After the business of putting out cigars and collecting new ones for Nate’s pockets, we head down to the living room where the rest of our party is gathered. It’s a small affair. Weston and Elizabeth are in town for a few days with their son and six-month-old daughter for Weston’s mother’s birthday. Tonight the kids are with the grandparents, and Sabrina offered to entertain.
While she’s not usually big on these kinds of things, she’s quite good at them when they’re small and personal. I hang back a moment when we arrive downstairs, partly because I like to read a room before entering, but mostly because I like watching her. Her cheeks are flushed and her skin’s glowing. The untouched champagne in front of her tells me this is genuine enjoyment on her part. She’s so engaged, I can almost overlook the faint circles under her eyes and convince myself that I’m seeing problems where there are none.
“It’s the only way to have kids,” Elizabeth is saying, most likely promoting the unique co-parenting arrangement she and Weston have with his baby mama and her partner. They all liked it so much that they did it again, using in vitro this time, to implant Elizabeth’s egg and Weston’s sperm into Callie’s uterus.
I dare say there are better ways to conceive, but bravo for them.
Trish is equally unimpressed. “Sell that to Sabrina. I’m not buying.”
Elizabeth turns to my wife, ready to convince her, and I’m actually glad I arrived in time to hear this.
But before Elizabeth can say anything, Sabrina puts her hand up in a halt. “I’ll keep it in mind. If we ever have a baby.” She’s barely finished speaking when her eyes lift.
Her smile fades as soon as she sees me.
I wonder what my expression has told her, or if she even needed to see me at all. She knew before she spoke the words they were a betrayal. When I’d asked her for a kid, she’d said, not now, which is a far cry from not ever.
She stands quickly. “I have dessert! Now that everyone’s back, I’ll go make us plates. Anyone not want tiramisu?”
Impressive. She’s managed to avoid any follow-up questions about motherhood from Elizabeth who instead asks if Sabrina’s made the dish herself.
My wife laughs, and it’s almost as if she isn’t trying to hide anything at all. “No. I can make one thing in the kitchen, and this is not it. But Jean Claude Martin, our head chef at Gaston’s, made it for us personally earlier today, and even though he’s known for his French food, his tiramisu is to die for.”
But I know her.
And I know all her tells.
So after she leaves the room for the kitchen, I make my own excuse. “I’ll find us a nice dessert wine to pair with it.”
Then I follow after her because, fuck whether or not I should tell her my secret, right now, my only concern is hers.
TWO
The kitchen door is still swinging from Sabrina’s entrance when I push through after her. She glances in my direction, not surprised to see me, because of course I’d follow after her. Of course she can’t escape my suffocation. She knows.
She knows, and yet she insists on rattling off mundanities, as if this conversation will go another way. “I really didn’t expect Jean Claude to clean up after himself,” she says, as she closes the refrigerator door with her shoulder, the dessert dish in her hands. “I mean, I’m grateful—Myrna will appreciate it when she comes in to clean tomorrow—but I couldn’t find the pepper grinder earlier for the life of me. In the end, I found it in the pantry.” She sets the dish on the island, next to the small plates she put out beforehand and starts opening drawers. “Do you want to make bets on where I’ll find the spatula? It should be—oh, it’s here.” She holds up the stainless-steel utensil and grins. “How big do you think I should make the servings?”
I’m sure many men would fall for this distraction, and honestly, I can’t blame them. She’s beautiful like this—her hair falling over one brow, her lips slightly parted, her eyes pleading for me to take the bait. Just fucking take the bait.
I don’t take it. “You really think I came in here to talk about the damn tiramisu?”
Her smile slips, but again, she’s not surprised. She begins to cut into the dessert. “I’d hoped you’d come in to help.”
“Sure. I can help while we argue.” Probably wasn’t best to assume this would be a fight. Already, I’ve made this a confrontation when it should be a discussion.
But it’s already said, might as well double down. I step over to the coffeemaker, already prepped with water and fresh grounds, and hit the start button before opening my mouth to begin my interrogation.
She beats me to speaking first. “Donovan, please. This isn’t the time.”
I close my jaw and bite down. Hard.
She’s fucking right, of course. It’s not the time. It’s not the place. I’m not in the right mindset, and probably neither is she. I can concede that this conversation needs to wait.
But I’m also pissed.
Not just because she’s put me off, but because putting me off means that there’s actually a conversation that needs to be had when it could have been, Oh, Donovan, I was just trying to get them to stop hounding me. Or It just came out. Of course we’ll have a baby eventually.
So now I really don’t want to drop the subject.
I force myself to keep my mouth shut while I pass behind her to the wine fridge. Without examining my options, I pick the first Riesling, and slam the fridge door, which is really ineffective and ungratifying because of the rubber seal around the edges.
I truly do intend to take the bottle and leave. But my frustration is too big to tuck away from our guests. It’s bigger than this one moment. Bigger than tonight. I am a man who demands control of the circumstances around me, a man who—never mind the toxicity of my nature—demands control over his wife, and Sabrina, being who she is, has made me a god by granting me that control in most aspects of our marriage.
But in this aspect, she’s taken it from me.
The need to regain that power is raw and fierce. Instead of passing by, I stop behind her and slam the bottle down on the kitchen island with a satisfying thud. She jumps, but I don’t move. I’m a wall at her back, my heat mixing with hers. She’s scared of me, as she should be, and because fear excites her, I can smell it on her. Over her shoulder, I can see how her nipples have spiked and her breaths have become shallow. I place my hands on either side of her, caging her in, and this time her breath hitches.
And I’m hard.
I push my erection into the cleft of her lower back as I reach around her to grab the dish towel that sits near the stacked plates. Taking an end in each hand, I slowly bring it up toward her left shoulder, then pull it slowly across the base of her neck.
“Donovan,” she whispers, and this time she’s lost all her conviction. “It’s not the time for this either.”
“Perhaps not. But this I don’t have to ask for.”
She shivers as I pull the towel tight across her throat. Not so tight that she can’t speak her safe word, but tight enough to let her know who’s in control. It’s not fair—I admit it. The recent distance between us hasn’t kept us from fucking, but it’s kept me from “forcing” her, and now I realize how much she’s missed it. She’s missed it, and she’s desperate. She wants it too much. The fact that our friends are mere yards away only makes her more turned on.