"Sometimes I wish I had a mother-in-law."

George coughed a few times, then replied, "I misheard you. I 
thought you said you wished you *had* a mother-in-law."

Nancy, Bess, and George were having lunch at an Italian restaurant 
just inside the city. Nate and his father were taking care of the 
children for a few hours.

Bess tilted her head. "I am," she said. "I mean, that's what I said. And 
it's true. At least once Nancy has her baby, she'll have more than 
one option for childcare."

"Nate's dad doesn't like to take care of the kids?" Nancy asked.

Bess shrugged. "He's busy a lot," she said. "A Sunday afternoon for a 
few hours, fine. I don't even mind staying over there. But for a 
Wednesday night out or something? Nah."

George turned to Nancy. "So you'd give Edith up?"

Nancy paused, straw in her mouth, and thought about it. Since she 
and Ned had told his parents about her pregnancy, Edith couldn't 
have been nicer. "I'll put it this way," she said. "Once I actually have 
the baby, I think it's more like I'll be doing the childcare for Edith, 
not the other way around. The woman is practically salivating over 
the thought of her first grandchild."

"But doesn't she take you on shopping trips and buy you cool 
presents?"

Nancy shrugged. Then she thought about the shopping trips she'd 
taken with Ned and his mother, and smiled. "Ned and I usually 
manage to entertain ourselves when she's along."

Edith hadn't forgotten that Nancy had betrayed her son. And even 
though his parents had taken it as badly as her father, that fact 
seemed to have been conveniently forgotten. Mostly because, and 
Nancy was as sure as she had been seven years before, Edith 
thought Nancy had seduced Ned into marrying her. Not the second 
time, not the time they had stood up in the church with their 
parents and relatives watching, and had said their vows a second 
time, but before.

And Nancy could always feel that knowledge, whether Edith was 
making any allusion to it or not.

That night, after she had put on her customary camisole and flannel 
pants and slid into bed with her husband, she propped her head up 
on her hand and studied him in the artificial light.

"What?" he asked, without turning.

When she didn't reply he looked over at her, his chest bare, remote 
control cradled loosely in his palm.

"Is your mom still mad at me?"

"About what?"

"About-- before."

He didn't appear to have heard her. His face stayed static, the same 
blank, vaguely interested, expression, but it was frozen. He turned 
back toward the television.

She was reaching for his hand when he turned back to her.

"If I talk to you about this..." He looked away. "If I do this, then we're 
going to have sex until we pass out. I want that understood."

She nodded, wordless. He threw back the covers.

"Where are you going?"

"Downstairs," he replied. "You didn't say I had to be sober. Go pick 
out something cute to wear, I'll be right back."

Deciding on an outfit was nerve-wracking. Ned didn't go for verbal 
foreplay, like this. Ned went for a stroking hand resting just above 
her skin, some delicious whispered threat that ended in them 
making out wherever they were. Laundry room, shower, study, 
nursery, wherever. If the impetus was strong enough, he didn't stop 
long enough to carry her to their bedroom. But this, this was like 
foreplay in reverse, the stark statement, the look in his eyes...

She settled on a black slip, its hem striking the very tops of her 
thighs, covered in a nearly transparent long-sleeved robe that hit 
just back of her knees. She climbed back into bed, under the covers, 
comforter up to her chin, and waited.

He walked back in with an unopened fifth, a bucket of ice, an empty 
glass, and a 2-liter of soda, on one of the trays they had been given 
as a wedding present. He arranged them carefully on the bedside 
table, took a shot to start out, and found a movie playing on one of 
the pay channels. Nancy stayed under the covers, not talking, not 
touching him, painfully aware of his reluctance and her own fear.

He drank at a steady pace, as the movie progressed, as his cheeks 
colored in the darkness, but she knew him and she could read the 
signs that his mood was not letting him reach the stage of 
intoxication he wanted, the stage where he could talk to her and 
forget later what he had said, what he had been feeling as he'd told 
her. A few shots and he was beyond that; the movie no longer able 
to hold his attention, he let his head loll to the side, toward her.

"What're you wearing?" he asked, his voice deceptively clear. He 
reached toward her, peeled back the comforter, then rolled over 
onto his stomach, fingers sliding up to her shoulder to pull back the 
robe. She braced herself on her elbows and pulled herself up, and he 
drew it down her arm, kissed her shoulder.

"Too many clothes," he mumbled, "always too many clothes. Come 
here," and he didn't even bother to toss the robe off the bed once 
he'd pulled it off her. He shook his head when he saw the indecently 
brief silk panties she was wearing under the slip. "Always too 
many."

His eyes were bright, and she had made love to him before when he 
was drunk, but not like this. Not while she was this stone, painfully 
sober, not when her attention was so terribly centered on him. She 
half-hoped he had forgotten, that he would reach toward her with 
customary lecherous intent, and as he crawled out of his shorts and 
pushed up her gown she almost let herself believe it.

"I'd never believe there was a baby in there," he said, a simple 
wonder on his face as he spread his flat palm over the breath-
trembling surface of her abs. "I'd never believe it.

"Take it off," he said, in the same tone, cultivated disinterest. "Slow. 
I want to watch."

As she climbed to unsteady legs on her side of the bed, still in the 
faint silhouette of the ignored television, she felt none of the safety 
or comfort or, to be honest, innate sexiness, she had felt any other 
time she had undressed for him. Stripped, in all honesty, that was 
what she had done, and this, what she was doing now, felt as vulgar 
as the word sounded. The look on his face wasn't rabid, carnal lust, 
but may as well have been, for her unease.

When she came back to him he had the sheet draped over the lower 
half of his body, leaving his chest bare, and he drew her to him, over 
the sheet, so that the fabric remained between them. Her chest was 
warm and bare against his, her arms doubled and resting against 
him.

"She loved you," Ned said, his chin nestled against her scalp. 
"Thought you were the best thing ever invented. Dad thought you 
were great. Everyone thought everything between us would be great, 
fine, we'd get married after college. But it wasn't going to be for a 
while. We were too young to settle down."

She nodded, awkwardly, her face pressed against his chest.

"'It was for the best,'" he said, stumbling slightly, his voice harsh. 
"That's what they all said. 'They all,' as though everyone on earth 
was in agreement about us... it seemed like they were. That's what 
they said when you left. For the best. Everything worked out great. It 
was a mistake and it had never happened and we hadn't been on 
that beach together and I hadn't put a wedding ring on your finger 
and you and I had never, ever made love.

