Elen

We see each other the next night. And the night after that. And the night after that.

It’s difficult to get out of bed to go to work. I don’t want to leave Kane’s side. He’s such a fantastic lover. I awake to the feel of his hands stroking my back, or his lips pressing against my breast, and I sigh and roll to face him, drowsy with sleep and a sensual longing I’ve not felt before, not to this extent, anyway.

We keep it quiet, not telling anyone at work, and I enjoy the delicious secrecy of seeing him occasionally around the office, when his eyes meet mine and I just know he’s thinking about what we did last night, or what he wants to do to me when we get home.

It’s a busy time, with meeting after meeting and lots of conferences and business trips, made more hectic by the fact that Caleb has been away on his three-week honeymoon, so Seb, Harry, and I have had more work to do, and Kane’s flat out with his copywriting. So the days pass in a whirl, and it’s with some surprise that I realize one Sunday morning, as Kane prepares coffee and toast and we take it out onto his balcony, that nearly a month has passed.

I curl up in my seat and nibble at the toast as I watch him read the news headlines on his iPad. He’s lit by the early morning sun, and his hair is falling over his forehead. He’s so quiet and thoughtful and calm. I’m quiet and thoughtful and calm when I’m with him, and I like that.

He glances over at me then, and he smiles and winks at me. I glow inside, because he makes me feel beautiful. He makes me feel the best version of myself.

And I know then, Jesus, I’m in love with this guy. It hits me, just like that.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, amused. “You’re blushing.”

“I am not. I don’t blush.”

“You do. You blush when you’re about to come.” He smirks.

Now my cheeks burn. He loves shocking me. “You’re a wicked man. You’re looking at me like you want me on your toast for breakfast.”

He chuckles. “Sounds like a great idea.”

“I thought you’d have eaten your fill last night,” I say saucily. I’m not sure a man who enjoys giving oral pleasure is something my grandmother would have thought to gift me, but I thank my fairy godmother, whoever she is.

He gives me a wicked grin. “That was last night. Now I’m starving again.”

I melt inside at the thought of him going down on me. He has a way of looking at me that gives me goosebumps.

“Did you know that the French call an orgasm le petite mort, which means ‘the little death’?” I tell him.

“I did. That’s because after exertion, the soul transcends to another plane.”

“Or because the guy falls asleep.”

He laughs, because it’s so not true--if anything, it’s me who dozes off, worn out from all the pleasure. “The vibrator was invented in the nineteenth century to reduce female hysteria,” he informs me.

“I can believe that. I’m beginning to feel hysterical right now.”

He crunches his toast and licks his lips.

“You burn two hundred calories in thirty minutes of sex,” I tell him.

“Better than dieting,” he agrees. “Whales have the world’s largest penises. Eight feet was the biggest.”

“Holy fuck.”

“Guaranteed to make your eyes water.”

Chuckling, I nibble my bottom lip as I think of other sex facts. “Turkeys and giraffes are bisexual.”

“I bet they had fun carrying out that study. A man ejaculates at an average speed of twenty-eight miles per hour.”

That gives me the giggles. “The black widow spider eats her mate during or after sex, and sometimes consumes up to twenty lovers in a single day.”

“I think I dated a girl like that in high school. Twenty-five percent of couples over seventy-five are still sexually active.”

I’m still giggling. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“You think you’ll still be having sex at seventy-five?”

“I sincerely hope so. I think we’ll still be at it even when our hair is white and our teeth are in a glass beside the bed.”

He sips his coffee and meets my gaze. His smile has faded, and he looks out across the city for a moment.

I go cold. What did I say? Was it talking about having a future together? Is that not what he wants?

I started the morning realizing I’ve fallen in love with this man. Now the sun has gone in, and I feel cold.

“Kane,” I say softly. “If you want to end this, you have to tell me right now. Because I’m falling for you, and if you don’t feel the same way, I need to know.”

He doesn’t react to my declaration. He continues to stare out at the clouds for a moment. Then, finally, he looks back at me. “Do you want kids?”

On the surface, it’s an innocuous question, the kind a couple who are considering spending more time together might discuss in passing. But there’s a whole heap of meaning behind Kane’s words.

I’d half-forgotten he’s infertile. It’s not the kind of thing that comes up in every conversation, and he’s so… feral in bed that it’s quite clear to me that infertility is not connected in any way to masculinity.

But it’s obviously on his mind. We’re starting to get serious, and he needs to know whether I feel the same way Jen did.

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “I haven’t thought about it that much. I work hard, and I have lots I still want to do. Do we have to discuss it now? We haven’t been together that long. It’s a big decision to make a month into a relationship.” I’m not sure how I feel about sperm donors and IVF and adoption--I need time to give it some thought.

He puts his coffee cup on the table, and leans forward, his elbows on his knees, fingers linked. “I haven’t told you everything about how my marriage ended.”

I frown. “What do you mean?”

He studies his fingers for a while. “After we discovered it was me who was infertile, Jen wanted to use a sperm donor, but I didn’t feel comfortable with that. I didn’t like the idea of her getting pregnant by another man--I mean, I know that’s not how it is, but I wasn’t happy with it. So we had three rounds of IVF, none of which worked. Jen wanted to try again; I didn’t. I felt it wasn’t meant to be. We might not have been able to have kids, but we had each other. It was enough for me, but not for her, apparently. A couple of months passed, during which she kept trying to talk me into using a sperm donor. Things deteriorated--I wanted to stop talking about it, but she said I was ignoring her feelings and that the urge to go through pregnancy was too strong to ignore. I think I was conscious deep down that the marriage had gone wrong, and that we were going to have to face the fact. Then one day, she came home and told me… she was pregnant.”

I stare at him. “What?”

He lifts his gaze to mine. “By someone else.”

My jaw drops. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah. A guy she worked with. She said she’d only slept with him once.” He looks back at his hands. “She told me that if I agreed, she wouldn’t tell him, and we could bring the baby up as our own.”

“She arranged her own sperm donor,” I say softly.

He gives a humorless laugh. “Yeah, I guess.”

“What did you say?”

“I walked out. I couldn’t believe the woman I loved--or thought I loved--would do something like that, to me, to the other guy, or to the baby. I haven’t seen her since. We’ve done everything through our lawyers. She’s had the baby, and I understand she’s living with the father.”

“Oh, Kane, I’m so sorry.” I feel terrible for him.

“I don’t want pity,” he says, and his voice is hard. “I told you, Elen, because I’m already half in love with you, and I don’t think it’s going to take me long to fall the whole way. I know it’s early to discuss it, but I need to know whether having a child naturally is so important for you that it would cause problems between us. I hope you can understand that. I want you to think about it seriously. Will you do that for me?”