EIGHT

 

“You understand that we have no direct means of measuring the progress of the virus, since we don’t even know what it is,” Dr. Franklin said, looking at Emily gravely from across his large desk. “So all I can do is measure secondary effects and compare them to your previous tests.”

Paul felt tense and like his stomach was twisting, but he wasn’t exactly sure why.  He and Emily were in Dr. Franklin’s office for an update on her prognosis, but it wasn’t likely anything said today could surprise them.

Emily shifted slightly in her chair. She was dressed more casually today than she’d been for most of the week, during which she’d been attending the trial hearings. Today, she wore a pair of well-worn jeans and a brown velvet jacket, and her hair was hanging down around her shoulders. Paul thought she looked beautiful but a little pale, and he knew she was as tense as he was about this visit.

She said, “Yes. I know that. Are things…progressing as you expected?”

Dr. Franklin leaned back in his chair and gave her a little smile. “It’s actually better than I originally expected. It’s definitely progressing, but not as quickly as I’d anticipated.”

Paul leaned forward. “So she has longer than you thought?”

“If it continues at the rate it has progressed for the last month, then, yes, I would guess she may have as long as three more months.” Dr. Franklin looked from Paul to Emily. “There are no guarantees, of course, but perhaps you have a little more time than I’d originally predicted.”

Paul turned his head and met Emily’s gaze. An extra month. An extra month she might be alive. It was a lot. It gave his investigators more time to find out whether the virus came from his father’s research facility. His heart accelerated with something like hope.

“That’s good,” Emily said, a little haltingly. She was looking at Paul, as if she were waiting for his reaction. “I guess.”

“Of course, it’s good.” He reached over and squeezed her arm. “It’s a month we hadn’t expected to have.”

She smiled at him, the expression growing slowly on her face and momentarily taking his breath away. “Yeah.”

Dr. Franklin cleared his throat, breaking into their shared gaze. “Now, would you still prefer not to pursue any courses of treatment for the virus?”

Emily shook her head. “I don’t want to spend my last days in the hospital, subjected to a bunch of experiments that won’t work.”

“We don’t want to pursue blind guesses—treatments that are basically shots in the dark,” Paul added, cutting his eyes from Emily to Dr. Franklin. “But if you come up with a treatment for which there is some evidence that it might be effective, we would want to try that.” He gave Emily a questioning look. “Wouldn’t we?”

Her brow lowered, and she looked a little confused. “Maybe. I guess so. But there isn’t any treatment like that, is there? No one’s had this virus before except my aunt.”

Paul looked back at Dr. Franklin, who shook his head. “All I have right now to offer you are blind guesses, the most obvious of which we already tried on Mrs. Marino’s aunt with no success. But I’m still doing research. It may be that this virus or something similar has been diagnosed before but hasn’t been written about in the literature.”

“You’ll keep looking?” Paul prompted, trying to convey through his level gaze how significant his expectations were for the doctor.

“Of course, Mr. Marino. Your wife’s case is my top priority. I can offer you only a very slim hope, but I suppose that is better than nothing.”

“It is.” Paul glanced back over at Emily, whom he discovered was looking at him strangely.

He didn’t understand the puzzled expression on her face. Maybe she thought he was being too presumptuous in this discussion with the doctor. Maybe she thought he should sit back and let her handle the questions. She’d told him this morning that he didn’t even need to come to the appointment with her.

But he was her husband, and there were things he wanted to know that she might not ask.

“Do you think there will be any way we can predict when or how often she’ll come down with the fevers?” he asked.

Dr. Franklin shook his head slowly. “You both should try to pay attention and keep track of symptoms, particularly from the day preceding her fevers. But, at least in her aunt’s case, there seemed to be no regular cycle or timeline. I have to admit to having no idea why the fevers come when they come.”

“But they’ll get worse?” Emily asked softly.

“I’m afraid so,” Dr. Franklin replied. “I’m afraid they will.”

Paul hated the thought of it. The two fevers he’d been through with her so far had been appalling enough. He couldn’t imagine how much she’d suffer with fevers that went up higher and lasted longer.

When he shifted his eyes over to Emily, he saw she still looked pale and was licking her lips a little nervously.  Something twisted in his chest, in his stomach.

He couldn’t let Emily suffer that way. There had to be something he could do.

He would call his investigator when they got back to the apartment and get an update on their progress.

It wasn’t much, but it was all he had.

* * *

Paul’s phone rang as they were leaving the medical center. He glanced down at the caller ID, and when he saw who was calling, he stopped in the middle of the sidewalk to pick it up.

Emily stopped too, her body stiffening and her eyes wide in expectation as he had the brief phone conversation.

“Already?” she asked when he hung up.

Paul nodded, his heart pounding nervously again, but this time for an entirely different reason. “The jury has a verdict.” The trial had wrapped up late yesterday, so the jury had only been deliberating for a couple of hours this morning.

Emily took his arm as they walked toward the waiting car. He wasn’t even sure if she was aware of the gesture or not, but he didn't try to pull away.

They didn’t say much on the drive over to the courthouse. Paul couldn’t focus on anything except managing his nerves and emotional turmoil. He hoped—he really hoped—that the verdict would give him some sort of closure so he could start to move on with his life.

He wasn’t sure if Emily was going through similar psychological gymnastics, or if she was just responsive to his mood, but she didn’t try to make idle conversation or get him to bare his soul. Which was good. He didn’t want to shut her out completely, but he just couldn’t talk to anyone right now.

