I’m having a bad day and Grip is making it worse.

“Would you just sign the contract?” I pop an ibuprofen for the headache from hell vising my temples.

“Nope,” he answers calmly, eyes fixed on the gigantic television. “I told you I don’t like those dates.”

With the remote aimed at the television, he flips through several channels, all of which start with ESPN. ESPN 2, ESPN News, ESPN Classic—how many ESPNs do we need? He’s the picture of relaxation, feet up on the table, and that only serves to agitate the bee in my proverbial bonnet. I’ve been working all day for him, setting up show dates, speaking with college administrators about the Contagious tour he and Iz launch in a few months, finalizing a new headphones endorsement deal—and that’s just today, and that’s just him. There’s also my list for Kai, Luke, Rhyson, and Jimmi, getting things set up for Kilimanjaro’s release. It’s a shit ton, and I’m only asking him to do this one little thing.

“Please don’t give me crap on this.” I stand beside the couch, trying to remain reasonable. I’ve been doing a good job of being reasonable lately.

“Babe, just rework the deadlines.” His eyes flick briefly from the screen to my face and back, like he’s making sure it’s still me, his wife, and not some irate stranger. “I don’t want to be writing during the holidays, and that deadline Charm is proposing would have me doing that.”

“Not if you’re ahead of schedule.” I perch on the arm of the sofa. “Just rework some studio time and—”

“Rework studio time?” The look he gives me is an ounce of disbelief, a quart of frustration. “But that’s when I want to focus on my next album, not some stupid book of poetry.”

“Stupid book of . . .” Words fail me. I’ve worked my ass off to secure this book deal with one of the finest publishers in the business. “Grip, this is how you diversify. This is brand expansion. This is—”

“This is getting on my last damn nerve is what this is doing. Let’s talk about it tomorrow.” He scowls, turns up the volume, and gestures to the big ass flat-screen taking up what seems to be half a wall. “It’s the game, babe. I was in the studio till two o’clock this morning and on conference calls with Iz all day. I just wanna watch the game.”

Men. Oh, my God. They slay me with their hobbies and trivial obsessions.

I plant myself directly in front of the television and put my hands on my hips. I know it’s the universal bitch wife move, but I find myself pulling it anyway.

“Now,” I say obstinately. “Let’s get it settled tonight so when Charm gets to the office in the morning, our signed contract is in her inbox.”

“Move.” Grip’s eyes narrow, not even attempting to look around me. “Or I’m moving you.”

I fold my arms over my chest, raising one brow to dare him. He’s on his feet in a flash, his hands lifting me by my waist, hauling me over his shoulder and stomping down the hall to our bedroom. He tosses me on the bed and walks to the door.

“How about you come out when you’re off the rag,” he snaps on his way out. “Because this shit is ridiculous.”

He doesn’t slam the door. He doesn’t even close it, but in my mind, that’s the sound of his anger: a door slamming shut between us. And the most galling thing?

He’s right.

My foul mood has nothing to do with the contract. I can get Charm to make those changes. They’re so eager to have him, they’d let him publish any time in the next century. It has nothing to do with my heavy workload, but it does have everything to do with my period.

I roll to sit on the floor, my back pressed against the bed and my knees up. I drop my head into my hands, and despite all the warnings I give myself not to cry, tears slip from my eyes.

Four months.

My period has come like clockwork the last four months. I know people try for years before getting pregnant so I shouldn’t be this discouraged after a few months, but when I woke up this morning and realized my cycle was here again, it just soured my whole day.

My head is down, my face covered, but I know as soon as Grip sits on the floor beside me. He’s noiseless, and it’s not even his scent that gives him away. It’s that thing tucked away in my heart, hidden in my soul that responds to him every time he’s near. Emotional, sensual, primal, it’s a call and response that I never asked for, but it’s undeniably there. It always will be.

“Hey.” He pushes the hair back from my hot face. “Look at me.”

I don’t want to. My nose is probably red. My cheeks are wet. I’ve been an idiot and a bitch all day, and again he’s the one making the first move to fix things. I don’t want his kindness right now. I don’t deserve it.

With gentle fingers, he pries my hands away from my face. I still don’t look up when he brushes a thumb over the tears pooling under my eyes. He pulls me over to him, settling me sideways on his lap and tucking my head into his neck.

