers, and I hate how easily my body responds to a conversation that isn’t even happening.
“Please,” I breathe.
Please what?
The ring swings against my chest as I lie back and spread my legs wider. My shirt bunches beneath my breasts, and I tug the other bra cup down before squeezing both nipples between my fingers in turn.
“Please make me come.”
Good girl.
The words hit hard enough to arch my back.
“Fuck, Corey.”
I pull my fingers out, slick them through my folds again, then push them back inside while my thumb takes over on my clit. The position is better, and pleasure begins building with every thrust, but memory refuses to stay limited to his hand.
I see his mouth between my thighs.