They didn’t talk as they walked into the courthouse and went through the normal security routine. And they didn’t talk as they made their way into the courtroom and took their seats just behind the prosecution table.

Paul was so tense he was having trouble not conveying it in his stance and expression. He tried to talk himself down—telling himself that, no matter what happened with this verdict, he would still have options. His whole future wouldn’t be decided in this moment.

It was his father’s life. Not his.

But he was still having trouble breathing evenly, and it felt like his skin had broken out in a cold sweat.

Emily sat very close to him, much closer than she normally sat. Thinking she must be anxious too, he adjusted so that his arm rested on the back of the seat behind her, loosely draped around her shoulders.

She looked up at him and smiled, a little wobbly. She looked as pale as he felt, and she was having trouble sitting still.

The reading of the verdict was not a closed hearing, so the courtroom was getting crowded. Paul, however, was barely aware of the people filing in behind him, chatting or laughing as if the outcome here had no real relevance on their lives.

It didn’t, of course. The lives of very few people would change because of what the jury pronounced as their verdict.

But Paul’s might.

He noticed that Emily’s hands were twisting nervously in her lap. Since his right arm was around her shoulders, he reached over with his left hand to cover both of hers.

She gripped his hand immediately. The fingers of one of her hands twined through his, and the other curved around his from the outside.

She wasn’t looking at him. She was looking forward to where the judge would be sitting in a moment. Paul still felt awkward holding hands with her, with anyone. He would do it if she needed him to, but it still left him feeling decidedly out of his element. So he was relieved that she wasn’t looking at him or trying to talk to him now. It made it easier somehow.

He glanced at his watch. It shouldn’t be very long now.

Emily had started fidgeting with his wedding band as if she just couldn’t keep her hands still.

He wished he could make her feel better, but it was all he could do to remain composed himself.

Paul closed his eyes and practiced breathing.

He was about to hear whether or not his father was found guilty of crimes that would put him in prison for life.

And his wife was dying.

Just then, Vincent Marino walked into the courtroom with his defense team, and Hathaway and his assistant came in to sit at the opposite table.

His father didn’t meet Paul’s eyes. He hadn’t really looked at him once, hadn’t acknowledged his son even existed. Not even when Paul was sitting in the witness stand for hours. Not even when he'd had to admit the naked, devastating truth that he still wanted his father’s love.

The judge and the jury came into the courtroom, and everyone fell silent.

The world seemed to slow down into a surreal blur as the opening rituals were performed, the verdict was handed to the judge to read silently, and then the paper was handed back to be read out loud.

Still in the slow blur, Paul saw his father and the defense team stand up to hear the verdict.

His pulse raced, but he was barely aware of it. His heart seemed to have slowed down like the rest of the world. Emily was squeezing his hand so tightly he thought he might lose circulation in his fingers, but he couldn’t process that very much either. The thirty seconds might have lasted thirty minutes, and Paul could do nothing but sit in his seat like a statue and wait.

Then he heard, “Guilty,” and the world started moving again.

He released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He heard Emily exhale thickly too. Her body drooped as if she’d suddenly let go of all her tension. Paul just blinked slowly.

He sat in place, his arm still around Emily, his fingers still twined with hers. He heard himself breathing—and it was too loud, too deep. For a moment, his vision blurred over.

Emily adjusted in her seat, gently slipping her hand out of his grip. “This is what we wanted,” she murmured, very softly, so only he could hear, “Isn’t it?”

He gave a slight nod. It was what he’d wanted. It was a good outcome. The best outcome he could hope for out of none that were perfect.

It meant his father—a man who had never admitted defeat, who had never been cowed—would go to prison.

And Paul might never see him again.

She slid a hand up to his shoulder. Then to the back of his neck. “Are you okay?” she asked, almost just breathing the words. The judge was trying to silence the outburst of noise in the room by banging her gavel.

Paul nodded again, holding Emily’s anxious gaze. He tried to smile at her, if only to ease her concern.

She didn’t press the question, which was good since he wasn’t sure he was capable of talking coherently. They listened as the judge had his father remanded until the sentencing hearing and the trial was dismissed.

They stayed in place as Vincent Marino stood up to be escorted out of the room.

He turned around, and his eyes landed unerringly on where Emily and Paul were seated. His gaze was cool and almost amused as he made an elegant gesture with one hand—a strange, two-fingered salute.

That was aimed at Emily, who stiffened but met his gaze evenly.

Then, for the first time, Vincent’s gaze slid over to Paul.

The two men stared at each other for a long stretch of time, and Paul had no idea how to read his father’s expression.

Then Vincent inclined his head slightly, almost a nod. The gesture made Paul’s heart lurch up into his throat.

Vincent turned then and was led out of the room. He didn’t look back once.

Paul just sat in his seat, staring at his father’s retreating back.

The courtroom was starting to empty when Emily finally tugged on his arm. “We should go, Paul,” she said gently. “Let’s go home.”

* * *

That night, at about midnight, Paul lay in the dark in his bedroom, wondering if Emily was going to sleep with him tonight.

She’d knocked on his door every night since the night he’d testified on the stand and after he’d let his desire and need take control of his actions on the couch with Emily. He could still get hard just thinking about how good, how sweet, how responsive she’d felt in his arms.

But he tried not to think about it. He’d already rubbed one out in the shower earlier, which he’d learned was the only safe way to make it through a night with Emily in his bed. If he started thinking about their heated embrace on the couch, he’d have to get up and take another shower. Two nights ago, he’d had to do that, and he’d barely dried off from his second round under the spray when Emily had knocked softly on his door to come in.

