“I’m disappointed.” I sigh and trace the calligraphy peeping out from under his wedding band. “I was hoping this month . . . well, you know, that my cycle would not come.”
I swallow fresh tears. Rationally, I know it hasn’t been long. I know there’s sometimes a delay when you get off birth control. I have no idea if I’ll be a good mother, but I want to try. With him, for him, I want to try. There was a time when I saw marriage as just a formality. We had everything else: we lived together, we made love, we shared every aspect of our lives. Really, what could a piece of paper add to what we already had?
But it did. It does.
Marrying Grip transformed our love, anchored our commitment in a way I hadn’t understood and could not have anticipated. I couldn’t imagine a deeper devotion than what we shared before we married, but marriage to him uncovered fathoms. Instinctively, I know having his children, raising them together will do the same. It will test us in ways, stretch us in ways, bind us in ways I want to explore. I’ll seek out anything that will grow our love.
“I wanna give you a baby, Grip.”
Even in the inky depths of his eyes, my comment sparks light. An answering desire glows back at me. The intensity is magnetic, drawing me in and holding me captive. He wants it, too, but I can tell he deliberately tamps it down.
“You’re just planning to push it out and drop it off?” Grip’s smile lures me even further out of my funk. “What do you mean give me a baby? Are you not sticking around for the next eighteen years?”
“Shut up.” I snuggle deeper into the corrugated plane of his chest and abs. “You know what I mean.”
“This is for us, Bris.” He pulls back only far enough for me to see his face. He’s teasing me into a better mood, but his eyes are serious. “A baby would add to what we already have, yeah, but what we already have is amazing. It’s more than most people ever get because I’m completely content with just you. Do you know how hard it is to be content, to be satisfied in this life? And I found someone who is more than enough to make me happy forever.”
I nod, convinced, but still shaking off the vestiges of my disappointment.
“I don’t want you feeling pressure.” He holds my chin steady between his thumb and finger. “There’s no pressure. I don’t care if you’re not pregnant next month or next year. It’s you and me. Do I want kids? With you? You know I want to see your eyes and my nose and my lips and your whatever all mixed up in beautiful babies.”
My bones, my heart, my muscles—like candles of wax, they melt under the tender heat in his words, the warmth of his stare.
“But if it never happens, I have you,” he says. “Do you under- stand? You’re it, period—no pun intended.”
He does this every time. He untangles my snarls, uncoils me when I’m tightly wound. Not even five minutes ago, I was teary and sullen, rigid in my hurt and disappointment. Now I’m soft as butter oozing into bread. I’m clinging to him.
“I guess another month, another period.” I hazard a grin when we stand to face each other. “And you’re right, it’s okay.”
“And since you got your period, are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
We offer our very different responses at the same time.
“Ice cream.”
“Anal.”
“Well, this is awkward,” Grip says with an unabashed grin.
“Did you say anal?” An astonished, confused laugh pops out of my mouth. “My period comes on, and you go straight to anal? Why?”
“It’s a different . . . door, baby. It’s the back door.” His hand works down my spine, over the curve of my ass, his middle finger slipping into the divide down the middle of my butt. “This month gave us lemons. I’m just making lemonade.”
“In my ass? You’re making lemonade in my ass? That’s your metaphor?”
“More like a segue. I think your period is a great segue into anal. Lots of people do it as a monthly alternative.”
“Um . . . that’s above my lay grade,” I joke. “We’re not doing that.”
“Like never? You don’t want to do anal ever?” Horrified panic extinguishes the teasing light in his eyes. “But I’ve put my thumb in your ass.”
“So?”
“So that was a step to ease you in. Step one, thumb. Step two, cock. My thumb in your ass is like one hard sneeze away from anal.”
I snort, skeptical and unladylike.
“It would take more than a sneeze to get your dick in there.” “Bris,” he says, patience in his tone and expression. “What’s the difference between my thumb and my dick?”