"Keeping that letter you wrote me in my wallet would have been 
better than a condom," he said. "Safe sex, hell, looking at it made 
me want to die."

She moved restlessly against him, but his hands didn't move, 
fingers interlaced, resting in a tangle at the small of her back.

"But I couldn't," he said. "I felt physically ill every time I looked at it. 
You gave me no closure, Nancy. No fucking closure. I kept feeling 
like if I could see you, somehow, if I could make you listen to me, in 
person, on the phone, something, *something,* then we could... 
something could be okay again. Something. And my parents picked 
up on that, Nan, they knew I was frustrated, and the longer it went 
that I didn't hear from you. Nan, I was angry, and hurt, so fucking 
bad."

"I know," she whispered into his chest, his grip tightening on her 
skin.

"You *don't* know," he hissed. "You don't understand it and you 
don't know how it was for me."

"Ned, I'm so sorry," she said. Tears pricked behind her eyes.

"'It was for the best,'" he repeated in mock singsong. "Mom set me 
up with other people. Mom called you an unfeeling bitch and she 
knew what you had done to me."

Nancy pushed herself up until her forehead was against his, her 
eyes on level with his, and took a gasping sob of a breath, her tears 
sliding down her cheeks to fall onto his, her knees planted on either 
side of his hips. He reached up, instead of smoothing her hair back, 
he laced his fingers in its strands and held on tight.

"Ned."

"Fuck you," he said. "How dare you ask me if she still hates you, 
when I hated you then, I *hated* you, I had never hated anyone that 
much. And I still loved you, and that made it worse. You left me, you 
betrayed me--"

She kicked the covers down, from between them, put her hand 
against his face, felt his shuddering breath against her lips. "You did 
that to me, you did that to all of us," he said, his voice softer now, 
softened by the sudden moisture on his face.

"I loved you so much," she whispered, blinking tears off her 
eyelashes. "That last night with you... that night when you were 
studying, and we, you were inside me, Ned, God..."

"But it didn't matter, did it," he said. "None of it mattered."

Her hand still resting against his cheek, she buried her face against 
the side of his neck, her expression tortured. "It mattered," she 
whispered. "I never forgot anything that happened when I was with 
you and I never spent a day I didn't wish things hadn't gone 
differently."

He curled his fingers against her scalp, and she slipped one of her 
knees just between his thighs, their bodies tangled and flushed in 
the darkness.

"We were too young."

She reached up and wiped her face, leaned back so she could regard 
him with shining blue eyes. "Maybe I was," she said. "I had a lot of 
growing up to do before he raped me."

In the space of a breath he had kicked the rest of the covers away 
and rolled over with her, so that her head rested on her pillow and 
he on top of her, his hands still at her face, eyes still wet. "Is that 
why you were afraid I was going to do that to you?"

"I don't know," she whispered. "I don't know. You didn't. I never...I 
was never afraid you were going to do that. Being with you was 
exciting, and scary, but not, not because I thought you would force 
me. You're not like that."

He traced her lips with his finger. "You afraid right now?"

She kissed his fingertip. "I've already said yes."

"I can feel your heart beating," he murmured, his eyes firm on hers, 
his fingers trailing to just below the curve of her breast. "What could 
I have done to stop him?"

"Nothing," she replied, her voice breaking. "I was there and I 
couldn't stop him."

He traced the side of her face, the pulse in her neck. "While I burned 
for you--"

"I thought about making sure I could never be hurt again. I lost my 
best friend the day I lost you. I thought I'd lost everything and he 
took away even more."

"You never lost me."

"When I closed the door, it was over," she whispered. She leaned up 
to kiss the side of his neck. "He made sure of that, he told me you'd 
never take me back, there was no use in trying..."

"And he was wrong, wasn't he."

She searched his eyes. "Sometimes I think he was right," she said. 
"After what you said tonight. There's no way you could take me 
back. I was the one who walked out, not him. I was the one who 
decided that how strongly I felt about you just wasn't enough."

"Do you still think that's true?"

She closed her eyes as he brushed her hair back from her face. "If I 
could go back to that day I would have gone to the door and met 
you naked," she said. "I would have lived off ramen noodles and 
helped you study, I would have gotten my licensure and cheered at 
your football games. I would have been there to see you graduate. I 
would have made myself good enough to walk through your parents' 
front door and have them call me their daughter in law without 
remembering me as the bitch who hurt their son." She reached up 
and drew his face down to hers, until only a breath separated them. 
"I would have defied anyone, your parents or my father or anyone 
else, to tell us we were wrong."

"Are you proud to call me her husband?"

Nancy blinked up into his filling eyes. "I always have been," she 
whispered. "Sometimes I think that's what stopped me from ending 
it, even after him, even after he had turned me inside out and 
violated me, that remembering what you and I were was enough."

"I thought about it too," he said. "Because never in a million years 
did I think we would ever be together like this again."

He leaned down and kissed her so deeply she lost her breath, so 
sweetly, the taste of his tears on her cheeks, his weight shifting as 
he touched her thigh and she opened her legs willingly, eagerly, 
alcohol bitter against their tongues. He knelt over her, desperation 
and impatience in his caress, and when they joined it was like a 
whispered prayer, wordless thanksgiving. She tilted her head back, a 
quiet groan escaping her lips, and he leaned forward against her 
again, trailed kisses down her neck, listened to the speeding throb 
of her heart.

She breathed his name, her arms up around him, her mouth falling 
open as his hips surged against hers, she was wet warmth and 
perfume and the soft silken slide of her fingertips over his 
sensitized nerves, her toes sliding against the soles of his feet. He 
kissed her again and felt the hitches in her breath as he moved 
inside her, short insistent thrusts so deep, her grip tightened on his 
skin. Their kiss ended audibly, his breath in short puffs against her 
face, against her eyelids.

"Open your eyes," he gasped to her, and she obeyed, sapphire gaze 
searching his eyes, blinking slowly with every groan. He moved over 
her and she was beyond speech or thought, centered on his 
movement and the beginning of her instinctual response to it, and 
with her first spasm he groaned aloud, the slight movement of her 
calves across his. He closed his eyes, lips pressed to the hollow of 
her collarbone, as her whispered encouragement became orgasmic 
screams.

He rolled off her and she drew a trembling breath, her skin glowing 
in the soft light as she turned toward him, facing each other across 
the pillows. Her eyes fluttered open and she moved into his embrace 
the second he offered it, her face against his chest, his arm curved 
around her back.

--

Jean was staring at her, and Ned was nowhere around. She had fallen 
asleep with his arm across her, but now, she could not feel him at 
all.

