I felt so alive.
Who knew that we could go from barely having sex at all to having it twice in twenty-four hours?
Later that night, after the kids are in bed, I’m curled up on the sofa with my phone, scrolling mindlessly while Dan is in the kitchen finishing off some emails. I look down at my phone and a message from Dan appears.
Dan:Remember that time we nearly got arrested in the back of your dad’s car?
I choke on my tea.
Me:How could I forget? I still get nervous every time I see a police car.
Dan:The things you used to do to me... I still think about it.
A heat spreads through me, unexpected and familiar all at once. This is how it used to be. Teasing, daring, filthy when it needed to be. I hesitate for only a second before typing back.
Me:Oh yeah? You mean like that time in the hotel shower when you couldn’t keep your hands to yourself?
I watch the three little dots appear, then disappear, then appear again.
My heart races.
I remember this feeling. The feeling of anticipation and excitement over what the next message will say.
Dan:The hotel? That was tame. What about the time on your parents’ kitchen counter?
My entire body buzzes.
Me:Oh God, the counter. I think we broke the bread bin.
Dan:Worth it.
I giggle, biting my lip, a warmth spreading through me that has nothing to do with the blanket I’m wrapped in. My mind floods with memories of us before kids, before PTA meetingsand teething and laundry that never ends. We were wild. Insatiable. We had sex in places we should not have had sex. Cars, parks, toilets at questionable parties. Once, in the changing room of a John Lewis because we couldn’t wait until we got home.
And now?
Now, I consider it a victory if we manage to have sex without a child bursting in asking for water, a nightmare remedy, or a detailed explanation of how clouds are formed.
We don’t have sex the way we used to. We don’t have sex the way anyone should, really. Our sex life before last night could best be described as ‘chaotic at best, mildly traumatic at worst’.
But these last two times were different.
I hope they’re all like that now, but I won’t hold my breath. I know that there will still be the odd cringe-worthy moment where we are almost caught in the act or where I get tangled up in my lingerie.
Like last month. I was feeling bold, daring, even, and had crept into the bedroom wearing a lacy number that, in hindsight, was entirely impractical given how fast I had to yank it off when Sophie decided to wake up for the third time that night. Or the time Dan was mid-foreplay, hands working their way up my thigh, when we both heard a very loud, very distinct "Muuuuummmm?" and I instinctively kneed him in the stomach as I leapt out of bed.
And then, there was the incident, the one we don’t talk about. The one where Ruby, our adorable yet horrifyingly sneaky toddler, stared at us through a crack in the door for God knows how long before whispering, "What are you doing?" at the worst possible moment.
Yep, that moment.
We still haven’t recovered from that one.
Dan comes to join me on the sofa then turns his head to look at me. There’s something in his eyes, something playful, dark, hungry. Him. The him I fell for all those years ago, the one who used to pull me into dark corners at parties just to see how quiet I could be.
He leans in, voice low. "If the kids weren’t upstairs right now, I’d bend you over this sofa."
I swallow. "So much talk, not enough action, Daniel."
His hand moves, slow and deliberate, resting just above my knee. His fingers brush over my skin, barely there but enough. I breathe him in, the scent of his cologne, warm and familiar, the kind of thing that makes my stomach do a little flip.
