Page 80 of Babies for the Boss
“Watch yourself.”
He belly laughs. “The mighty pakhan, done in by brownies.”
“It’s not—” I look at the brownie. “They’re not terrible.”
“They’re excellent,” Igor says. “But that’s not the point. It’s good to see you like this. It means you’re happy.”
I look at him for a long moment, and the response that comes to mind first is a deflection. I could tease him about Carrie Ann. But we’re not kids anymore. “Yes. I am happy.”
Igor nods once and returns to the operational notes, and we finish the morning’s work.
Later in bed, I discover another good baby book. This one covers the first weeks with twins with the systematic thoroughness I appreciate, and I’m making notes in the margin. It’s a habit that Molly found alarming the first time she saw me do it, and has since accepted as the thing I do when I’m engaging seriously with a text.
The book is still open in my lap when Molly appears in the doorway.
I know this because she says my name, and I register it from somewhere that is not entirely awake, and I surface toward consciousness with the gradual reluctance of a man who has been more comfortable than he realized and is being recalled from it.
“You fell asleep,” she says, from very close, which means she has crossed the room while I was surfacing and is now standing over the armchair looking at me with the expression she gets when she finds something worth the observation.
“I was reading.”
“You were asleep with a baby book open in your lap, which is, for what it’s worth, one of the most endearing things I’ve ever seen.”
I look down at the book. The page I’m on contains a diagram of a sleep cycle chart that I was definitely reading before I was definitely asleep. “I was reviewing the sleep schedule research.”
“You were snoring.”
“I don’t snore.”
“Then you were making a sound that mimics snoring,” she allows, with the generosity of a woman who has decided to give ground on the specific word. “A very dignified sound. Very pakhan-appropriate.”
I look at her in the lamplight, at the considerable roundness of her in her seventh month and the slightly crooked smile and the warmth in her brown eyes, and I feel the thing I’ve been feeling for months now with no less force for the repetition—the rightness of her in this room, in this house, in this life.
“Come to bed. But first, take that robe off.”
When she does, it’s impossible to breathe. She’s round in all the right ways, with blue and purple zigzagging stretch marks over her belly. The scars of a warrior, embracing the fight. Her breasts have grown some, nipples more pronounced now. She is every inch a goddess.
What do you do when a goddess lies in your bed?
You worship her.
I’m on my knees between her legs as soon as possible, tasting her honey. I can’t help myself. This new body of hers intoxicates me.
Perhaps that is who my wife is now. My own personal drug.
I take my time with her sweet little clit, now engorged and irresistible. My fingers keep her on the edge—approved by her doctor. She swears I won’t do damage, and I was apprehensive at first. It took many books about pregnancy sex, and three more appointments, before I trusted myself to do this.
It’s hard for Molly to reach me with her belly in the way, so she just lies back and lets me do whatever I want, which is bring her to the brink of madness. She pulls her thighs from my ears and gasps, “Now, baby. I need you now.”
But I was just getting started.
Still, I let her take the lead these days, so I roll her onto her side before I glide into her. Fuck, she feels good. Hot and wet, like always, but now the angles are different, inside and out. I have yet to find one I don’t obsess over.
When she comes, her body thrashes against me, more violent these days, like the orgasm is stronger. I hold her to me, enjoying every jerk and twitch until she calms enough that I can’t hold still any longer. I’m careful, always, but it’s hard to restrain myself with my wife.
If all goes right, I won’t have to very much longer.
I keep it slow, enjoying the feel of her body surrounding mine, while I kiss her shoulder, her neck, her cheek. I miss kissing her mouth at these times, but face-to-face is too much pressure for her comfort.