“My period came again,” I mumble.

“I know.” He kisses my eyelashes. “Isn’t that supposed to happen? Like to keep all your girl parts working the way they should?”

“I’m a grown woman.” I smile into his T-shirt, which is damp with my leftover tears. “I don’t have girl parts.”

“Grown woman, girl, I don’t care—I like your parts healthy.” He tips up my chin. “So, from what I understand, this is normal, healthy female stuff. So, what’s the problem?”

“I’m disappointed.” I sigh and trace the calligraphy peeping out from under his wedding band. “I was hoping this month . . . well, you know, that my cycle would not come.”

I swallow fresh tears. Rationally, I know it hasn’t been long. I know there’s sometimes a delay when you get off birth control. I have no idea if I’ll be a good mother, but I want to try. With him, for him, I want to try. There was a time when I saw marriage as just a formality. We had everything else: we lived together, we made love, we shared every aspect of our lives. Really, what could a piece of paper add to what we already had?

But it did.

It does.

Marrying Grip transformed our love, anchored our commitment in a way I hadn’t understood and could not have anticipated. I couldn’t imagine a deeper devotion than what we shared before we married, but marriage to him uncovered fathoms. Instinctively, I know having his children, raising them together will do the same. It will test us in ways, stretch us in ways, bind us in ways I want to explore. I’ll seek out anything that will grow our love.

“I wanna give you a baby, Grip.”

Even in the inky depths of his eyes, my comment sparks light. An answering desire glows back at me. The intensity is magnetic, drawing me in and holding me captive. He wants it, too, but I can tell he deliberately tamps it down.

“You’re just planning to push it out and drop it off?” Grip’s smile lures me even further out of my funk. “What do you mean give me a baby? Are you not sticking around for the next eighteen years?”

“Shut up.” I snuggle deeper into the corrugated plane of his chest and abs. “You know what I mean.”

“This is for us, Bris.” He pulls back only far enough for me to see his face. He’s teasing me into a better mood, but his eyes are serious. “A baby would add to what we already have, yeah, but what we already have is amazing. It’s more than most people ever get because I’m completely content with just you. Do you know how hard it is to be content, to be satisfied in this life? And I found someone who is more than enough to make me happy forever.”

I nod, convinced, but still shaking off the vestiges of my disappointment.

“I don’t want you feeling pressure.” He holds my chin steady between his thumb and finger. “There’s no pressure. I don’t care if you’re not pregnant next month or next year. It’s you and me. Do I want kids? With you? You know I want to see your eyes and my nose and my lips and your whatever all mixed up in beautiful babies.”

My bones, my heart, my muscles—like candles of wax, they melt under the tender heat in his words, the warmth of his stare.

“But if it never happens, I have you,” he says. “Do you understand? You’re it, period—no pun intended.”

He does this every time. He untangles my snarls, uncoils me when I’m tightly wound. Not even five minutes ago, I was teary and sullen, rigid in my hurt and disappointment. Now I’m soft as butter oozing into bread. I’m clinging to him.

“I guess another month, another period.” I hazard a grin when we stand to face each other. “And you’re right, it’s okay.”

“And since you got your period, are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

We offer our very different responses at the same time.

“Ice cream.”

“Anal.”

“Well, this is awkward,” Grip says with an unabashed grin.

“Did you say anal?” An astonished, confused laugh pops out of my mouth. “My period comes on, and you go straight to anal? Why?”

“It’s a different . . . door, baby. It’s the back door.” His hand works down my spine, over the curve of my ass, his middle finger slipping into the divide down the middle of my butt. “This month gave us lemons. I’m just making lemonade.”

“In my ass? You’re making lemonade in my ass? That’s your metaphor?”

“More like a segue. I think your period is a great segue into anal. Lots of people do it as a monthly alternative.”

“Um . . . that’s above my lay grade,” I joke. “We’re not doing that.”

“Like never? You don’t want to do anal ever?” Horrified panic extinguishes the teasing light in his eyes. “But I’ve put my thumb in your ass.”

“So?”

“So that was a step to ease you in. Step one, thumb. Step two, cock. My thumb in your ass is like one hard sneeze away from anal.”

I snort, skeptical and unladylike.

“It would take more than a sneeze to get your dick in there.”

