The day passes in its comforting cycle of feeds and naps and changes and complete amazement at the little human that came out of my body yet seems intent on becoming her own person. As much as Caylon delights in finding similarities to exclaim and laugh over, I see the gaping chasm of differences, always slightly concerned over where they originated from.
“Stop worrying,” Caylon chides me as we settle onto the bed, taking the last few cuddles with Molly until she screams us awake during the night.
“There’s money,” I say, deciding to spread the unsettling truth. “A lot of money.”
“Money’s good,” he says easily, eyes resting on me with a calm I find unsettling. “Especially now Dad’s decided I’m old enough to take care of myself.”
The moment he turned eighteen, the allowance Caylon’s father had paid into an account every month, like clockwork, had abruptly ended. Not so much as a phone call, though, considering nobody here had made contact, that seemed like a fault that might fall on both sides.
“Too much money.”
“Ah.” He rolls closer, taking a nip at the curve of my neck. “So, you’re concerned how we’re going to give it all away?”
“No. Funny, that didn’t occur to me.”
“We could be philanthropists. People would invite us to all the important events just for the chance to pitch for our cold, hard cash.”
I blink. “I’d have to buy a lot of new outfits.”
“And be fitted for them. None of this off-the-rack nonsense.”
“You’d have to fitted, too. Only the best suits for my man.”
“Hm.” He collects Molly into his arms and transfers the sleeping baby to her crib. By some miracle, she doesn’t wake. His magic touch extends to our baby girl, though in a completely different capacity than with me.
When he comes back onto the bed, he does so from the end, crawling up the length of my body with sinuous determination, trailing kisses from the inside of my ankle to my inner thigh.
Since the last adjustment to his medication, Caylon has been uninterested in sex for the most part. A combination of muted libido and, on the occasions where he is willing, sporadic impotence has made for another fun problem.
Not that I mind. The consultant insists that it’s just a matter of trial and error. That eventually every problem can be overcome.
Between the birth, the breast feeding, and my erratic sleep schedule, I haven’t felt like I’m missing out. We still have sex toys, fingers, and—when I absolutely need it—Caylon’s skilled tongue.
What the doctor doesn’t say, but we both know, is that new and equally distressing problems await for each side effect that resolves.
Not that there seems to be a problem right this minute.
“It’s a hundred million.”
Caylon pauses, cocking his eyebrow as he stares at me, just an inch south of some serious action. “Our baby is worth a hundred million?” When I give a tight nod, he adds, “Shit. I better not drop her.”
“No, you better not.” I drop my voice to a whisper. “Do you think she’ll shit pure gold?”
“Probably. We should definitely warn any potential nannies before we hire them.”
“Mm-hm.”
He’s joking but I can’t feel the same sense of levity. Money is just money to him.
But it isn’t. Especially not Wilbur’s money.
My memories feel too close to the surface. They get like that; just as I think everything is consigned to the past, lost underneath a wealth of new and better experiences, they rise to the top, bobbing about like a drowned corpse when the gases build up enough to counter gravity.
I keep my eyes on Caylon, reassuring my brain that his touch isn’t the wrong touch, his kiss isn’t the wrong kiss. Gradually, I convince myself everything’s all right and relax under his ministrations.
He moves like he’s sleepy, slow and sensuous, drawing out the simplest touches until they turn into something close to art. If I weren’t so busy enjoying the sensations, I’d applaud.
When he enters me, I arch my back in ecstasy, grabbing a handful of his curls to hold him in place long enough to kiss me properly. Still a treat. One I can’t believe I’ve been good enough to deserve.
