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Even the fact that she agreed to come home with me tonight despite the complex logistics of bringing her pets along told me that I’m not alone in this obsession, that she doesn’t want to be apart from me any more than I wish to be away from her.
But I’d obviously misread her feelings. She’s nowhere near the same place I am. She thinks we’re still playing around, casually dating, whereas I’m picturing her as the mother of my future children—all three of them. As a kid, I hated being an only child and desperately wished for siblings.
She has three fur babies, so she shouldn’t mind three of the furless variety, right?
In my BE—Before Emma—plan, I was going to wait on the children part until I was sure that my marriage was built on a solid foundation, that my carefully chosen wife and I were compatible over the long term. A few years of marriage seemed like a solid trial run. I figured we could try for our first child shortly after I turned forty, and then we’d have all three in rapid succession, to ensure they’d be close enough in age to be playmates.
It was a good plan, a logical one, and I have no doubt it would’ve worked if I hadn’t met a certain little redhead. The second I laid eyes on Emma, my world went topsy-turvy, my rational brain hijacked by instincts so primitive I might as well move into a cave and start wearing furs.
No wonder I keep forgetting condoms. My subconscious has known all along what I’ve just now realized.
I want Emma and not just for a few weeks or months.
I want her for a lifetime.
I want her for my wife.
It’s a relief to admit that to myself, to face the truth that had been gnawing at the back of my mind from the moment I realized I can’t stay away from Emma for a full week of detox—that I can’t stay away from her, period. All the things I thought I wanted in a life partner—elegance, high class, old-money connections—would’ve been more of what I already had. That perfect trophy wife I’d envisioned would’ve been the human equivalent of my art collection, another symbol of my achievement rather than a person who can give me what I truly need.
Only my Emma can do that—and she’s not on the same page.
“I’m not moving in with you,” she says, glaring up at me. “I told you that a million times already. This is only for—”
“Fine.” It takes all of my self-control to rein in my hurt and anger and release her hands. The knowledge that I love her and she doesn’t share my feelings is like a honey badger on a rampage in my chest, but I can’t force her to love me, can’t bully her into marrying me, no matter how appealing the idea is.
I have to approach this the same way I’d approach any other challenge: with cool logic and intellect. In other words, I have to back the fuck off and let her think she’s winning, retreat an inch now so I can gain a mile down the road.
I soften my voice. “You’re not moving in with me, I understand. I’ll stop asking you—if you do one thing for me.”
“What thing?” she asks suspiciously. Her fiery curls are extra wild from the vigorous sex we just had, her rosebud lips pink and swollen from my kisses, and all I want is to grab her and carry her back to bed, where I can imprint my claim on her all over again.
Maybe come inside her without a condom one more time.
Fuck. My entire body tenses, my cock stiffening with a surge of lust so intense it makes me dizzy. There’s no way I’m waiting until I’m forty to have kids with her. I want them now. Today. Yesterday. The mental image of Emma soft and round with my baby is hotter than any porn I’ve seen—and pregnant women have never been my kink. It’s only her; she makes me regress to this atavistic creature.
Forget wearing furs. I might as well throw back my head and start baying at the moon.
With effort, I wrench my thoughts back to the discussion at hand. “It’s two things, actually,” I say, and the suspicion in her pretty eyes deepens.
“What two things?”
“Let me fulfill my promise to your grandparents and have Wilson take you to and from work tomorrow. He gets an annual salary, so it doesn’t cost me a dime extra.” I probably should’ve led with that last bit, because as soon as I say it, much of the tension on her face fades and she sighs.
“I guess I can live with that. What’s the other thing?”
“I have a dinner with a few of my investors tomorrow, and I’d like you to come. It’s at a restaurant in Midtown, near my office, at seven o’clock. Wilson can bring you directly there after work. Please,” I add, seeing the shock on her face. “I want you there, kitten. I want you at the dinner by my side.”