Even if her presence left him physically frustrated and unsatisfied, he still waited for her every evening, not really able to relax and sleep without her.

He wasn’t sure she was going to join him tonight. An hour ago, he’d heard her talking on the phone to Chris in the media room. Maybe she would need privacy afterwards. Maybe she wouldn’t want to sleep in his bed, since Chris was obviously not happy about their marriage. Maybe she would want the space to think about the guy she’d always had a crush on.

A guy who wasn’t Paul.

He tried not to brood about it. Told himself it was a good thing, since it would give him a safer emotional distance from Emily. He’d gone too far as it was.

There was no future with Emily that wasn’t going to rip him apart. Even if she miraculously didn’t die, he’d have to let her go so she could live the life she’d always wanted. If she pulled back from him now, it would probably hurt less than it would later.

Midnight came and went. Twelve-thirty came and went. Paul decided she wasn’t going to come to him tonight.

He rolled over a few times in the bed, trying to get comfortable. Trying not to think about his father. Trying not to feel completely alone.

Some things wouldn’t change. He’d lived his life alone—with only a few moments when he’d believed he had someone to share it with. A mother. A lover. A friend. None of them lasted.

He wanted Emily with him now, but she wasn’t really his, no matter how much it felt like she was.

It was almost one in the morning, and he wasn’t even close to going to sleep when he was surprised by a little tap on his door.

“Come in,” he called out, his heartbeat quickening.

Emily peeked in. “Are you asleep?”

“No. I’m still awake. Come on in.”

Since his eyes were already adjusted to the dark, he could see her fairly clearly as she shut the bedroom door and walked over to his bed. She wore a dark-colored tank top with pajama shorts of the same color. Her hair was tousled around her face, and she smiled at him as she crawled under the covers beside him. “I’m sorry it’s so late. I hope I didn’t wake you up.”

“I wasn’t asleep yet. Everything all right with Chris?”

“I guess so,” she said with a sigh, rolling onto her side so she was facing him. “As good as they can be. I just…”

“You just what?” Paul was on his side too, and he was doing his best to force down his instinctive reaction.

“I just don’t want to die when things aren’t good with him.”

Paul swallowed. “Of course not. You should do what you can to clear things up with him.”

“Yeah. I’ll do what I can, but he doesn’t like it when I defend you.”

“You don’t have to defend me,” Paul said, very slowly.

Even in the dark, Emily’s expression was transparently outraged. “Of course, I have to defend you! Damn it, Paul, whose side do you think I’m on?”

He just stared at her.

Emily’s face changed as she gazed at him. “Oh, Paul, did you really think…” She scooted over and nestled against his side with one arm draped over his belly, which was evidently her favorite position. “Of course I’m on your side,” she breathed, pressing a little kiss on his chest.

He tightened one arm around her and used his other hand to stroke her hair. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t feel capable of saying anything.

His heart was still beating too fast, but he tried to slow his breathing, tried to relax his body. The week and a half of the trial had taken too much out of him, and if he didn’t sleep he was just going to drop.

He thought about his father. And, for once, it didn’t hurt so much he couldn’t breathe. Maybe he could get some sort of closure.  Maybe he could somehow move on. Maybe his father didn’t have to haunt his steps for the rest of his life.

At least there was hope.

Emily must have been exhausted too, since she was asleep in less than ten minutes. She still clung to him in her sleep, and her warm presence and slow, steady breathing helped him to relax too.

She was dying, but she had an extra month that they hadn't known she had. Maybe there was a cure for her.

At least there was hope.

Paul didn’t know how he would have gotten through this trial without her.

Then he had one more thought before he fell into unbroken sleep.

He couldn’t remember the last time someone had been on his side.

***

Paul woke up early the following morning.

He immediately knew something was strange—maybe wrong—although it took him a minute to figure out what it was.

He finally realized that Emily wasn’t draped all over him the way she normally was when he woke up. Paul's body felt cool, and none of his limbs had lost circulation. When he turned his head, he saw that she was huddled up on the opposite side of the bed, facing away from him.

Her position and lack of cuddling was so unusual that he thought initially she might have a fever, so he reached across the bed and gently turned her over onto her back. She was asleep, and she moaned softly at his disruption of her slumbers. She didn’t wake up, though. When he felt her forehead, she wasn’t unusually hot.

Relieved she wasn’t sick, Paul left her alone to sleep and went to work out for an hour. He’d been working out more than usual lately, since he had a lot of physical frustration to channel, and he worked himself particularly hard this morning. He was hot, sweaty, and tired when he returned to his bedroom an hour later to take a shower.

It wasn’t even six in the morning, and Emily was still sleeping—huddled up in a ball again on the edge of the bed.

Once he’d showered and dressed, Paul got some coffee and went into his office to work. He had a mountain of email to get through, since he’d gotten behind because of the trial.

While normally that would be considered a good excuse, he knew he was still in a probationary period with the board, and he wasn’t going to ask or expect any sort of leniency because of his personal situation.

He was so absorbed in clearing his inbox that he lost track of time. When the phone rang, he glanced at the clock and was surprised that it was already after ten in the morning.

As he reached over to pick it up, he wondered when Emily had gotten up and why she hadn’t stopped by to say good-morning to him.

“Mr. Marino,” a voice greeted on the other end of the line, “It’s Dr. Franklin calling. I hope it’s not too early for a Saturday.”