She stood with her back against the cinder block wall, arms crossed, 
eyes downcast. After a moment of silence she looked up at him for 
the briefest second, then looked away.

"So you're having his baby."

Her eyes shifted to her abdomen. She could not see her feet; her 
belly was rounded, heavy, solid.

"Yes," she whispered.

No bailiff around, no one watching. He was wearing a white t-shirt 
and dark pants. And the door was hanging open.

When she saw that her mouth went dry.

This was all impossible. Somewhere she was in bed with her 
husband, not here, and that should have been enough. Should have.

She started to draw a breath and his hand rested on the edge of the 
door. He pushed it open and the metal squealed, and there was 
nothing but air between them now.

A small trapped moan escaped her throat.

"*Nancy--*"

The paralysis loosed and she drew breath with a sob, pushing away 
from the movement as the fear bled into full-throated screams. She 
was almost to her numb feet when a hand closed around her wrist, 
and her wide eyes rolled toward it, her mouth falling open.

"Nancy!"

She sank to her knees on the carpet, still pushing at the grasping 
hand with the heel of her own. Her screams faded into frustrated, 
desperate moans. As his other hand grabbed her arm she pushed 
herself to her feet again, tugging at him like a five year old.

"It's me! Nancy! What the hell, Nan--"

The fight left her then. She allowed him to pull her back onto the 
mattress, back into his embrace. She shook, startled by his every 
movement, and he stroked her hair back from her face, pressed his 
lips to her forehead.

"What's wrong," he breathed against her skin, sliding his hand down 
to her back, the other cupping her cheek. "Nan, are you all right?"

She swallowed against her dry throat and nodded, dully. "I'm okay," 
she breathed.

"What happened?"

"He was..." She reached up and ran her hand through her hair, then 
put her arm around him, held him close to her. He could still feel 
her shaking. A tear slipped down her cheek and onto his forearm. 
"He was in his cell and he was free, he was coming out for me..."

"Him?"

She nodded and took a sharp breath. "He's never done that before."

"What are you talking about," he said, his voice low.

She told him. With her arms up around his neck and her face against 
his shoulder she told him about the dreams she thought his 
presence would mute, but she had been wrong. He made her tell him 
about all the dreams she'd had, the ones while he was in Germany, 
and the more she said, the tighter his jaw became.

"Ned," she whispered, her face wet now, her skin damp where it 
touched his.

"Why didn't you tell me," he said, and his voice was so cold.

"You didn't ask for this," she replied. "You didn't sign on to be tied 
to some lunatic for the rest of your life. They're just dreams. Just 
bad dreams."

"If they're just dreams then you could tell me," he replied.

To that she had no answer.

--

When they woke the next morning she seriously considered calling 
in sick to work. She felt numb and incredibly tired, tears having 
dried hard onto her cheeks.

*Michael,* she remembered, and tossed back the covers, scowling. 
She couldn't miss her replacement's first day.

Sleet and snow had been falling steadily all night, and the dim light 
making its way through the curtains was muted and sullen. She 
dressed in black, wrapped a wool duster around her, and tramped 
through the slush out to her car.

She had read over his file and was fully prepared to dislike him. 
According to the reports of his supervisors he was good but 
inclined to cut corners, just cocky enough for his abilities as a field 
agent. The nature of their cases forbid such behavior.

She heard a tap and looked up, into Roberts' warm eyes. "He's here," 
he announced.

She smoothed her hair back under the barrettes, set her shoulders, 
and walked out to meet the guy who might very well replace her, if 
she did decide to go on permanent maternity leave.

The mug shot attached to his file had not done him justice. She felt 
her mouth go dry when she realized his gaze was centered on her. 
Whatever words of introduction Roberts was speaking fell against 
deaf ears.

He was gorgeous. Dark, but not quite black, hair, eyes the color of 
caramel, just taller than Roberts and dressed in charcoal grey suit 
and red tie. He took her hand and--

Whatever she'd been feeling, as she shook his hand, slowly faded. 
The confidence in his grasp, the dismissal of the wedding rings 
prominent on her finger... she felt her lip curl faintly.

He wasn't Ned.

At least, not under good lighting.

--

Stone was watching from his own desk, knowing at the back of his 
mind he shouldn't be staring but finding himself unable to stop. 
Nancy looked utterly taken with the new guy, at least until Roberts 
had left and the two of them had started talking to each other.

He found himself wishing she'd stare at him that way, and then 
remembered the stroke of her hand down her husband's cheek on 
the half-lit deck.

He smiled. Maybe Michael needed to see his competition.

--

Nancy didn't connect the gleam in Ellison's eye with her insistence 
that Nancy and Michael go out to lunch, until much later, after the 
two of them had been seated in booths a little too intimate for her 
liking, at a sandwich shop downtown.

"You seem like you're on top of your game," he said, arm stretched 
across the back of the booth, the expression on his face 
inappropriately relaxed for someone she had known so short a time. 
"Why are you training me to take your place?"

"Didn't Roberts tell you I'm pregnant?"

He shrugged. "Guess he thought it'd be better coming from you."

Her cell phone rang, and she answered it hurriedly. "Hey."

"Sorry it took me so long to get back to you," her husband said. "Did 
you still want to go out? I think I can get--"

"No, something came up," she replied. "I'll tell you about it later, and 
I'll definitely take a raincheck on lunch."

"Anytime," he said easily. "Love you."

"Love you," she replied.

Michael tilted his head. "That the guy who knocked you up?" he 
asked, after she hung up her phone.

Nancy stared at him for a minute. "Yeah," she replied, her voice icy. 
"That was him."

"How long do we have until you're on leave?" he asked, then smiled 
up at the waitress who brought their drinks.

Way too long, for my liking. "About five months," she replied. "Give 
or take. We're adopting a baby who's going to be born a little before 
this one."

"You really are a glutton for punishment, aren't you."

He asked her about other things, little icebreakers, how long she'd 
been married, and though she was tempted to reply with the actual 
number of years she gave the standard answer. He said he had 
looked up her file and noticed the outstanding number of completed 
cases her department had to its name. And with every question she 
felt a bit more nervous, as though any answer, even consisting of 
two words, was enough to allow him a glimpse of her unguarded.

"Are you the one who was involved in that court case?"

She glanced at her watch. Due to Ellison's winking "Take as long as 
you want," she had no excuse to get back to the office. Their 
sandwich plates had long been cleared away. Her foot was jerking in 
an erratic rhythm under the table. "Yes," she answered shortly.

