Nora #2
Then he stopped making me laugh.
His tongue did that slow, knowing thing that makes my thoughts fall apart. His hands held my hips while he licked me through one orgasm, then another smaller one because my body has become greedy and dramatic around him.
After, I pulled him up by his shirt.
"Inside me."
"Here?"
"Do you have a moral objection to your office couch?"
"Only that it is ugly."
"Then make it useful."
He groaned.
I love that sound.
I love making Daniel Welling, who once stood in rooms with million-dollar men and let them think he was untouchable, groan because his wife told him to fuck her on an ugly couch.
He did. Slow at first, because he is careful with me now in ways that make me want to bite him and kiss him and maybe marry him again just to make a point. Then deeper when I begged, then harder when I said his name in the tone that means stop treating me like a vase.
He knew the tone. He knows all my tones now.
He had one hand braced on the couch, the other under my hip, his mouth at my ear while he moved inside me.
"I love you," he said.
"I know."
"I love this body."
"Daniel."
"I love that you want me. I love that I get to touch you. I love that you let me know you like it."
My throat closed.
Then he changed the angle and ruined any chance of me answering like a person.
I came around him with my face in his neck and my nails in his back, and he followed me seconds later, coming deep while whispering my name like it was still a miracle I let him.
After, he cleaned me up with paper towels from the office bathroom because life is not always glamorous, and then ordered a new couch from his phone while I was still naked.
"That couch did nothing wrong," I said.
"It knows what it did."
"Daniel."
"You deserve better lumbar support."
That is marriage now. Good sex and better lumbar support. I recommend it.
Back in the bakery today, Daniel rubs a thumb over my lower back and leans down.
"Tired?"
"A little."
"Sit."
"Don't command me in my own bakery."
He lifts both hands.
"Would the owner of this beautiful establishment like to sit while her adoring husband finishes labeling the lemon bars?"
"Better."
"I'm evolving."
"Slowly."
He kisses my temple.
"Sit anyway."
I do, because my feet hurt and also because being spoiled is nice.
There. I said it. I like being the spoiled wife. Not the trapped wife. Not the lonely wife in the penthouse waiting for calls. The spoiled wife.
The wife whose husband buys the exact chair she likes for the office because the first one made my back ache.
The wife whose bakery has the expensive ovens.
The wife whose daughter has a college fund and a yellow star lamp that Daniel repaired twice because June says the new ones are wrong.
The wife who can say I want this, I hate that, come here, not now, harder, hold me, leave the room, stay home, and know the answer will not be punishment.
Millionaire's wife. Good sex. Excellent pastries. A strange little trauma recovery plan, but it is working for me.
By closing, June is asleep in the little nest of blankets under the office desk because she refused to leave until Daddy lock door.
Vivienne has gone home after asking whether she may come for brunch on Sunday.
Asking.
Bex has taken the last train home while yelling that if this baby is named after Daniel she will object at the christening, even if there is no christening.
My parents have taken the leftover croissants and my mother's face that says she is trying very hard not to cry over the fact that I am happy.
The bakery is quiet. Clean. Ours.
Daniel turns off the case lights one by one.
The gold lettering on the window glows faintly from the streetlamp outside.
Honey & Rye.
I stand behind the counter and watch him lock the front door.
He turns the key, checks it once, then looks back at me.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Your nothing face is suspicious."
"I like watching you lock up."
His expression softens.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He comes toward me. No asking. He does not have to anymore. I lift my face before he reaches me, and he kisses me there in the closed bakery with flour still in his hair and our daughter asleep in the office. Not a question. A given.
He rests his forehead against mine.
"Ready to go upstairs?"
"In a minute."
His hand slides to my lower back.
"You okay?"
"I'm good."
"Hungry?"
"Always."
"For food?"
"Also."
His eyes heat.
"Nora."
"What? I have needs."
"I am very aware."
"You enjoy my needs."
"Deeply."
He kisses me again, longer this time, until I am smiling against his mouth.
Then June makes a sleepy sound from the office. Daniel pulls back instantly. Not away. Just alert. Ready. That still gets me. Every time.
He goes into the office and comes back with June in his arms, dead asleep, cheek pressed to his shoulder, one hand curled in his collar.
She is almost two now, legs dangling, hair messy, mouth open a little.
"She is getting too big for this," I whisper.
Daniel looks down at her.
"No."
"Very mature."
"She is never too big."
"Your back will have opinions."
"My back can file a complaint."
He carries her up the stairs behind the bakery, careful and slow. I follow, one hand on the rail, one hand on my belly.
The apartment door opens into warm lamplight. Home. Not the penthouse. Not the place I survived. The place we chose.
Daniel carries June to her room and lays her down with the kind of care that still makes my chest hurt. He tucks the blanket around her, checks the yellow star lamp, and kisses her hair.
"Daddy home," she mumbles in her sleep.
He freezes.
I stand in the doorway and watch his throat move.
"Yeah, sweetheart," he whispers. "Daddy's home."
Then he comes back to me. He turns off the hall light, locks the apartment door, checks the oven because I forgot once and he has never emotionally recovered. Then he gets into bed beside his wife. Beside me.
His hand slides under my nightshirt, warm over the small curve of our baby.
I roll into him. He wraps around me without asking.
My husband. Home. Staying.
And this time, when I close my eyes, I know he will still be there in the morning.