“No, of course not. Is everything all right?” For a moment, he felt a flare of hope. Maybe Dr. Franklin had a potential treatment for Emily. Why else would he be calling the morning after they’d had an office visit with him?

“Yes, yes, everything is fine. I just wanted to check in about one of your wife’s concerns yesterday.”

“I see,” Paul said, although he didn’t really see at all. The flicker of hope was extinguished, and he grew worried instead.

“She didn’t bring it up as we were talking, but I guess Mrs. Marino had mentioned to my nurse during the physical exam that her menstrual cycle had stopped a month or two ago. She was asking if that was normal with this kind of virus.”

“Oh, yes,” Paul said automatically, pretending he knew what the doctor was talking about. He didn’t know about it. Since Dr. Franklin obviously assumed he did, he added, “Is it normal?”

“It’s difficult to say what’s normal in a case as rare as this, but I will say that an illness such as this affects the body so fundamentally that I’m not surprised she stopped menstruating.  It’s probably a hormonal response to the progress of the virus in her body. I think it’s likely she'll be infertile for the remainder of her life, unless we find a cure for the disease.”

“I see,” Paul said, shifting in his desk chair.

“I trust this isn’t…” For once, Dr. Franklin faltered with his words, “I trust this isn’t a disappointment. I know you and your wife are recently married and haven’t had the chance to have children, but…”

“But she wouldn’t live long enough anyway,” Paul finished for him. “Yes, naturally we weren’t considering having children.”

For some reason—for absolutely no good reason—he felt a pang in his chest as he spoke the words. He couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to have a future with Emily, to have a baby with her. He snuffed the thought as soon as it crossed his mind, however, since such idle imaginings were dangerous and futile.

“Yes. Anyway, I hope you’ll tell her not to worry about it. Nothing has changed physically, so it’s likely a hormonal response to the virus.”

“I’ll tell her. Thank you.”

When Paul hung up the phone, he sat for a few minutes and tried to talk himself down from being deeply annoyed with Emily for not telling him a possibly important detail of her health situation. He didn’t know how she would feel about the fact that her reproductive system was shutting down, a first step in the decline of her whole body. It might be hard for her to hear, though, and it wouldn’t help if he were bristling with indignation over being left out of this information.

When he decided he was suitably under control, he went to find her. He was very surprised to discover that she wasn’t yet out of bed. Normally, she would have been up for at least an hour or two by now.

She could be really tired. His father’s trial had taken a lot out of her, and she hadn’t gotten to bed until after one the night before. He fixed her a cup of coffee and carried it into his bedroom.

She was still curled up under the covers, but she opened her eyes halfway when he approached the bed with the cup of coffee. She didn’t smile, though, which was unusual.

“Good morning,” he said, putting the coffee down on the nightstand on her side of the bed. “Are you feeling all right?” He sat down on the edge of the bed beside her and reached to feel her forehead again.

She grumbled and rolled away from him, but he’d felt her enough to be assured she didn’t have a fever.

“I just got a call from Dr. Franklin,” Paul said. He knew she was awake, and she seemed to be in a bad mood. However, he also knew she wouldn’t appreciate his holding onto any information he had about her. “Do you want to hear about it now?”

She rolled over onto her back and looked up at him through heavy eyelids. Her hair was a tangled mess around her face, and her lips were curved down in an uncharacteristic droop. “What did he say?”

“He said you’d asked the nurse about your period stopping, and he wanted to let you know that wasn’t an unusual hormonal response to an illness like yours. You probably won’t be fertile again.”

“Oh.” She stared at him blankly. “Why did he talk to you and not me?”

Paul lifted his eyebrows. “Because I was the one who answered the phone, and you’d signed the form that allowed him to share with me your medical—”

“Fine, fine,” Emily interrupted. “It’s no big deal.” She rolled back over onto her side, facing away from him. “It’s not like I can ever have a baby now anyway. I might as well not have to mess with cramps and PMS.”

“Emily?” Paul asked, feeling irrationally annoyed again that she seemed to be closing him out for no reason. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

She made a muffled grunt that he couldn’t identify as any specific words.

“Emily?”

“I just didn’t,” she mumbled. “Do we have to talk about this now?”

“No, we don’t.” Paul stood up and stared down at her messy hair and stiff back. He felt hurt and confused and almost snubbed by her obvious desire to get rid of him. She’d never acted like this with him before.

But she’d just woken up, and that was hardly the ideal circumstance to have a serious conversation. So he said, “We can talk later.”

She made another wordless sound but didn’t turn over as he left the bedroom.

Feeling annoyed and restless, he went back to work and managed to distract himself for another hour and a half.

His mind kept straying to Emily, however, wondering what was going on in her mind and if she was really all right.

He finally got up to go talk to her again.

He was genuinely worried when he found her still in bed. It was almost noon now. Not once had he known her to sleep so late. The coffee he’d brought in earlier was sitting cold and untouched on the nightstand.

“Emily?” he asked, not really caring if he was waking her up now. “What’s going on? Are you all right?”

She shifted under the covers and turned to glare at him over her shoulder. “I’m sleeping.”

“It’s almost noon. You don’t sleep this late.”

“I do today.”

Something was definitely wrong. He walked around to his side of the bed so he could see her face. Her eyes were shut, and her hair was hanging over her cheek. “Emily,” he said, an edge of warning in his tone. “You have to tell me if you’re getting sick.”

“I’m not sick.” She scowled with transparent impatience before she rolled over onto her other side, showing him her back again.

Paul sighed in frustration, but he was too worried now to be genuinely angry. “Then why aren’t you getting up?”

