He laughs, and reaches out a hand to pull me into bed. “And I don’t mind at all,” he says then kisses my neck, my earlobe, my eyelids, soft, sweet fluttery kisses that make me feel warm and safe, the perfect antidote to a stressful day. I kiss him back once, lingering on his minty breath, before I shift to my side, and he spoons me.
Flesh to flesh, skin to skin, we drift off, and my head doesn’t hurt the next morning. As I stretch in bed, I feel back to normal, and a bit horny. Thanks to a full night’s sleep filled with incredibly dirty dreams, fueled by massive amounts of hormones cranking through my body, I am ready for a little something. Judging from the erection pressed against my back, Trey won’t need much convincing.
I reach my hand back and stroke him once, twice, three times till he stirs.
“Hmmm. Good morning to me,” he murmurs and kisses my neck, a sexy, sleepy morning kiss.
“It will be soon,” I tell him.
“Lucky me,” he says, looping his arm around me and cupping my breasts, squeezing them softly, then playing with my nipples.
I moan lightly and wriggle against him. “I’m ready,” I whisper.
“But how do you feel? After yesterday?”
“Totally fine. Like new.”
“Do you really think it’s a good idea to have sex after the car accident?”
I roll my eyes. “It was a tiny fender bender, and I’m all good. I feel fabulous. Here, let me show you.” I take his hand and slide it between my legs. He groans as he feels how ready I am for him. “See? I am one hundred percent normal and fine. I am your standard order thirty-six-week pregnant woman who still wants to have sex with her husband. And the doctor said I’m allowed. So count your blessings.”
“One,” he says, as if he’s counting. Then he strokes me more, making me gasp as his fingers draw delicious lines across me. “I’ve lost count,” he whispers sexily, working me where I’m hot for him. “But that’s only because you distracted me with your trick to have sex with me.”
I laugh. “Yes, I tricked you by dreaming about you doing naughty things to me last night.”
“Naughty things. Tell me more.”
“Trey,” I begin.
“Yeah?”
“Can we do it from behind?”
His hand freezes on my breast, and he tenses. “Really?”
“Yes,” I say, and I know he’s thinking of that time in the kitchen at his apartment. And he’s worried. But I’m not. I trust him completely. I trust him with my whole entire heart. “I want to. Besides, I’m pretty sure it’s the only position that’ll work right now.”
“Are you totally sure?”
I turn to look him in the eyes. “So sure. I want this. I want you like this.”
“I want you,” he says, “any way I can have you.”
We get out of bed only for him to line me up on the edge of the bed, my hands pressed against the mattress. He brushes my hair over my shoulder so he can kiss my neck as he edges his erection between my legs. I watch him as he enters me.
“Mmm. This is the perfect wake-up call from my wife.”
“I agree,” I say softly as he fills me up, and I shut my eyes, savoring the sensations, reveling in my need for him, my deep and hungry desire to be close to him right now, to feel him all the way inside me.
He makes love to me like that, slow at first, then faster, his hands on my breasts, then between my legs. He kisses my shoulders, keeps me close, whispers my name, telling me he loves me, he wants me, he will always want to touch me. I lift my butt higher, giving him more room to rock into me, to drive deeper, and he does, bringing me closer with each thrust. All the while he’s here with me, nowhere else, and it feels fantastic. Like we’ve come full circle.
And then we do.
I spend the day doing nothing but lying on the beach with The Sheriff, and it’s blissful, watching kids build sandcastles, and dogs chase Frisbees, and women set up under umbrellas to read their paperback beach reads. Trey’s at work, my semester is over, and I want to enjoy this free time while I can.
Besides, he and Debbie made it pretty clear they want me to do as little as possible. As the sun beats down on me, I can honestly say I don’t mind their directive. I don’t mind basking in the rays.
I even fall asleep on a blanket with the dog next to me, but when I wake up under the hot afternoon sun, there’s a dull throb in my forehead again, a reminder that Tylenol will be my best friend for a few days. As I stand up to collect my blanket and beach bag, the ground tilts momentarily, and my vision goes fuzzy. But within seconds, the dark stars in front of my eyes fade and I’m fine. Must have been from the sun blaring at me, blinding me momentarily when I opened my eyes after napping.
“Let’s head inside,” I say to The Sheriff. He stretches in that downward dog style that only canines can truly master, then trots beside me through the sand as we head inside.
I drop my bag at the kitchen table, and take two Tylenol. Then I root around in the fridge for a snack. I find an orange, grab a bowl, and return to the deck. As I peel it, I’m reminded that I’m sharing space with someone else, and that someone must have been kicking my ribs while I slept, because my side is killing me. I drop the orange peels in the bowl for a minute to rub the right side of my abdomen.
“You have strong feet,” I say to my belly as I rub. “Because you made your mama really sore.”
When Debbie stops by later, we sit on the couch and chat about her day and mine, then she cues up a romantic comedy. “It’s more like an anti romantic-comedy, but it’s still funny and still romantic,” she explains as the title credits for a little indie flick I Give It a Year flash across the TV screen. And she’s right; the film is laugh-out-loud funny, a cheeky reversal of the popular genre, but after a while I can barely keep my eyes open. “I’m so tired,” I murmur, as I try to shift into a more comfortable position on my left side because the right still hurts.
“The last few weeks are like that,” Debbie says, and turns the volume down as I doze off.
The next couple of days continue in that same rhythm. I’m more tired than I’ve ever been, and my ribs are still so sore. My headache wakes me up each morning, and each time I down a few red pills. I must have whacked my head harder than I’d thought on the headrest. My naps turn epic, the heavy kind that last for hours, and when I wake up from them I feel sludgy and sleepier than when I started, a bone-heavy sort of fatigue.
When Trey returns from walking The Sheriff on Sunday morning, he finds me in front of the bathroom mirror rooting around for the Tylenol, with a hand on my forehead, the other one on my ribs, and he asks what’s going on.
“Stupid fender bender. My headache won’t go away,” I mutter. I start to return to bed, but the floor is coming at my face, and I grab onto his shoulder, gripping him hard. He’s so fuzzy, all black and hazy, like a TV on the fritz, and if I let go I might fall because everything around me is bobbing up and down. He grabs me firmly, but carefully, and guides me back to bed.
“I’m calling the doctor,” he says. “This isn’t normal for a minor car accident.”
Two hours later, I’m diagnosed with severe preeclampsia.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Trey
“But how does this happen?” I ask again, standing outside the ER room with the doctor. I’m stuck on repeat, asking for the fiftieth time how Harley has high blood pressure in her pregnancy. He’s already told me how, but I refuse to accept the answer.
“Some things just happen,” he says one more time, crisply enunciating each word.
No. No. No. That’s what doctors say to explain all the bad shit in the world. That’s their reasoning for death, and pain, and heartbreak. Things happen. When I used to say things happened to my shrink, she called me on it. She practically smacked me, and told me to take responsibility for my actions. Why can’t doctors do the same? Things happen is a euphemism for people die.