“Bris,” he says, patience in his tone and expression. “What’s the difference between my thumb and my dick?”

“Um . . . several inches in sheer girth actually. You are not putting that thing in my ass. You like anal that much?”

“That’s like asking do I like cherry Kool-Aid.”

“Ew! You like cherry Kool-Aid?”

“Okay, it’s like asking if you like Cookie Dough ice cream.”

I would have Cookie Dough ice cream delivered in crates if I could. My anus clenches in protest.

“Oh, God,” I whisper. “You love it.”

“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”

“I didn’t say I haven’t tried it.”

“You’ve done anal?” Displeasure darkens his eyes. “Who the hell’d you do anal with?”

“Excuse me.” I tilt my head and rest a fist on my hip. “Did I ask who you’ve done anal with?”

“You’re right, we don’t wanna go there.” He shakes his head and turns his lips down at the corners. “You didn’t like it?”

“It was messy and it hurt.”

“Well, yeah, it can be messy, but he probably didn’t do it right.”

“He definitely didn’t do something right.”

“I promise you I’ll do it right.” He cups my ass and squeezes, his pinky fingers delving into the slit of space separating the cheeks. “Can I tell you how I would make it better for you?”

Resist. Resist. Resist.

The chant in my head grows fainter the more his hands explore my body, seeking all my needy places. It’s not just the curve of my breast or the plane of my belly where he’s seducing butterflies, but my heart still feels unreasonably bruised by something as silly as menses.

“Not that I’m open to it,” I say, my voice slightly lust-rough. “But if I were to—”

“First I’d get you really wet,” he cuts in, eyes and voice a little too eager to be merely hypothetical.

If he continues, I will be ass-full of Grip by the end of the night.

“Um, forget I asked.” I laugh when his face falls. “I’m just saying . . . what about the game?”

“Game? There’s a game?” His lips ghost the ink on my shoulder, licking at the delicately sketched letters. “Do you bathe in sugar? Damn, you always taste good.”

“I can’t get through a shower without you barging in and violating me against the wall, so I think you would know if I bathed in sugar.”

“Is that a complaint?” He steps back like he’s abandoning the hunt, and I’m not quite ready to end the chase. I pull him back to me, slipping my arms up and over his shoulders, linking my wrists behind his neck to caress the smooth skin there.

“Definitely not.” I kiss his chin. “I personally can’t think of a better way to start the day than wet sex against a wall.”

“Mmmmmmm.” The hungry rumble vibrates into my chest. “Keep it up and I’m knocking on that back door tonight.”

We laugh into a kiss that starts soft and sweet, surges to hot and urgent, and settles into tender longing. He always knows how to get me back, how to pull me back from the brink, and I hope I do the same for him.

“Better?” he asks in between nips of my lips.

“Much.” I rest my forehead against his chin. “I’m sorry about the bitchiness earlier.”

“Don’t even think about it. We both know I can be an asshole,” he says, a rueful twist to his lips. “I’m sorry I called the poetry deal stupid.”

“I can change the dates with Barrow.” I look up to meet his eyes. “Can we chock it all up to the hormones?”

“Sure, but what’s your excuse the other three weeks of the month?” The twinkle in his eye saves him from a junk punch.

“You’re pushing it, Grip.”

“Oh, I can push it, all right.” His playful hip thrust has me giggling like a schoolgirl and shoving him toward the door.

“Go watch your game. I’m gonna take a nice hot bath and then drown my hormones in ice cream.”

I head to the bathroom, already peeling off my tank top when his voice stops me.

“We don’t have to go through this every month, Bris.”

He’s got one hand on his hip, an arm stretched up as he grabs hold of the doorjamb overhead. His T-shirt lifts to peekaboo soft-as-velvet skin stretched over a slab of granite abs. The humor has faded from his voice, from his eyes. All that’s left is lingering concern and unconditional love.

“I’m telling you there’s no pressure,” Grip says. “I’m gonna be ecstatic and obnoxious when you get pregnant, you already know that, but until then I’m ridiculously happy with just you.”

My words are stolen again by his consideration. I’m the luckiest woman on the planet. Minutes later, Grip’s in the living room cursing and yelling at the television while I sink into almost unbearably hot water and mile-high suds to soothe my cramping stomach muscles, wearing nothing but a grin because I’m ridiculously happy with just him, too.