Stella

I hear, “Hmm,” coupled with a deep exhale. Big hands squeeze my boobs, which are ridiculously swollen and sensitive. I bite my bottom lip and breathe through it, preparing myself for what comes next. A hard, long object rubs up against my butt.

“Dane, wake up.”

More masculine grunting. The hand moves down…down…down…his fingers brush back and forth between my legs and now I’m sweating and panting. I don’t want to be turned on. I don’t have time to be turned on. This is the big day and there’s lots to do. Those same busy fingers exploring between my legs push down my underwear.

“Mashmmmummfff.”

“Dane––wake up.”

“Wuuu?”

“Are you awake?”

“Hmm, am now.”

“You almost impaled me in your sleep again.”

“Mmm, I did?” Those fingers get busy again and a soft kiss mysteriously lands on my neck. I chuckle and he scoots closer, rolling his hips against my butt. The man has many talents but lying isn’t one of them.

“We can’t. We don’t have time.”

“Gimme two minute and I’ll make it worth your precious time.”

“I don’t know how you ever passed math. Your idea of two minutes is closer to twenty.”

“So you don’t want me to do this?” the sexy manipulator intones. I gasp and press harder into what his skilled hands are doing. “Or this?”

“Stop talking and hurry up, damn you.”

“Maaaa!”

Bang bang bang. The knob of our locked bedroom door rattles. Yeah, we read all those parenting books that tell you not to do that. Then we threw them all in the trash and came up with our own rulebook

“Nicholas put his boogers on me again!” a seven-year-old shouts.

“Fuuuuuuck,” my husband whisper-growls.

“No, I didn’t! He’s lying, Ma!! And…shut up. I’m tellin’. Mommy! Jacob spilled juice on the couch!” says the six-year-old.

“Fuuuuck,” I whisper growl back.

“Mommy, Nicholas hit me!”

“That’s enough!” comes booming from the man lying next to me.

“I’ll be out in a minute. I’m getting dressed.” It won’t be a minute, not even close.

We lie to the kids a lot. I know, you’re not supposed to do that either, but you try dealing with my boys. True to his word, Dane spawned a couple of hell raiser. Although in his defense they are terribly cute and sweet when they’re tired.

Dane rubs my swollen belly. Then he leans down and kisses it. “Lord, I know you and I don’t talk much but I beg you––show a man some mercy and let this one be a girl. I’ll do anything, God, anything.”

“Feels like a boy, babe.” Gold-flecked hazel eyes lift to meet mine. At the pained expression, I add, “I’m sorry.”

“Let’s think positive. And if my prayers aren’t answered we can always…” He sighs tiredly. “I dunno…quietly put him up for adoption? Maybe we can do a baby swap with a nice couple livin’ in China.”

“Mooommmy!” More rattling of the knob.

“Maybe not…it could be construed as an act of war,” my husband groans. And then I laugh, deep belly laughing, as I’m prone to do around him.

Time has only made him better, distilled all his wonderful qualities. He found balance in his new careers, splitting his time between running the foundation and as a football analyst for the networks. The desk didn’t work, but he’s television gold reporting from the sidelines.

As for me, I found everything I needed in the people I love, in the nonprofit I founded, in helping people that were once like me and my family––in desperate need.

I brush the hair out of his eyes. “Are you nervous?”

He smiles back at me, and shakes his head. The Gladiators are retiring his number today, the gold jacket calling from the near future.

“Is it like being knighted? Do I call you Sir, now?”

“Only in bed.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you,” I murmur, sinking my fingers into his thick hair and pulling his lips to mine.

“Yes, ma’am.”

I’d like to know who came up with the idiom “falling in love.” Falling implies losing your stride, stumbling, crashing. When in fact it you don’t fall at all, you grow in it. And I had grown. I’ve become a better person for it. A better mother, a better mate, a better me. Growing in love with Dane Wylder is the single most important thing I’ve done in my life.

We didn’t need marriage to keep us together––the love that thrives between us would’ve carried us well into old age––but that certificate is a testament to the choices we’ve made. I carry his name proudly. I choose him. And I’d do it again every day for the rest of our lives.