He reached out and took her hand. As she moved to jerk away, he 
said, in a soft steady voice, "I have a gun pointed at you under the 
table."

She would have risked it before, but for the sudden paralyzing 
knowledge that she wasn't just one anymore. She began to turn her 
head, to look out at the restaurant, to see if she could catch 
anyone's gaze.

His grip tightened. "Eyes on me," he advised her.

The lunch crowd was thinning out, anyway. Her empty glass 
provided testament to their waitress's forgetfulness.

"We're going out to the car. And if you do anything suspicious, it 
will look like an accident."

Once they were in the car he made sure her cell phone was in her 
purse and that her purse was far enough away from her to cause a 
problem. He put her in the back seat, her wrist handcuffed to his, 
child safety locks, and there was nothing, nothing she could do.

"I see I didn't look enough like him to do it," Michael said. He smiled 
at her. "Just relax, this is going to be over with soon."

"What is?" She felt like she couldn't breathe.

He spoke the word.

She never remembered what the word was, later. She never 
remembered anything other than a sense of peace and tranquility 
and knowing that all was right with the world.

When he was finished, while they were still in the car together, she 
called Dr Strathman and told him that she was going to be busy for 
a while, and would call him when she had a somewhat normal 
schedule again.

She hung up the phone and they were in the parking lot of the 
complex, he was smiling, and...

She smiled back, unevenly. "Okay," she said slowly. "So let's get 
started."

--

She walked into their house, fumbling for her ringing cell phone. His 
car was already in the driveway. She was an hour later than usual. 
Nothing thawing on the counter, she'd been too tired to remember 
dinner at seven o'clock in the morning.

Ned was seated indian-style in front of the crackling fireplace, in an 
old ivory sweater she remembered very well. The land phone was 
cradled to his ear. When he heard her entrance he turned, lips parted 
slightly, and ended the call; her phone chirped angrily to let her 
know she had missed it.

"Are you all right?"

She bolted the door behind her. She had looked down at the phone a 
dozen times, a lie trembling on her lips, but no strength in her to 
tell it. Her fingers danced across the keypad and the alarm system 
was activated.

"I'm fine," she replied, meeting his eyes. "Sorry I didn't call."

"I was getting worried."

He watched as she approached him, unbuttoning her jacket, draping 
it over the back of the couch. She unzipped her pants at the side 
and stepped out of them, folded them over the jacket, and walked to 
the kitchen in a grey silk camisole, long cream-smooth legs bare. 
Her fingers brushed against his on the way.

*silk muted in the moonlight, her hand in his*

His breath caught.

"What do you feel like?"

He followed her into the kitchen. The fingers of her left hand were 
fighting the air, one knee bent, foot crossed behind the other ankle, 
her hair tumbling down her back as she gazed into the sterile light 
of the refrigerator. Toenails stained rose pink.

He raised his chin. "Takeout Chinese." A challenge in his voice, but 
it wasn't that much of a gamble.

She turned her head and regarded him from over her shoulder, did 
not break his gaze as the door glided back into place. She was 
smiling faintly. "Takeout it is," she said. "You order. I'm going to 
take a bath."

Her fingers were still fighting the air.

--

He followed her upstairs after he called in their usual order. The 
camisole was discarded at the foot of the bed. She had left the 
bathroom door open, and he walked through the gloom to the 
square of golden light and the curve of her silhouette. She had 
unfastened her bra and it hung loosely from her shoulders, her 
fingers hooked around the sides of her lace underwear, and he 
watched as she pushed it to her ankles, the bra falling down to her 
elbows, and she discarded them both in one smooth movement.
She turned and he, somehow, felt even more like a voyeur than 
before. But she smiled and he stepped into the square of light. 
Despite the vague unformed fear he had felt at her entrance, the 
scent in the room was nothing other than hers, a delicate perfume 
that clung to her hair.

He didn't know what he had been expecting.

The water frothed into lavender foam in the tub, and she stepped 
toward him, sliding her palm down the front of his sweater. "You 
want to join me?"

Before, he would never have been caught dead in a warm tub full of 
scented foam. The naked woman in the tub with him would have 
done a great deal to help with any potential embarrassment caused 
by smelling of lavender, but he felt himself relax as he leaned back 
against the wall of the tub, and Nancy came to him, knees bent, 
straddling his thighs, her arms warm and up around his shoulders. 
She rested her face against his neck.

"Love you," he murmured, his face turned toward hers, feeling every 
breath as she drew it against his skin. His arms rested weightlessly 
just over her hips, his hands at the small of her back.

"Love you too," she replied. The pressure on his shoulders increased 
slightly as she braced herself and moved forward, against him.

His breath caught. "We don't have a lot of time," he murmured.

"That's never stopped you before," she replied, laughter in her eyes.

"That's it," he said, mock roughness in his voice, and bent his 
knees, so that she slid down, hips flush against his. She reached 
behind him to balance herself on the lip of the tub as she moved 
over him, her hair, damp at the ends, cascading down against his 
face. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, and she kissed 
him briefly, his arms sliding around her waist to hold her against 
him.

"Ned..."

The doorbell rang. He opened his eyes and looked at her. She leaned 
back from him, her face calm now, the edge in her voice having 
vanished. "Go," she said. "I'll wait."

"Please do," he said.

He shrugged into his bathrobe and brought the food back upstairs 
to their bedroom, but by the time he returned to her she was out of 
the bath and in her own robe. A sheer silky garment revealing every 
inch of her freshly warm, pink skin, but a robe anyway.

They ate on the bed, by the light of the television. Her robe, already 
loosely tied, fell open, and she made no move to adjust it. The 
cartons stood on the dresser, half-empty and strobe lit by the 
television, as they lay back, content, his arm supporting her head. 
She stretched her legs lazily, and his eyes traced the movement, the 
contours of her flesh.

He dipped his tongue between her thighs as she took his erection 
into her mouth and stroked it with her tongue, sucked it, he ran his 
teeth over her clit and her response was an immediate shudder. He 
sucked her clit and she made a quiet whimpering noise, and he 
groaned against her wet trembling flesh as she opened her legs 
further to him, reached up and traced soft fingertips over his balls.

He felt himself begin to break, to rock into her touch, and he curved 
two fingers up inside her and felt her arch underneath him. He 
nipped at her gently as she began to grind against his fingertips, 
and as she whispered something against his skin, her tongue 
flicking over the tip of his erection. He came just before she did, 
hard, in the wet hollow of her mouth, her tongue curved against his 
shaft, and she shuddered as his teeth stroked over her clit, her hips 
meeting the rhythm of his suddenly numb fingertips, and he 
groaned as she tightened and spasmed underneath him.

