It's maddening and moving all at once. I want to break through that last barrier, to have all of him, but part of me understands his need to maintain control. This is new and fragile between us, complicated by everything else in our lives.
My second orgasm catches me by surprise, crashing over me with less intensity but deeper satisfaction. I clench around him, gasping his name.
But before he finishes, a cry cuts through the apartment. Poppy's voice, thin and distressed, crackles through the baby monitor on the coffee table.
Reality crashes back like a bucket of ice water. I'm instantly alert, pushing at Axel's chest. My chest tightens, torn in two. I scramble off him, still shaking. "Poppy?—"
His gaze pins me, voice guttural. "Go. I’m not going anywhere." The way he says it, I feel it low in my belly. Like a promise.
I grab my discarded clothes, pulling them on with shaking hands. The transition is jarring, from the intimate heat of sex to the immediate demands of motherhood. My body still tingles with aftershocks, but my mind has already switched gears.
"Her medicine," I mutter, scanning the room for the prescription bag. "She needs another dose."
Axel, already half-dressed, picks up the bag from the counter. "Here," he says, handing it to me. "Do you want me to get some water?"
I pause, struck by his easy shift into helpfulness. No resentment at the interruption, no awkwardness. Just support.
"Please," I say, and then I move toward Poppy's room, my daughter's cries pulling me forward like a physical tether.
In the dimness of her nursery, Poppy stands in her crib, face flushed and tear-streaked. "Mama," she sobs, reaching for me with desperate hands.
"I'm here, baby," I murmur, lifting her into my arms. Her skin feels hot against mine, the fever rising again. "Mama's got you."
I rock Poppy against my chest, her little body burning through her pajamas. She whimpers, rubbing her ear against my shoulder.
"I know it hurts, baby," I whisper, reaching for the medicine Axel handed me. "This will help."
I measure the pink liquid into the dropper, coaxing it between Poppy's lips. She fights it at first, then swallows with a grimace. As I hold her, the reality of what just happened in the living room crashes over me like a wave.
What the hell is wrong with me? My daughter is in the next room, flushed and crying, and I let him touch me like I was starving, let him inside me like I could wash the fear away with his body. The shame crawls up my throat, thick and ugly. I’m not supposed to need this. Not supposed to want him when I should only care about her.
"I'm so sorry, sweet girl," I murmur into her curls. "Mama's so sorry."
I pace the small nursery, gently swaying Poppy until her crying subsides to hiccupping breaths. Slowly, the medicine begins to work. Her eyelids grow heavy, her little body relaxing against mine.
By the time I lay her back in the crib, she's asleep again, though her cheeks remain flushed. I stand there watching her breathe, my hand on her back, feeling each rise and fall like a miracle I don't deserve.
What is wrong with me?
I'm disgusting.
I'm careless.
I made this unsafe.
The thoughts pound through my head, relentless and familiar. I've spent every day since Poppy was born trying to be perfect, to create safety, to never let my guard down, and tonight I threw it all away for what? A moment of escape? Physical release?
When I finally return to the living room, Axel is fully dressed, standing by the window with his back to me. His shoulders are tense, spine rigid. He turns when he hears me, his expression unreadable.
"I'm sorry." The words tumble out before I'm fully in the room.
"Is she okay?" he asks, voice tight.
"I didn't mean—" I continue, unable to stop the apologies. "I shouldn't have?—"
He crosses the room in three quick strides, and for a moment I think he's leaving. But instead, his hands come up to frame my face, and he kisses me, hard, desperate, like he's trying to push something into me through the contact alone.
When he pulls back, his eyes are fierce. "Stop fucking apologizing."
