“Oh.”
“I’m kind of excited now,” I admit. “Since everything’s okay with your father and we’ll be back in Mirror Lake soon. You know that ice cream parlor down by the beach, the one with the checkerboard floor and soda fountain? Did you know it’s attached to a toy store?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“It’s every kid’s dream. You have ice cream, then you go shop for toys. Probably drives the parents crazy, but what a treat for a kid.”
“Sure sounds like it.”
“Anyway.” I try to temper my enthusiasm a little. “I was just looking up pregnancy stuff on the Internet. Thought I’d see what kind of things we’re going to need beyond diapers.”
“Good idea.”
He sounds muted. Must be tired and stressed from three flights, plus delays, and then a long drive from the airport over icy roads.
I flop back onto the bed. Maybe I can help him relax before he goes to sleep. A tingle of anticipation rolls through me.
“So I also looked up sex and pregnancy,” I remark.
“Yeah?”
“You know, for when I’m bigger. I was wondering how we’d manage it.”
“How will we?”
“The website recommended several positions.”
“Which are?” He sounds more alert now.
“Me on top.”
“A good one.”
“Facing each other side by side.”
“Nice.”
“Me on my hands and knees with you fucking me from behind.”
His breath hisses out. I smile.
“I thought that sounded… promising,” I say.
“Sounds more than promising.”
“Are you in bed?” I ask.
“On the sofa.”
“Wearing?”
“Flannel pants. T-shirt.”
“You never wear a shirt to bed.”
“Because you keep me warm. It’s ten degrees here.”
“Will you take it off now?” I ask.
“Why?”
I sigh. “So I can picture you sitting bare-chested on the sofa in our living room.”
“Hold on.” There’s a rustling noise before he comes back on the line. “Shirt’s off.”
“Good.”
“Your turn.”
I look down at my nightgown. “If I take off my nightgown, I’ll be completely naked.”
“Good.”
“Hold on.” I put the phone down and shuck my gown over my head. Then, as a precaution, I make sure the bedroom door is locked before I return to lie down on the bed. “Okay.”
“You’re naked?”
“Uh huh. Oh, except for my underwear. They’re a little tight. I think my butt is getting bigger too.”
“More for me to squeeze.”
“Really? You’re okay with me, you know… growing?”
“You just mentioned a bigger ass, and I’m already hard.”
Arousal jolts me. “You are?”
“Now I’m picturing your breasts, then you bending over to show me your nice, plump ass… and I’m about to come.”
I laugh. “And here I thought I’d have to work a little to relax you.”
“Oh, you can work me.” He pauses. “Are your nipples hard?”
“Yes.” I shift to one elbow. My breasts roll to the side, stiff-peaked, and the cotton of my panties is getting damp between my legs. I run a hand over my belly, across my sensitized nipples. “Speaking of bending over, do you remember that time we did it on the balcony?”
“How could I forget?”
“What floor was it?”
“Seventeenth.”
About a year into our marriage, I’d gone with Dean to Southern California for a medieval studies conference, which was held at a hotel in West LA. He’d been assigned a room with a private balcony. The view was spectacular—the hazy sky arched wide over the urban sprawl of Los Angeles, the spires of Century City jutting upward in the distance. Lines of traffic snaked over the streets, looking like toy cars from the high vantage point.
While Dean went to presentations about medieval stuff, I visited some LA tourist traps and museums. One evening I got back to the hotel before he did, tired and sweaty from a day of touring Hollywood Boulevard and the LA County Museum of Art. After a quick shower, I dressed in a white sundress and went to sit on the balcony, leaving the sliding glass door open.
I had some vague notion of seducing my husband, but actually doing it on the balcony didn’t occur to me.
Until he walked in, all tired and rumpled from discussing feudal customs and city topography. He dropped a distracted kiss on my forehead, muttered something about a banquet dinner, and went to shower.
My poor, hardworking, medievalist husband.
I put my feet up on the balcony railing. Hot air brushed against me, rippling the hotel curtains. My hair was loose, disheveled. I wasn’t wearing panties. Or a bra, for that matter.
I turned when he emerged from the bathroom, bare-chested and wearing boxers, his skin beaded with water. He lifted his arms to scrub at his wet hair with a towel, his muscles flexing beautifully with the movement.
“How were the presentations?” I asked.
“Some really good ones, especially the session about Florentine politics.”
Of course.