“What’s the point?” she muttered, almost too muffled for him to register the words.

He did hear them, though, and he suddenly understood them.

If all of this had happened to him, he would have fallen into a depressed (and probably drunken) stupor weeks ago. Emily wasn’t him. She was bright and strong and resilient, and she’d handled tragedy better than he could have dreamed of doing. But she was still human, and yesterday one of the biggest tasks she’d had left to accomplish had been completed.

Since he was tired of standing next to the bed, he got into it, propping himself against the pillows in the middle so Emily couldn’t get very far away from him. “My dad’s trial wasn’t the only reason you have to get out of bed, Emily.”

She turned to peer at him over her shoulder but then frowned. “Don’t try to psychoanalyze me. I just want to sleep in.”

“You’ve already slept in. It’s almost lunchtime. Now it’s time to get up.” He kept the surge of sympathy out of his voice—since he knew she’d resent it—so he sounded bland and matter-of-fact.

“Why exactly?”

“There are things to do, and you have a husband who’s getting bored trying to amuse himself.”

She snorted, but she did roll over onto her back, instead of huddling away from him, so that was improvement. “I don’t have anything I need to do today.”

“Then we’ll find something to do. Your birthday is next week. We can start making plans. Do you have any thoughts about what you'd like to do?”

“Nothing,” she mumbled, glancing away from him. “What’s the point? Nothing is going to change.”

“What does that mean? It’s a birthday whether things change or not. Tell me what you’d like to do, and we’ll do it.”

“It’s not like I can have a party or anything.” She sighed and stared at a blank spot across the room. She didn’t seem to be whining as much as reflecting poignantly.

“Of course, you can. You have a lot of friends in the neighborhood. Who do you want there? Just tell me who you want, and I’ll make sure they come.”

Emily gave a thick exhale and a little shrug. “I don’t know. It would be weird to have all my friends hanging around me waiting for me to die.”

 “I don’t think that’s why they’d be there, but we can do something alone, if you’d rather.”

She didn’t answer immediately. She just stared down at her hands, where she was idly twisting her emerald and diamond engagement ring.

“Do you have any ideas about what you want for your birthday?” he asked, when she still didn’t respond.

“I don’t know.”

“We can figure it out later. But you still need to get out of bed.”

She rolled her eyes at him, which he thought was an improvement, since he’d rather see her looking annoyed than depressed.

“You have an extra month, according to Dr. Franklin, remember?” Paul said. “That’s good news.”

“Yeah, an extra month to suffer through fevers. Yay me.”

Paul’s chest twisted painfully. “You won’t be sick the whole time. You feel fine today, right? So why waste it?”

Her blue eyes darted up at him, almost questioningly, before they returned to stare at her ring.

“Emily?” he asked softly, feeling a sudden cold wave as he thought about why she was staring that way at her rings. “Is there anything else bothering you? You’re happy…you’re happy with our marriage, aren’t you?”

It had meant so much to Paul last night that she’d said she was on his side, and he believed she’d meant it. She’d never been in love with him, though. Maybe, now that she had an extra month to live, she was tired of being shackled to such a mess of a man.

“Yeah. Of course.”

“That doesn’t sound very convincing.” His tone sounded a little forced to his own ears, but he kept his expression as natural as possible. “You know, if you decide you want out, all you need to do is—”

Emily made a choked noise of outrage. “I don’t want out of the marriage. What the hell are you talking about?”

Her grumpiness was more comforting than any kind words would have been. The tension in his chest eased. “I was just checking. So you’re satisfied with everything about our marriage?”

“Yes,” she said slowly, with a strange twist of her mouth, “It’s good. I just…”

Paul’s breath hitched. “You just want?”

She opened her mouth as if she would answer, but then she just shook her head and looked away.

“Emily, you have to tell me.” He reached out and took her by the shoulders. Made her look at him. “If something in our marriage isn’t working for you, you have to tell me what it is so I can fix it.”

Her expression changed. Grew soft. She gazed up at him with obvious affection. “It’s nothing for you to fix, Paul. You don’t have to fix anything. You’ve been a better husband to me than I could ever have imagined. There’s nothing you need to fix.”

He wanted to lean into the words, let them wash over him, but he wasn’t sure if he could really believe them. It had felt like she had something to say. Something he needed to know. He pushed the thought aside for now, since he still needed to get Emily out of bed.

"All right. If it's not the marriage, then tell me what's wrong," he said.

Emily slumped down again and shook her head.

"Were you upset about what Dr. Franklin said this morning?"

She gave a half-shrug. "Not really. I mean, it's kind of depressing, but obviously I wasn't going to have a baby anyway." She sighed and darted a glance over to him. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you about it. I just…"

"You just what?"

"It's just embarrassing," she admitted, making a pained face, "That my body isn't working the way it's supposed. That nothing is working. I didn't want you to treat me like I was…like I was…"

"Like you were what?"

"Broken."

Paul made a rough sound in his throat and wrapped an arm around her to pull him against her. "Emily, you're not broken. You're just sick. It's not going to change how I treat you." He wanted to comfort her, but he wasn't entirely sure if the words were true. The sicker she became, the more he would want to protect her, shelter her, make her better.

It wasn't right—it was just wrong—that there was virtually nothing he could do.

She leaned against him. She wasn't crying. She just looked so, so tired. She didn't say anything for a long time.

Then she finally admitted in a small voice, "I don't want to die, Paul."

He made another husky noise and wrapped both arms around her, holding her tightly, too tightly. "I know. I know."

