“Not really,” I reply weakly.Not really, not at all.
“Is it now?”
One could certainly say that it is now, yes. “Ivy… are you in love with me?” I know he’s said as much, but… this plan of his is givinginlove, not the la-de-da-de-da-I’m-in-loooove energy I’ve been attributing to him and his actions. This plan isserious.
His head tips in confusion. “Yes,” he says slowly. “I am in love with you. Wasthatnot clear?”
I wheeze. “Not… really.” Not entirely. Not in the way that he apparently is.
“You think I marry women I’m not in love with?” he asks, brows furrowed.
I mean, okay, one could say thatmarryinga person is very much in love behavior. However, the way he did it kind of marred whatever emotional weight he might have been giving the event. I didn’t think heactuallyloved me, loved me.
“Seriously, we have got to work on your compliance with societal norms.” My voice could hardly count as more than a whisper, stunted as it is by my sudden inability to breathe. “Particularly the bits relating to clear declarations of love.”
He hums. “You can teach me all of the norms you’d like me to follow at dinner,” he suggests. He flips the laptop back to him and starts typing. “Dinner… When would you like to have it?”
Uh. “Tomorrow?” I hesitate. “Are yousureyou’re in love with me?” I ask, just to check. In case maybe he misspoke or something… somehow.
“Completely sure.” He types a few more words, then stands abruptly. Before I can so much as blink, he’s on my side of the table, right in my space.
I lean back, eyesseriouslywide. I’m no stranger to a lack of personal space with Ivy, especially more recently when he ramped up his physical closeness as our wedding drew nearer. This proximity is different, though. This proximity isheated.
It seems my husband has decided to be abundantly clear about where his affections for me lie in the face of my confusion.
“Would you like me to pick you up, rosy Maple?” he asks, warm breath fanning my already burning cheeks. “Would you like me to plan the dinner itself? The meal? The place? The time? Or do you want those decisions for yourself?” He lifts a finger to the loose strand of my hair and wraps it around the digit. “Howlong is my leash, wife? Will it strangle me, or will my love give me some slack?”
I think that if he continues to look at me like this, with barely contained fire in his emerald depths, I might just give him more slack than either of us could handle.
My fingers twitch, begging for a pencil and a sketchbook. My heart may be unsure how to handle this version of Ivy, but my artistic impulses aren’t. He needs to be captured in lead and ink. He needs to live on a page as a study in determination and passion. I’d put him down in shades of black and gray next to similar sketches of him lounging, or posing, or grinning.
No.
I’d start anewbook, and I’d beg him for this expression until every page was filled with it. Then I could start a second, and a third, and on forever because there’s no way the potency of suchheatcould ever be exhausted.
“You can plan the dinner,” I offer while I work to memorize the lines of his intensity, ignoring the fluttering of my heart as I scrutinize every attractive inch. “That’s okay with me.”
“My Maple,” he practically croons. “So generous. My leash has lots of slack.” His passion turns hungry. “I’m sure I won’t take advantage of thatat all.”
He closes the inches between us and kisses my blazing cheek, catching the corner of my mouth with his lips.
My. Goodness.
My lashes flutter in equal parts confusion and shock. “Did you just kiss me?”
“No,” he replies. “I can, though. It will be just like our wedding kiss. Would you like that?”
His lowered eyelids indicate thathewould like that very much.
I shake my head with haste. “That’s okay,” I say. “I’m all good.” Our wedding kiss is what I like to refer to as personanon grata. I have been willfully pretending it didn’t happen, and I would very much like to continue doing so. I have to process the wedding before I can process the kiss, and we most certainly willnotbe adding any more kisses for me to process in the meantime. I’m at my limit. I’mpastmy limit.
“A shame,” he mutters. His eyes lock on my lips, dark and longing.
I stand, forcing him to getoutof my personal space. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I tell him. “I have to go now.”
He backs up immediately, pressing his mouth together in amusement. “Of course,” he agrees. “Tomorrow, when your husband, who is deeply, maddeningly, infallibly in love with you, will pick you up for a date, where he will show you just how deeply, maddeningly, infallibly in love with you he is.”
If tomorrow is anything like the last two minutes, then I’m not sure I’ll survive it.