He rolled over and collapsed onto his back, one hand still curved 
over the smooth skin between her thighs, and sighed. "Swallow?" he 
asked, tilting his head back.

She drew the back of her hand over her mouth. "Already have," she 
murmured.

He drank another can of the beer he'd had with dinner and had a 
good buzz going when she took a sip of it to wash the taste of him 
out of her mouth, then climbed on top of him. He drew the robe 
down her arms and watched the concentration on her face in the 
half-light. She licked her clit up the underside of his erection and he 
tilted his head back, groaning softly as she mounted him, her breath 
hitching as she leaned over him, her palms flat on the mattress just 
above his shoulders, the touch of her hair faint over his skin. He 
reached up and scissored his index and middle fingers around her 
nipples and flicked his thumbnails over them, and she responded 
with a moan and a more violent descent, taking him inside her so 
deeply that he could feel the pain at the edge of her cries.

*drown out the sound of his voice inside my head*

He couldn't hear the words but he could feel them, and a cold fist 
gripped his heart. "Nan?" he breathed, and his cock was parting her 
flesh, deep, the hollow between her thighs was so wet, so hot, 
throbbing against him, she tossed her hair back

*please, Ned, please*

and he slipped a fingertip down the center of her chest, down, to the 
rippling grind of her thighs, just inside the seam, the little

She screamed as he fondled her clit again, and her voice was 
desperate, begging for release. She ran her hands through her hair 
and the light fell over her, traced the lines of her body, and as he 
whispered her name, fingernail just over the tip of her clit, they 
came together, and everything held its breath. He shifted his hips 
under hers and she screamed an answer, her wet flesh clenching 
around him as he finished his release and she, shaking, rolled off 
him.

--

She was insatiable that night. He knew in the back of his mind that 
they had to go to work in the morning, that they should stop, but 
when she touched him he didn't care, didn't give a damn anymore. 
The beer didn't help. She was on her back, legs open to him, and he 
came to her, slid inside her, teased her until she was begging him 
and then fucked her until she came, breathless, tears standing in 
her eyes, her lips curved up. He drifted off and she stroked her 
fingertips down his chest, down to his still-moist flesh, explored 
until he was hard again, then leaned down and enveloped his 
erection in the weight of her breasts, her nipples hard against his 
thighs, and he, barely awake, spanked her, rocked against the 
yielding flesh until he came, then leaned up, pressed his face 
between her spread thighs, slipped his tongue into the sensitive 
hollow of flesh and kissed her.

He came back from the bathroom and she was on her back, silk 
scarves draped over her breasts and between the press of her 
thighs. His gaze took it in, then traveled back to her face, the faint 
smile he found there. She drew the scarf slowly up between her legs 
and he watched, eyes wide and staring.

"Tie me up," she said.

"You sure?"

She nodded.

He didn't do it too tightly, and he made sure with her that she could 
get out of it if she wanted to. His physical response to her request 
was obvious and immediate. He tied her facing the headboard, 
palms down so she could support her weight on all fours, and left 
her legs untied, then knelt behind her, his knees between her open 
lower legs.

He paused there, hands on either side of her, his face just above the 
middle of her back. He could feel her breathing. He kissed the skin 
just over her spine, and she took a shuddering breath.

She was wet, wet with arousal and his saliva and seed, as he slid 
gently between her thighs. She tossed her head back in the middle 
of a moan and her hair fell against his face like silk, as he moved 
over her, inside her. He slipped his hands under hers and twined 
their fingers together, felt the scarf around her wrist, his breath 
warm and moist against her back.

He fucked her, listening with half his attention for the safe word 
while they ground together, her fingers tightening on his, he 
reached up and groped his fingers over her breasts, cupped his palm 
around one and her breath caught but she did not release it in a 
request for him to stop. He felt her orgasm begin, felt her tremble 
as she rocked into the rhythm of his thrusts, and his mouth was dry 
as he came.

When he pulled away from her she shifted her body so she could 
bury her face against the pillows, her legs still spread, thighs damp, 
breath coming in gradually relaxing gasps. He ran his hands 
through his hair, then reached down and spread her legs and slid 
beneath her, on his back, her bound arms against his shoulders. He 
snaked his hand between their bodies and up so he could cup her 
cheek, and she opened her eyes halfway, lazily, to look down at her 
husband.

"Okay?" he asked, drawing her face down to his.

She kissed him with sudden intensity. "Yeah," she murmured against 
his mouth as it ended.

He trailed his hands down her body, then pushed her up to put 
some space between them, her breasts swaying gently in the air. He 
took one into his mouth and suckled gently, his other hand sliding 
down to the sensitive flesh just below her navel, to the flat there. He 
flicked his tongue over her other nipple and she shied away from 
him, softly, stopped by the scarves holding her to the bed.

He pushed himself back up, and it was the beer, had to be, that had 
to be the reason he cupped his palms around her cheeks and looked 
into her eyes.

"I want to do something," he murmured. "You can say no."

"What is it?"

"I want to fuck you in the ass."

She collapsed down against him, heedless of the massive erection 
just below her spread legs, and pressed her face against his 
shoulder. He put his arms around her. "You can say no," he 
repeated.

"Untie me," she breathed into his skin.

She leaned back so he could slide up, his back resting against the 
headboard, as he untied her, and as he began on her right wrist she 
slipped her tongue over the tip of his cock, and his eyes rolled back 
slightly. She nipped softly down the shaft and his fingers fumbled 
the scarf, but he finally got it undone. She lifted herself in a fluid 
motion and straddled him, his back still pressed against the cold 
metal of the headboard, and she rocked into him, her heartbeat 
perceptible as it trembled just below her breast. She mounted him 
over and over and he let her control it, the angle and the depth and 
the force with which he was rammed into her, and she screamed 
with her mounting frustration until they came, again, trembling and 
wordless.

"I guess that meant no," he said, once he could talk again, his 
fingers stroking down her cheek.

She chuckled, shortly, her face against his cheek. He waited, 
drowsing, for her to tell him that it was off-limits and she never 
wanted to hear him mention it again.