There wasn't anything else he could say. He was still hoping he could find a way to save her, but she might be angry if she found out he was trying.

Part of him wanted to give her a day to stay in bed and mope. She deserved it. She had more reason than he'd ever had, and he'd done plenty of brooding in his life. But it just didn't feel like Emily.

“What about your list?” he suggested, “I know the trial has distracted us from it, but you’ve only gotten halfway through. We need to start working on the rest of it.”

“Oh. I guess so. Yeah.”

“Maybe we can get something on the list done today. That would be reason for you to get up.”

“I don’t know if there’s anything we could do today.”

“Let’s check. Where is it?”

She told him it was in the drawer of the nightstand in her room, so he went to get it. He handed it to her when he returned and got onto the bed beside her again as she unfolded it.

They both stared down at the worn paper. Seven of the items were neatly crossed out.

Paul smiled as he read a few of the remaining items on the list.

“Don’t laugh,” Emily warned him. She’d perked up a little and was already looking more like herself, with her eyes ironically amused. “I was twelve when I wrote this.”

“It’s a very good list,” he murmured, suppressing a smile with impressive composure. “We can get up to Prince Edward Island sometime soon. Do we really have to go camping, though?”

“That’s what’s on the list,” Emily said with a quirk of her mouth. “I’d been reading a lot of the Anne of Green Gables books and thought that Prince Edward Island must be the most beautiful place in the world. Camping was the way I thought I could commune with nature the most.”

“All right," Paul relented, cringing inwardly as he thought about how cool it might be there at night this time of year. "I'll work on the arrangements. Maybe we can do that after your birthday.”

She nodded as if she thought it was a good plan.

“What about this?” Paul suggested, pointing to one of the other lines on her list. “We could do the ice skating today.”

“Really?” she asked. “I thought you’d have to work all day to catch up.”

“I’ve already done most of what I needed to do while you were lazing about in bed. It shouldn’t be hard to get that one today.”

“It might be harder than you think. I’ve never ice skated before. I was going to try to practice some, before…But I never had the chance.”

“I can help you,” Paul said, pleased that she was cheering up. “You’ll pick it up quickly. But do we have to skate to that cheesy song?”

Emily actually snickered. “I was twelve. I saw a scene with that song in a TV movie, and I thought it was the most romantic thing ever.”

Paul gave a resigned sigh. “Fine. Ice-skating hand-in-hand to that insufferable power ballad it is.”

Emily laughed out loud, her lovely, uninhibited laugh that he hadn't heard in several days. Then she reached over and gave him a little hug. “You’re the best husband in the world!”

He wondered if she might really think that was true. “As long as you appreciate my sacrifice.”

* * *

Emily wasn’t a very good ice skater. And she wasn’t a very fast learner.

Paul didn’t really mind. He’d been ice-skating for years, since he’d played a lot of ice hockey when he was a teenager, and it wasn’t particularly painful to teach Emily.

But she was getting more and more frustrated by her clumsiness.

After about an hour, after she’d fallen yet again and Paul had hauled her up, she groaned. “Oh, forget it. I’m never going to make it all the way around without falling.”

“Sure you will. You’re just getting too uptight about it. Try to relax.”

She made a guttural sound in her throat and slanted him a malevolent glare.

He chuckled. “What was that for?”

“Do you have any idea how annoying it is to hear someone who can skate like a pro telling me to just relax? Maybe you can just relax on cue, but I can’t.”

“Right,” he said, trying to hide a smile at her indignant face. “Sorry about that. Shall we try again?”

She took a breath, squared her shoulders, and propelled herself into a slide. She made it several feet before her ankle wobbled dangerously.

Paul had been gliding next to her and was able to catch her with one arm around her waist before she took another tumble.

“Damn it!” Emily bit out. “Why can’t I do this? I’m usually good at things.” She watched in outrage as a boy and girl of about ten skated by them with smooth ease. Her cheeks were bright red, her hair was slipping out of her ponytail, and her eyes looked very blue above the blue sweater that zipped up the front in the light of the large indoor ice rink. Despite her grumpy expression, she looked scrumptious enough to eat.

“You’re doing fine. It’s not necessarily something you pick up in one day. Some people take lessons for weeks before they feel competent.”

“I don’t have weeks to take lessons,” she said, her expression relaxing into a frown.

“I know,” he said softly, feeling that pang in his chest that was distracting him more and more. “We’re doing fine. We’ve got all afternoon.”

He reached for her hand and gently pulled her into another glide.

It took another hour, but eventually she was steady enough on the skates to do what she wanted to do.

The rink had been playing popular music on the overhead speakers as an accompaniment to the free skate hours. But, when Paul was satisfied that Emily could make it around the rink without falling, he pulled out his cell phone and made a quick call.

In just a moment, the song that had been playing was cut off abruptly and the opening piano strains of a familiar power ballad filled the rink.

Emily had been resting and leaning against a rail, but she straightened up when she heard the familiar music begin.

Paul glided over so he was directly in front of her. Then he arched one eyebrow and extended his hand to her, his lips tightening slightly with irony he couldn’t suppress.

What had happened to his life in the last two months that ice skating hand-in-hand to a saccharine song was something he was willing to do?

Emily was grinning as she took his hand, her eyes sparkling with a matching irony. Then they started to skate.

The rink wasn’t very crowded at this time in the afternoon, and the other skaters didn’t get in their way.  Paul and Emily skated smoothly as the ballad grew in volume and intensity, with Emily clinging to his hand very tightly.

