The first thing he'd done wasn't yell about the mess. It wasn't ask why I hadn't trusted him when I admitted that I thought he gave up on me.
Oh, no. He'd just unlocked the door to the panic room, climbed into bed with me, and wrapped both arms around me while I sobbed against his chest.
"I'm sorry," I'd managed to choke out afterward when my voice came back to me—the same way that Connor did.
He'd taken my left hand, lifting it to his lips before he pressed a slow kiss against my wedding band. "Never apologize for loving me, sweetheart."
And that was the first time I really understood that I did.
I love Connor Heyward, and broken as I’ll forever be, he loves me.
Yesterday wasConnor’s twenty-eighth birthday.
He didn’t make a big deal of it. Actually, if the date—March 26th—wasn’t ingrained into my head as his birthday, I probably wouldn’t have known that it was. He never mentioned it, and when I tried, he distracted me with enough kisses that I knew he was doing it on purpose.
For my twenty-eighth birthday in January, he gave me a stuffed cat that purred when you hug it. That wasn’t all. He bought me enough clothes to rebuild my wardrobe, plus a portrait of the two of us together that I don’t even know where he got made, but it was the sweet grey-and-white purring plush that I treasured.
I wanted to give Connor a gift. Knowing him as well as I do now, he would never let me if I approached it like that. I did use my new phone to order him a few things that I’ve heard him mention liking: a pair of hiking boots. Some new cologne so that he always smells like my Connor. A sheathe for his pocketknife, plus a backup with a bigger blade.
I gave them to him this morning because there was a slight delivery delay. I’ve never seen his expression light up the way it does when I shyly admit that the box with my name on it is his.
Well, no. He looked like that the first time I got naked in front of him. And his expression was one of pure malesatisfaction when he noticed that I put ‘Haven Heyward’ in the address line, but there was a hint of softness when he realized that I didn’t just buy him something to say that I did. I bought him something that he wanted, something that he can use, and when he held me close, murmuring his thanks, I swear I felt the scalded heat of a teardrop trailing down the side of my neck.
I wasn’t done, though.
Tonight, Connor cooked another of my favorite dinners. He made chicken parmesan with too much garlic bread because he knows I'll steal the last piece off his plate if he’ll let me—and he always lets me.
After dinner, he starts gathering the dirty plates together.
"You cooked," I tell him, getting up. "I'll clean."
He shakes his head. “Nope. You’re my wife. I take care of you. I’ll clean up. Why don’t you go sit down and relax. I’ll finish up here and we can watch a movie before bed.”
We could. Or else we could?—
I shake my head, then take a deep breath. Shuddering out a nervous breath, I blurt out: “You sit down and relax.” I firm my jaw. “Now, Connor.”
He lowers the pile of plates in the sink. “Haven? Are you okay?”
I… I think so.
It’s something I’ve been thinking about lately. Am I okay? No. I’m not. Not really. But I’m better, and the first time that Connor was slipping his cock inside of my pussy and I had the urge to put it inside my mouth instead, I was stunned to think that I might be getting even better.
I never thought I’d be strong enough to consider that act with my husband. But as he immediately jumped to clean up after doing all of the work himself… after how careful he’s been with me since the start, even when I was trying to kill him… I think I’m ready.
I think I can do this.
I point at the couch. If I have to use my energy to talk again, I might chicken out. So I point, and he smiles indulgently at me before moving out of the kitchenette and into the living area of our basement.
He sits down on the couch. “There. I’m relaxing. Does that make you happy, sweetheart?’
It does. And, in a minute or two, it should make my husbandreallyhappy…
Ignoring the rest of the mess in the kitchen, I gather up my hair, twisting it so that it’s out of my face, falling down my back. I shove up the sleeves of my hoodie, shuffling my bare feet across the floor until I’m standing between the coffee table and the couch.
I bump it back, giving me some room to work with. Then, to the obvious shock of my husband, I sink down to my knees in front of him. I use my shoulder to wide a gap in his legs before wedging my body between them.
It’s only as I take a deep breath, then undo the snap on Connor’s jeans that I rip him out of his stunned stupor.
