The Baby Monitor Caught Him, So I Played It at Sunday Dinner novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: Terms

With the baby asleep, Martha takes Jonas to bed on her own terms: his body, none of her words, until the fifteenth; his phone lights up with a message from Lena asking him to come fix her crib.

At one in the afternoon I stood in our bedroom doorway and watched my husband sleep.

He lay on his back with one arm over his head, in the gray light with the blinds down.

The baby was down for her nap, and the monitor on the dresser was only a monitor, with a clean green light.

I had slept three hours in the spare room and woken up with a plan.

It was four lines long, and I had written it in my head while the shower ran.

The first line was the lawyer.

The second line was the fifteenth.

The third line was that I would not cry in front of him, and I would not ask him a single question.

The fourth line was that he was mine until then.

If he was going to leave at Christmas, he could pay for it in the meantime.

I wanted every minute of him that I could still take.

I pulled my T-shirt over my head and dropped it on the floor.

The mattress dipped when I climbed on, and he came awake slowly, eyes first.

Those gray eyes found me kneeling over his hips in my bra and a pair of old underwear.

"Marty," he said, rough with sleep. "Is she."

"She's fine. She's asleep. I'm not."

He started to sit up and I put my palm flat on his chest and pushed him back down.

"Stay there."

His breath went out of him.

The muscle under my hand was hard and warm, and his heart was going fast.

"It's been a while," I said. "You've been patient."

"I haven't minded."

"I know you haven't. That's why I'm doing this."

I bent down and kissed him, and it was not gentle.

I bit his lower lip, and he made a sound in his throat, and his hands came up to my hips and stopped there, waiting.

"Not yet," I said. "Keep them on the mattress."

He put them above his head, both wrists on the pillow, and looked up at me.

I had never given him an order in five years of marriage.

He did what I said, and his face said he had been waiting a long time to be asked.

"Good," I said.

His eyes closed for a second.

His cock was already hard against my thigh through his briefs.

I slid down his body and put my mouth on the dark line of hair under his navel.

I took my time.

I kissed the scar on his hip from the summer he fell off a roof.

I kissed the places where his stomach jumped when my breath touched it.

I pulled his briefs down just far enough to take him out.

He was thick, hot, and heavy in my hand, and a bead of wet had already come up at the tip.

I licked it off, slowly, looking at his face.

"Jesus, Marty."

"Keep your hands where they are."

I took him into my mouth, as far as I could, and felt his whole body pull tight under me.

The bed creaked.

I sucked and used my tongue under the head the way he liked.

When I looked up his jaw was clenched and his knuckles were white on the pillowcase.

He was trying so hard not to move.

"You can say it," I told him, around him, and drew back with my lips wet. "Say what you want."

"Your mouth," he said. "Just that. Please."

"Good."

I went down on him again, deeper this time, and he swore under his breath, low and broken.

That was the sound, the whisper at the bottom of his voice, that made my stomach turn over.

On the phone I had never been able to tell Jonas from his twin brother.

His own mother mixed them up on the phone, and she had raised them.

In a room it was simple, because Davin laughed first, and Jonas waited.

I heard it now, in my own bed, the same low whisper that had come out of the monitor.

For one second I froze.

I lifted my head.

He saw it, and his eyes opened.

"What," he said. "What is it?"

"Nothing."

"Marty," he said.

"I said nothing."

I crawled up his body and took his face in both hands and kissed him to stop the question.

I kissed him hard enough that the question went away.

When I pulled back he was breathing hard.

I got my underwear off with one hand and held him with the other.

I was wet already, and furious about it.

I sank down onto him slowly.

He was big enough that I had to rock and take him a little at a time.

He groaned as I did it, a long ragged sound.

His hands were still above his head.

I had almost forgotten.

"Good," I said again, shaking. "Stay there. You're so good."

His whole face changed when I said it.

He looked young, and almost lost.

Nobody in the Rowe family had ever said that to him, I thought. They said it to the other one.

I started to move.

I braced my hands on his chest and rolled my hips.

Each time I came down he filled me, and I felt it all the way up under my ribs.

"Look at me," I said.

He looked.

"Is this what you wanted?"

"Yes," he said.

"Say it."

"This is all I wanted," he said. "You. Like this. Just you."

I almost stopped.

It sounded so true that I wanted to hit him.

Instead I rode him harder, my hands in his chest hair, my breath coming in short pulls.

I found the place with the base of his cock against my clit, and I ground down on it and didn't stop.

"Marty, I can't."

"You can. You wait for me."

He shut his teeth and held on.

His hips shook beneath me.

I felt it build low and bright and unfair.

I said his name once, not softly, and came on him with my head thrown back and my nails in his skin.

It went through me in long waves, and he held every one of them still, panting and obeying.

"Now," I said. "Now you."

He took my hips at last and drove up into me, three, four hard strokes.

He came with his face against my throat and my name breaking in his mouth.

His whole body shook.

I held his head against me and stroked his hair.

For a second it was the old kind of quiet, the kind that belonged to us.

Then I remembered, and I lay still.

"That wasn't," he said into my neck, and swallowed. "You haven't done that in a long time."

"I've been busy."

"Marty. Look at me," he said.

"No."

I lifted off him and rolled onto my side of the bed with my back to him.

After a moment his hand settled on my hip and stayed there.

"Tell me what I did," he said. "You've been strange since Thanksgiving."

"You didn't do anything."

"Okay."

He didn't push.

That was the trouble with him.

His phone lit up on the nightstand with a buzz, bright against the dim room, and the screen turned toward me.

LENA KUHN, it said.

Can you come Saturday? The crib again. Please. L.

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