32. Luisa #2
“I can’t-” I was panting into the pillow, my whole body trembling. “Wade, I’m going to-”
“Not yet.”
He pulled back.
I made a sound of protest that was absolutely not dignified.
“Patience,” he said, climbing back up my body. “We have all the time in the world.”
He kissed me again, and I could taste myself on his tongue, intimate and raw and perfect. His hips settled between my thighs, the hard length of him pressing against where I was slick and wanting.
“I love you,” he said.
“I love you too.”
“I’m going to make love to you now.”
“Please.”
He pushed inside me.
Slowly. So slowly. Inch by inch, giving me time to adjust, to feel every part of him filling me. My body opened for him like coming home, familiar and strange at once, four years of separation collapsing into nothing.
“Oh God.” His voice was wrecked. “Luisa. You feel-”
“I know.”
He bottomed out, and for a moment we just stayed there. Connected. Complete. His forehead pressed against mine, our breath mingling, both of us trembling with the effort of holding still.
“Move,” I whispered. “Please move.”
He did.
The first thrust was gentle. Careful. Testing. But when I hooked a leg over his hip and dragged him deeper, the last of his restraint seemed to break. His hips snapped forward, harder, and I gasped into his mouth.
“Quiet,” he reminded me, even as he thrust again.
“Then stop making me want to scream.”
He laughed. Actually laughed, his whole body shaking with it, and the sensation of his laughter while he was inside me was so strange and wonderful that I started laughing too.
“This is ridiculous,” I managed.
“This is perfect.”
He was right. It was perfect. Messy and laughing and tearful all at once, our bodies moving together in a rhythm twelve years in the making.
He knew exactly how I liked it, deep and steady, with just enough edge to make me gasp.
And I knew him too, knew that he liked it when I raked my nails down his back, knew that the broken sound he made when I fluttered around him told me he was close.
“I’m not going to last,” he warned. “You feel too good.”
“Then don’t.”
I pulled his mouth down to mine and kissed him hard, my hips rising to meet his thrusts. The pressure was building again, winding tighter with every stroke, every brush of his body against mine.
“Come with me,” he said. “Please, Luve. I want to feel you-”
“I’m close-”
“Let go.”
I shattered.
The orgasm hit me all at once, white-hot and blinding, so intense I saw stars. I buried my face in his neck to muffle my cry, felt his rhythm stutter, felt him follow me over the edge with a groan he muffled against my hair.
We lay there for a long moment, tangled together, both of us gasping. His weight was heavy on top of me, but I didn’t want him to move. Didn’t want this moment to end.
“I love you,” he said again.
“I heard you the first time.” I pulled his arm tighter around me. “Keep going.”
“I’m going to keep saying it.”
“Good.”
He rolled off me, but only to pull me against his side, my head on his chest, his arm wrapped around me. I could hear his heartbeat, still fast, but slowing. Settling.
“We should sleep,” I said.
“Probably.”
Neither of us moved.
“Wade?”
“Mm?”
“Thank you. For coming tonight. For being here.”
“There’s nowhere else I’d be.”
I smiled against his chest and let my eyes close.
***
I woke to the smell of French toast.
For a moment, I just lay there, confused. The bed beside me was empty, the sheets cool, morning light streaming through the curtains. The clock on my nightstand said 9:47.
Then I heard it, Poppy’s shriek of delight, followed by Wade’s low laugh.
I pulled on a robe and padded down the hallway.
The scene in my kitchen stopped me in my tracks.
Wade was standing at the stove, shirtless, powdered sugar dusted through his hair and across one cheekbone. Poppy was perched on a step stool beside him, wearing her favorite dragon pajamas and an expression of intense concentration as she held a spatula over a pan.
“The key,” Wade was saying, “is to wait for the edges to turn golden. You see how they’re crisping up? That means the bottom is cooked and it’s time to flip.”
“But how do I flip it?”
“You slide the spatula underneath, gently, like this, and then you use your wrist to turn it over. It’s all about the angle of approach.”
“What’s an angle of approach?”
“It’s like when you’re building a tower with blocks. You have to think about which direction to place each piece.”
“Oh!” Poppy’s face lit up. “Like engineering!”
“Exactly like engineering.”
She slid her spatula under the French toast with exaggerated care, tongue poking out the corner of her mouth. Then, with a flick of her wrist, she flipped it.
It landed perfectly.
“I DID IT!” She whirled around and spotted me in the doorway. “MOMMY! DID YOU SEE? I FLIPPED IT!”
“I saw, baby. That was amazing.”
Wade turned to look at me. His smile was soft, fond, devastatingly happy. “Good morning.”
“It really is.”
“There’s coffee.”
“You’re an angel.”
I poured myself a cup and leaned against the counter, watching them. Wade guided Poppy through another flip, his patience seemingly infinite, his attention fully focused on our daughter’s small triumphs.
This, I thought. This is what I almost missed. What fear almost cost me.
Poppy turned to show me her latest piece of French toast, golden brown, slightly lopsided, absolutely perfect. Her smile was brighter than the morning sun.
“Daddy says we can have chocolate chips on the next batch!”
Daddy.
She’d called him daddy.
I looked at Wade. His expression was carefully neutral, but his eyes were bright. Wet, maybe.
“Chocolate chips sound wonderful,” I managed.
He caught my gaze and held it. And in his eyes, I saw everything, the love, and the fierce determination to make this work. To earn every day of this life we were building.
The morning light poured through the windows, turning my tiny kitchen gold. My daughter laughed as she poured batter. My husband, because that’s what he was, had always been, would always be, stood beside her with flour in his hair and joy in his face.
It was domestic bliss so acute it was almost violence.