She kissed him, close-mouthed, then pressed dry kisses down the 
line of his neck. "Give me a hickey," she demanded, voice muffled 
by his skin. He complied, face bent just above the point where her 
shoulder met her neck, and she laughed at the sensation, her 
fingers fluttering in the dark. The television was off now, remote 
somewhere in the tangle of their clothes on the floor. He pressed 
her backward onto the mattress and sleepily trailed his mouth down 
to the inner thigh of her right leg, where he gave her another, 
inhaling the scent of her, tasting her flesh. When he was finished he 
traced his thumb over it, the slick of his saliva over her skin, and 
then climbed up to lay on his side beside her, their heads at the 
footboard, legs almost tangled.

"Okay," she whispered, and his eyes popped open to stare into hers. 
She trailed her fingertips down the side of his face. "If you're 
gentle," she continued, her eyes following the trail of her fingers 
instead of meeting his own. "And do it with your fingers first."

"Are you sure?" He forced her chin up, forced her eyes to meet his.

"No," she admitted. "But I trust you. And if I say no then you'll stop."

She didn't say no. He lifted her, unbound this time, to her hands and 
knees, and knelt behind her, then touched her softly at first, not 
overtly sexually at first, until she seemed a bit more relaxed. He 
slipped his fingers between the cleft and touched her, then reached 
between her thighs with his other hand and parted her flesh, wet his 
hand with her arousal and stroked her clit a few times for good 
measure. He pressed his wet fingers just around, then just inside, 
her, and she sucked in a breath, waiting, and when she didn't say no 
he kept going, traced just around and then just inside, and 
unexpectedly she was rocking into the movement, arching into a 
supplicant position, rolling her nipples between her fingers. He wet 
his hand between her thighs again and stroked his erection with her 
arousal until his cock was wet, throbbing, his mouth dry, and 
entered her slowly, listening for her refusal. She whimpered 
desperately, gasping in shallow breaths, and he inched in as far as 
he dared, then began a gentle thrusting that she met and returned, 
her fingernails biting into the tips of her nipples.

"Fuck me," she breathed, through her gasps, and he found her clit 
again, stroked her as he began to rock inside her, in slow thrusts, 
her breath in time with it. She groaned her frustration and his heart 
was suddenly throbbing as he reached down, took her hand and 
cupped it over hers, led her fingers down between her thighs, curved 
his index finger around hers, touched the tip of it to her clit.

She stroked her clit, then threw her head back and screamed, as he 
fucked her, her face pressed against the pillows, his hand cupping 
hers between her thighs, feeling the desperate quick strokes of her 
fingers against her flesh, and he came, her fingers buried up to the 
last knuckle in her hollow, stroking the wet flesh, and he could feel 
it, he had begged her to do this but she had always refused before, 
she must be as drunk as he.

"Did you do this when we were apart?" he asked her, his breath in 
harsh gasps, his hips still rocking meaninglessly with hers as she 
touched herself, his face close to hers.

"Yes," she cried out.

"Did you think about me when you made yourself come?"

She nodded, violently. "Fuck me," she sobbed to him. "Put your 
fingers inside me, put your cock inside me, God, God, I want it, fuck 
me--"

"Come for me," he whispered, holding her hand against her still, and 
she writhed, her screams above his hearing as she touched herself 
harder, faster, her fingers against her clit, he was impossibly hard 
again at seeing her face contort with the beginnings of her orgasm. 
She stiffened, her mouth falling open, her legs moving restlessly 
over the sheets, and then her hand relaxed and he let it fall open, 
limply to the bed beside her. Her breasts trembled with the 
pounding of her heart. He picked up her hand and kissed her 
fingertip, flicked his tongue out and licked the tip of it softly.

Her face was turned away from him. "God," she whispered, ashamed.

"That was so fucking hot," he replied, then led her hand down to his 
erection. "Damn. Damn, Nancy, you used to do that..."

"It's disgusting," she replied.

"I spent a lot of time as a teenager doing that," he said. "Don't 
knock it. Damn. Nancy, God... you came, right?"

She nodded, then took the hand not resting against his reddened 
flesh and dragged it through her hair. "I bet you think I'm a whore."

"If you were doing that in a strip club for money, then yeah." He lay 
back down, nestled against her, kissed her mouth. "Was that 
uncomfortable for you?"

A tiny smile crossed her mouth, one that made him even harder. 
"No," she said.

"I think I have one more in me," he said. "You still got an itch?"

"Wash it off first," she told him. She started to struggle to sitting. 
"And I need to wash my hand."

They washed off, the light in the bathroom bright in their eyes, and 
then he pulled her into his arms and carried her back to bed, on her 
back, her legs falling open, eyes half closed, distracted with 
exhaustion, as he joined with her again. She wrapped her arms 
around him and held her to him, and the words he could not hear 
echoed in his head again. If it weren't so late, maybe, but all he was 
left with was that same vague unease, feeling the strength of her 
embrace.

"You okay?" He brushed her hair back from her face as they parted 
wetly, and her mouth was open, her breath back to harsh gasps, his 
words slow with sudden bone-deep tiredness. "Did I hurt you 
earlier?"

She shook her head, wordless. "You didn't hurt me."

"Good." He collapsed to the mattress and snuggled up against her, 
his limbs stiff as he pulled the covers up over them.

--

She felt sore. Sore and exhausted, and the taste of shame still 
lingered over her, as she watched Ned fall asleep. The sight made a 
wordless dread rise in her, but just before she followed him, she 
murmured, "Ned, hold me."

He put his arm over her, and his hand rested over their child.

--

She thought later that she had not dreamed, but when she woke she 
felt depressed, defeated.

"You weren't supposed to get pregnant," Michael had told her, 
earlier, handcuffed to her in the car. "Did he rape you, switch your 
pills, something?"

Nancy shook her head, woodenly. "I changed my mind," she said, 
her voice light and dreamy.

"He's going to come back," Michael said, rubbing his face. "When I 
tell him about this he isn't going to be happy. When are you due?"

"June 15."

Michael chuckled and shook his head. "Damn," he whispered. 
"Nancy, you're going to leave Ned tomorrow."

"No," she said, in that same voice, but he could hear the steel 
behind it.

"You are going to leave him."

"No," she said.

"You are. I'll give you a week."

"No."

"You do this," he said evenly. "You do this or I'm going to kill that 
baby. Jean will want it dead anyway, I'll just be doing him a favor."

A tear slipped down her cheek. "No," she moaned. "No, no..."

"By the end of the week?"

"No."

"You have to leave him."

"I won't leave him."

Michael sighed. "If the mountain won't go to Mohammed," he 
murmured, then looked at her.

