As I lay there, I couldn’t help but replay the night before in my mind. We didn’t just have sex. We made love. And yes, I know that sounds like something off the cover of a bad romance novel, but it was different. Slower, more intense, more… everything.
It was the kind of sex you see in movies where bodies move perfectly in sync, the lighting is somehow flattering, and no one gets a cramp in an awkward place. Except, of course, we weren’t movie stars. There were no strategically placed bedsheets, just coffee cups and the cold kitchen counter. No dramatic orchestra, just the rhythmic creak of our, very old kitchen, which at one point made a noise so loud we froze, staring at each other in wide-eyed horror, hoping it hadn’t broken or worse; we’d woken the kids.
“Oh my God, was that the kitchen side or my hip?” I gasped.
He chuckled, low and breathless. “Pretty sure that was the side. If it was your hip, we have bigger problems.”
We laughed, but the moment didn’t break. If anything, it made it better, more us. His hands roamed my body like he was relearning me, fingertips leaving trails of fire in their wake. Every kiss was deep and lingering, every movement slow and deliberate, like we had all the time in the world, like nothing else existed beyond this moment.
When he moved inside me, it wasn’t just sex. It was a reconnection, a reminder that we were more than parents, more than schedules and responsibility and exhaustion. We were still us. And God, it felt good, like a slow, torturous build of pleasure that had been waiting too long to be released.
“You feel so damn good,” he groaned, pressing his forehead to mine, his breath ragged.
“So do you,” I gasped, arching against him, wrapping my legs tighter around him.
And just when I thought I couldn’t take another second of the slow, delicious torture, he shifted, hitting just the right spot, and I swore I saw actual stars.
“Holy...” My fingers dug into his back as pleasure coiled tight, ready to snap.
“Yeah?” His smirk was wicked, full of male satisfaction.
“Don’t you dare stop.”
He didn’t.
“Baby, come for me” Dan growled. And those words alone were enough to make me spiral immediately.
We finally came undone, falling together in a breathless, tangled mess, it was pure, blissful, toe-curling magic. The kind of thing that made me wonder why we didn’t do this all the time.
But the thing was, I had forgotten. I had forgotten what it felt like to just be with him, to let myself enjoy him, outside of the chaos of parenting and life.
And now? Now I was remembering.
And I wasn’t going to forget again.
I come around from my flashback, blinking against the morning light, only to be dragged immediately back into reality by the unmistakable sound of a fight erupting downstairs.
What is it now? Are they squabbling over that damn middle cushion on the sofa again? Or did one of them shoot the other a look that could only be described as “funny in a way that demands retaliation”? Honestly, I don’t even know how the small humans generate this much energy before 7 a.m., but I suppose I better go and rescue Dan from whatever version of WrestleMania is happening in the living room.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, feeling the ache and lingering warmth from last night tug at my muscles. With a soft groan, I slip on my dressing gown and pad quietly toward the stairs.
Passing the mirror in the hallway, I pause. Something catches my eye. I still look the same, messy hair, bags under my eyes, the faint traces of last night’s chaos lingering on my skin, but something has shifted. I look different. Not physically, not in any way a stranger would notice. But there’s something in my posture, in the way my shoulders have relaxed. Confidence. For the first time in a long time, I meet my own gaze and think good thoughts instead of the habitual, critical ones that usually swirl through my head like a storm.
Could it be that all along I didn’t need to change anything about myself? That it wasn’t about losing a few pounds, straightening my hair, or pretending to be more put together than I actually am? Maybe all I ever really needed was to feel desired, to feel seen, to remember that someone still wants me with every part of him.
And God, last night reminded me of that.
I take a deep breath, letting it settle in my chest, and for the first time in weeks, I smile at my reflection. Not a small, self-conscious smile, but a real one, the kind that comes from feeling alive again.
With that small, internal victory tucked into my chest, I tiptoe down the stairs, ready to dive into the chaos below and save Dan from the tornadoes in our living room. But as I do, I carry a little spark from last night, an ember that I know won’t fade anytime soon. It’s ours, this connection, and it’s finally real.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
EMMA
I knew the night was going to be feral the moment Clara suggested tequila before nine.
The Old Oak was already humming when we arrived, warm light spilling through the Tudor windows, fairy lights strung up like the building itself was tipsy.