Paul would never admit it to anyone, but he actually enjoyed it. Just like that night when he’d driven her to Lake Collins for skinny-dipping, her transparent pleasure and excitement over something so simple was infectious. Although she still had to concentrate on skating, she was smiling radiantly, glowing, as they circled the rink.

This meant something to her—this fulfillment of a silly, childhood dream. She was brimming over with it, and she kept catching his eyes as if she wanted to share it with him. Paul couldn’t help but respond.

They’d made it twice around the rink when the song finally reached its climax. Emily slowed down a little and looked up at him. “Here comes the best part,” she murmured, speaking for the first time since the song began.

Then she sang the line along with the music, holding his eyes and the extended note as her voice faded out.

Paul laughed as the song ended, still holding her hand, feeling warm and amused and oddly touched.

Emily threw herself against him in a fierce hug. “Thank you, Paul,” she said, her voice muffled by his shirt. “It was wonderful!”

He hugged her back tightly, although he had to do some foot work to balance both himself and her on the ice.

There was a tear on Emily’s cheek as she pulled away, but she was still glowing with emotion. Unfortunately, she’d gotten distracted from keeping her balance and her ankles buckled dramatically as he released her.

She squealed as she started to fall, and Paul reached out instinctively to catch her, almost going down himself in the process.

“I've got you,” he said thickly, as he grabbed her waist and pulled her against him, the only way he could manage to keep them both upright. “I’ve got you.”

Emily had started to giggle as they scuffled into a stable position, and she was still giggling as she gazed up at his face. But, as he spoke the final words, her expression transformed from gleeful amusement to something even warmer, even softer.

Paul’s breath caught in his throat as he stared down at her, trapped by the sweetness, the fondness, the absolute trust on her face.

He couldn’t remember seeing anyone look at him that way before. Ever.

He had no idea what happened next, but they were suddenly kissing.

After the first light press of their lips, Paul felt a surge of hot feeling and possessiveness rise up inside him. Emily’s mouth was eager and willing, and she opened immediately to the advance of his tongue. He held onto her tightly, both of his arms wrapped around her, and his mind glazed over with pleasure and need as he felt her respond to his lips, his tongue, his deep hunger.

She made a little moan in the back of her throat that caused his body to clench in desire. She was clutching at his shirt, and Paul had never felt anyone so warm, so vibrant, so passionate, so alive, as Emily felt in his arms.

The sound of someone skating by them alerted him to the fact that they were in a very public place. And he shouldn’t be kissing Emily anyway.

He tore his mouth away and gasped as he stared down at her.

She was panting too and flushed deeply red. Her eyes lowered. Her hands were still fisted in his shirt.

Paul had no idea what to say. He wanted to apologize, but he wasn’t sorry at all. He wanted to kiss her again. Right now. And he was afraid if he spoke, he would say something utterly stupid, prompted only by this surge of feeling—something like declaring his undying adoration or begging her to have sex with him.

“We should probably go,” he murmured thickly, since one of them had to say something.

She nodded, still not quite meeting his eyes. “Yeah. I’m going to fall down again in about two more seconds.”

They slid to the exit of the rink and then took their skates off and got ready to go. They didn’t say much as they did so. Emily kept slanting him questioning glances, as if she wanted to ask him what was going on. He would have been happy to tell her, but he didn’t know himself.

Emily had stopped in the bathroom before they left when a man came over to Paul. “Excuse me," the man said. "I think your girlfriend might have dropped this.” He extended a little pink glove to Paul. Paul recognized it as Emily's. It must have fallen out of the pocket of her sweater when they’d gotten off the rink.

Paul thanked him and accepted the glove. Then he heard him saying something else. Something foolish. And irrelevant. And entirely unnecessary. And certainly not anything a stranger needed to know.

But he said it anyway. “She’s not my girlfriend. She’s my wife.”

***

Paul leaned back in the desk chair in the library of his mother’s old house and stared as the light shine through the windows onto the parquet floor.

Emily had decided she didn’t want a big party for her birthday the following day, but she reluctantly admitted that she did want to see some of her old friends. So they’d driven out to the house that afternoon after Paul had gotten back from a few meetings in the office, and Emily was having dinner with Chris and his family right now.

Chris’s mother had made a point of inviting Paul to dinner tonight too, but he hadn’t accepted the invitation. He wasn’t too excited about seeing Laura, who might be joining her family tonight, and he didn’t want Emily to feel awkward with her old friend, since Paul knew Chris hadn’t wanted her to marry him.

So Emily was having dinner with them, and Paul was in the library trying to work.

He’d just hit send on his fourteen-trillionth email that day when someone knocked on the library door.

“Hi, Tim,” Paul said when he saw one of his bodyguard. “Everything all right?”

“Yes, sir,” Tim said. “Ruth just arrived, and she wanted to unpack your luggage. She was wondering where to put everything.”

“The master bedroom.” Paul raised his eyebrows as he spoke, since his staff didn’t usually trouble him with unnecessary inquiries like this.

Tim shifted from foot to foot, looking strangely awkward for such a stoic, beefy man. “And Mrs. Marino’s luggage?” he prompted.

Enlightenment dawned as Paul realized what they needed to know. In the apartment, he and Emily had separate rooms, although she’d been sleeping in his bed every night for more than a week. Ruth obviously wasn’t sure whether her stuff should go in the master bedroom with Paul's or in one of the guest rooms.