--

When he woke the next morning, Nancy had curled away from him, 
his chest to her back, his right arm looped over her torso so that his 
hand was resting against her still-flat abdomen. Her right arm was 
resting over his, her fingertips resting between his fingers.

He stretched and rolled onto his back, and Nancy made a faint 
protesting noise in her sleep as his hand moved. He rubbed his left 
fingers over his face and yawned, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. 
The last time he had collapsed to the mattress, the swimming neon 
letters of the clock radio had read some time after 4.

Something dark on her neck. He brushed her hair aside.

A hickey.

He vaguely remembered inflicting it, his face buried against her 
neck, wordless pressure rising in him, the sound of her laughter. He 
hadn't given her a hickey since he was seventeen, she sixteen, and 
her father had forbid them see each other for a week after that. And 
after, from fear and then force of habit, he did not mark her as his in 
that way.

Secret places, perhaps.

He rolled out of bed, leaving her to the intrusion of the promised 
alarm as he climbed into the shower.

He didn't think he'd had that many beers but the night before was 
all blurred motion and shadow and--

She had been insatiable, wet hot breath and splayed legs and a 
husky pleading that had kept him coming back to give her more, 
and more, to hear her scream his name again. He was surprised their 
neighbors had not called the cops. Obeying the wordless 
ungoverned instinct, desire, need, to find his way into her wet flesh, 
to force her open and ram, grind, rock himself into her, until she 
screamed, until he felt the answering clench between her trembling 
thighs, until she was begging, pleading him to fuck her, please God 
end it in release...

He groped a hand over his back, and felt a sudden sting when he 
scratched. When he emerged from the shower and wiped the 
condensation from the mirror, livid red scratches showed down his 
back, the dried track of her nails.

*she was on fire last night, and i was breathing gasoline*

He grinned, to himself.

He walked back into the bedroom, towel snug about his waist, as 
she was beginning to respond to their blaring alarm clock. The sole 
of his foot passed over something smooth, and he looked down to 
see a tangle of scarves on the floor. Nancy put her palms over her 
face and the lines of her wrists were faintly red.

He felt his mouth go dry.

She accepted the kiss he leaned down to give her, but when his 
movements became more deliberate she moved back. "Have to take 
a shower," she said, blinking, faint smile on her face, and she 
kicked the covers aside and shut the bathroom door behind her.

--

The alarm went off. Nancy smacked it with her hand and put her 
head back under the covers, groaning.

Ned had almost sunk beneath the surface again, falling back into 
blissful sleep, when he heard Nancy mumble "I don't wanna go..." 
She sat up and dry-washed her face a few times. "Hey."

"What," Ned replied, softly, not wanting to move.

"I'm gonna call in sick today."

"Good," he purred, reaching over for her. She relaxed back down to 
the mattress and into his embrace, then pressed a kiss against his 
cheek.

"Why don't you call in sick too?" she asked.

Ned opened his eyes and looked up at the ceiling, considering. "Let 
me call in," he said. "Maybe I could swing it."

--

"I love you," she told him suddenly.

They were downstairs, on the couch, her feet tucked under his leg, 
halfheartedly watching something. She was gazing at him with such 
intensity that he was momentarily startled. The audience laughed on 
the television and Ned thumbed the volume down.

"I love you too," he said, reaching over for her. She was so rare to 
initiate. At the touch of his skin on hers she climbed into his lap, 
traced her hands over the lines of his face, her eyes searching his. 
She laced her fingers behind his neck.

"I mean it," she whispered. "Thanks for staying off to hang out with 
me."

"Hey," he replied, running his fingers down the side of her face. "It's 
all right, baby."

She leaned in and rested her face against his shoulder, his touch 
still trailing over her skin. Her fingers against the back of his neck.

They didn't move from that tangle for a while, and Ned felt a curious 
sort of protectiveness about her that he couldn't quite explain, but 
when he suggested a movie she extricated herself anyway and 
climbed to her feet. They dressed warmly, had lunch at a tiny Indian 
place, hit the earliest movie they could find, and went for ice cream 
after. The movie hadn't been particularly engaging, but the seats in 
the theater were easily joined and they had made out like teenagers. 
Nancy was still gazing at him with that bright, flushed look when 
her cell rang.

He was licking the back of his spoon at the time, and when he 
looked up at her it was like someone had flipped a switch. The color 
had drained out of her face, the expression in her eyes was resigned 
and disappointed. "I have to take this," she said, and answered it 
quietly as she walked just out of the ice cream shop.

Work, he thought, and took a more determined spoonful of his 
dessert. He watched his wife pace back and forth, one hand to her 
forehead, as she apparently remonstrated with whoever was on the 
other end of the line. Maybe her trainee was throwing a fit, or 
something. From the way Nancy talked about him, Ned saw Michael 
as, in turns, a patronizing and arrogant jerk or someone she could 
occasionally lower herself to put up with.

When she walked back in he smiled at her. "All taken care of?"

She appeared to make some sort of decision, then, and her eyes 
turned thoughtful as they caught his. "Yeah," she said, and smiled at 
him. "All taken care of."

When they arrived back at the house he installed himself on the 
couch to do some paperwork for the next morning, and Nancy went 
into the kitchen to make the preparations for some lavish evening 
meal, promising she'd make something she didn't normally have the 
time or energy to do. When she read off the menu he looked up at 
her, their eyes met, and his murmured praise trailed into nothing as 
she walked, with thinly veiled intent, to him from across the room, 
and he tossed the papers onto the coffee table and took her into his 
arms as she climbed into his lap.

They were making out again. Like they used to do when she still 
lived with her father and

*before, that was the only word, the only reference*

they were alone in the house, Hannah gone and Carson not expected 
back for hours, the television lighting their faces on as some half-
apologetic alibi. She kissed him hard and he found his way under 
the layers of warm clothing to the shocked expose of skin just 
above the small of her back. But the lines which had frustrated him 
were gone now, and she was pushing him back to the cushions, 
onto his back, her hair falling forward and brushing his cheeks.

A timer went off. In a blur of limbs and murmured apologies she 
was suddenly gone, the living room had faded in the twilight, and 
Ned was left staring at the ceiling. He ran a hand through his hair, 
swallowed, and as he turned his head Nancy was coming back to 
him, her arms out to him, and he abandoned all pretense of doing 
any work for the rest of the night.

--

Another Thursday.

She hadn't called to say she was skipping her session, and Ned 
didn't like to return to an empty house, so he was spending that 
time in a bar, with his friends, halfheartedly watching ESPN and 
shooting pool.

Scott had just stepped up to the dartboard when his cell phone 
burred quietly in his pocket, against his chest. The bar was so loud 
that he wouldn't have been able to hear it ring. He made a 
dismissing gesture to his friends and walked out onto the street, 
where the wind was blowing through the fabric of his coat and shirt, 
straight through to the bone. When he flipped open his cell, their 
house number greeted him.

"Nan?" he answered. "Sorry, I lost track of time."

Maybe because his stomach usually led him home, to see whatever 
she'd cooked, but the guys had ordered a few plates of potato skins 
and that had been enough to stave off the worst of it. And the guys 
had been expressing their condolences that he had to put up with a 
pregnant wife for the next few months.

She cleared her throat, and he winced against the imagined force of 
her epithets. But her voice, when it came, was soft.

"I know I don't usually do this," she said. She sniffed. "Can you 
come home?"

"Of course," he replied, immediately, pressing the phone against his 
ear, against the howling wind. "Are you all right?"

"I'll be okay when you get here," she replied. Then she took a breath. 
"I love you."

"Love you too," he replied.

The guys groaned when he told them. Steven Hyer said this would 
be it, the last time they'd see him until the baby's eighteenth 
birthday, and they should buy him another round. Ned shrugged it 
off and walked out. He had visions of their house ransacked and 
Nancy on the floor, bleeding, the phone still cradled in her fist. All 
the lights on, broken dishes and smashed appliances and rent fabric 
on the floor.

He shook his head. She would have told him, and called the police 
besides.

There were no police cars out front when he pulled up, barely 
stopping to pull his parking break before he climbed out of the car. 
The keypad glowed but the house itself was dark. He took the steps 
by twos and opened their bedroom door, his heart pounding.

Fear and adrenaline etched the scene into his mind. She was sitting 
up in bed, a lamp illuminating her features, a book open but 
forgotten on her lap. She wore her customary cotton sleeping shirt 
and pants, but a heavy terrycloth robe over them. Her eyes were 
startled, staring at him as he pushed open the door.

"Ned," she cried, breathless, pushed the covers back, the book 
falling to the floor. He opened his arms and she was in them in the 
next second, her heart pounding against his, face buried against his 
shoulder.

"Hey," he said, reaching down to push her hair back.

"I'm just so glad you're home," she said, and he was startled to see 
tears in her eyes.

"Are you all right?"

She reached up and dashed the tears from her eyelashes. "I'll be 
okay," she murmured. She kept an arm looped around his waist, 
though.

"I'm sorry," he said again, lamely. No broken dishes, no shattered 
glass, no blood on her face. But her voice, he could have sworn, in 
her voice...

"Did someone try to break in?" he asked. "Was that what made you 
afraid?"

She shook her head, not meeting his eyes. "I held off calling you as 
long as I could," she said. "I don't know what was wrong, but I think 
it's okay now."

"Did your session with the doctor go okay?"

She nodded, but he saw her mouth turn down slightly, and wasn't 
sure she was even aware of it. "Went fine."

"All right."

He took his clothes off and washed his face, made himself ready for 
bed, the entire time with Nancy near him, her hand in his, on his 
shoulder, against his skin. Sometimes she moved away from him, as 
though ashamed at maintaining such intrusive physical contact with 
him, but he would always retrieve her hand and watch her face relax 
ever so slightly.

When they went to bed she curled up close to him, and he put his 
arm around her, watching her breathe in the grey wash of faint light. 
Her eyes fluttered closed, finally, the tension ebbing from her 
muscles.

Only when he could hold out no longer did he finally ease himself 
under the covers, and Nancy was immediately against him, as 
though afraid that only contact was keeping him in bed with her. He 
didn't sense anything wrong, he kept telling himself; only the alarm 
Nancy's call had wakened in him. That was all. Just some remnant of 
their time apart.

He brushed a kiss against her forehead, and she stirred slightly, 
eyes closed.

"It's started," she breathed.

--

*She said she'd be home.*

What he felt at first wasn't fear, not really. He felt lazy and she didn't 
have anything obviously thawing for the evening meal, so he 
ordered out for pizza and saved her plenty, the entire time waiting 
for the lock to click back, for her to walk through the door. But she 
didn't.

Usually when she went over during sessions she would call and let 
him know. But he was loathe to interrupt them; maybe she and 
Strathman were having a breakthrough and he would just destroy 
their concentration with a phone call.

He was seated on the couch, facing the television, but had not heard 
a thing coming through their five-point-one-channel stereo system 
since he'd turned it on. He thought about going upstairs, playing a 
game on his console, but realized that he could not move. Literally 
could not.

He had to see her walk through that door.

He looked over at the land-line phone, charging on its base, and 
thought again about calling her. The worry had spread from 
nonexistent and easily dismissed to a nagging impossible to ignore. 
She had never been this late before. Something had to be wrong. 
Last time this had happened he had called her, and she had 
appeared, as though willed into existence by his resolve. Ned stood 
and was halfway to the telephone when he heard her key in the lock.

"Nan?"

"Man, I'm famished," she said, hair loosely swept back from her 
face, lips curved in a wide smile. She looked out of breath. Her eyes 
overbright, sparkling.

The sudden suspicion bloomed and he shoved it from his mind 
without another thought. She wouldn't, she had sworn, she would 
never. She and the doctor had had a good session and he was...

He almost felt jealous.

"I got us some pizza," he said, for lack of anything better to say, 
watching her drape her scarf over the back of the couch, remove her 
gloves finger-by-finger and place those in her coat pocket. She 
breezed into the kitchen, heels clicking on the lineoleum, and 
walked back out with a slice in her hand and a bite in her mouth. 
She sat down opposite him and wolfed down a few more bites 
before she turned to him, inquisitve look on her face.

"Still hungry?"

Any further appetite he'd had was gone. "Go ahead," he said, 
gesturing vaguely. Once she finished the slice she produced a 
napkin, wiped off her fingers, removed her shoes. He half-watched 
her, waiting, but his patience wore thin.

"So, where were you?"

"The session ran over," she called, from the kitchen. "I would have 
called, but you know how it is."

He bit back a reply. "Sure," he called back. She walked back in 
carrying a canned caffeine-free soda and a few more slices piled on 
a paper plate.

"Anything good on?"

And, like that, the subject was dropped. Once she finished her meal 
she scooted closer to him on the couch, rested her head on his 
shoulder. They watched in silence for a while.

During a commercial break he turned to her, kissed her gently. 
"Love you," he said, his eyes searching hers.

"Love you too," she said, lightly, and reached up to kiss him back.