Paul thought quickly. It would make the most sense to keep their normal arrangement, but the master bedroom in this house was in a wing of its own. The guestrooms were all on the opposite side of the big, sprawling house, which would mean Emily would have to traipse through long stretches of hallway to get to his room to sleep at night. Or she would have to just sleep in her own bed.

“You can put her stuff in my room too. Thanks.”

Tim nodded, not conveying any reaction on his impassive countenance. “Thank you, sir.” He left Paul alone in the library.

Paul told himself it was silly to go through the pretense of separate rooms if Emily continued wanting to sleep with him every night. They might as well just share the room here.

If, for some reason, she didn’t like that arrangement, they could move her stuff to one of the guest rooms before she went to bed tonight.

With that issue resolved in his mind, he tried to focus on work again. He’d managed to reply to and delete the last of his emails when he saw a new one come in. It was a daily update from one of the public relations people at Simone’s on what was being said online about the Marinos or the company.

This update was longer than normal, with half of the news stories and blog posts being about the conviction of Vincent Marino and the other half being about Paul’s marriage to a dying teenage girl.

Most of the stories about his marriage in the last few days had run a now notorious photograph of him nearly kissing Emily in the ice skating rink.

They hadn’t known anyone had recognized them and snapped the picture that afternoon until it appeared in the local paper the following day.

In the photograph, Paul’s arms were wrapped around Emily with a kind of intimate entitlement, and she was pressing herself against him, her face turned up for his kiss. His head was tilted down toward her, an expression on his face that had encouraged the stories of tragic romance that were going around the gossip circuits. An expression that made Paul extremely uncomfortable.

He wasn’t embarrassed exactly, but that expression seemed to reveal certain things about him that he’d prefer to not be shared with the world at large.

The photographer had caught him in the moment before the kiss, but he would rather the picture have been his kissing Emily for real. At least that would be physical. The photo as it was conveyed something more emotional than physical.

It made him cringe every time he looked at it, overwhelmed with an appalling feeling of being completely exposed.

Emily had taken the picture in stride, quipping that her only problem with it was that her ass looked way too big.

Her ass hadn’t looked too big. She’d looked curvy, feminine, and vulnerable somehow with her blonde ponytail and hands clutching at his shirt as she waited for his kiss.

If Emily wasn’t worried by the photo, then Paul shouldn’t be either. But it seemed ridiculous and offensive that so many people thought they had a right to know and discuss what he did with his own wife on a random Saturday afternoon.

He stopped scanning through the links in the email since they only served to annoy him more.

It took a while, but he managed to focus on his work again, and he was surprised by Emily’s voice from the doorway sometime later.

“You’re back early,” he said, smiling in response to her friendly greeting.

She frowned. “It’s almost ten.”

“Is it?” He glanced over at the panel of windows and was surprised to see that they were no longer lit by the sun. “Did you have a good time?”

“Yeah. It was pretty good.” She’d walked into the library. She was dressed casually in jeans and a black top and she looked a little tired, a little pale.

“Are you sure? They treated you well, didn’t they?”

She smiled at him, almost fondly. “Of course, they did. They’re good people. It was nice. It was really nice to see them again.” She paused and slanted him a diffident look. “You could have come too, you know.”

“I know. I had a lot of work to do.”

“Okay. But…”

“But what?”

“I just wanted to make sure you know that I would have been happy if you’d come with me.”

Paul wasn’t sure what to say in response, so he just said, “Thank you.”

“Did you get a lot of work done?”

“Yes. I’m mostly caught up now.”

She peered around, evidently taking note of the empty coffee cup on the desk. “Did you eat anything for dinner besides coffee?”

Paul rubbed a hand through his hair and tried to remember. “I guess so. I must have had something.”

Emily rolled her eyes but didn’t pursue the matter.  “Well, I’m kind of tired. I’m going to take a bath and go to bed.”

“Okay.” Then realizing he’d better explain their sleeping situation, he added casually, “I had them put your stuff in the master bedroom, if that’s okay.”

“That’s fine.” She exhaled visibly. “It’s kind of strange to be back in the neighborhood, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he agreed, gazing around the familiar room and trying to feel like he was at home here again. He’d been raised in this house.

“It seems like ages ago now,” she added.

It did seem like ages ago—endless, aching miles. “It hasn’t really been that long.”

“Yeah. I guess.” She gave him a tired smile and turned to leave. “Don’t work too late.”

Paul wasn’t planning to work very late, and he hurried through the rest of the things he needed to finish this evening.

About ten minutes later, someone brought up a sandwich for him, explaining that Mrs. Marino had made it clear that he was supposed to eat it since he hadn’t had dinner.

So he ate the sandwich as he finished up.

* * *

Emily was still in the bath when he came into the bedroom almost an hour later. She’d either taken a particularly long soak, or she hadn’t started immediately after she’d left him.

It wasn’t even eleven yet, but Paul was feeling tired and decided that going to bed a little early wasn’t a bad idea.

He looked around the bedroom. The large, four-poster bed was beautifully made up with elegant bedding. There was a Renaissance tapestry on one wall, and a huge, Edwardian, gilt-framed mirror on the opposite wall above the dresser.

He took off his shoes, socks and belt and glanced over at the closed door that led into the connecting bathroom. When Emily came out, he would need to take a shower and not just because he’d had a long day.

It was getting harder and harder for him to keep his feelings for and responses to her under control. Telling himself rational truths about her age, her illness, and the shortness of their marriage didn’t seem to work like it used to. He used to have strong defenses against the temptation she posed to him, but his defenses were getting more and more battered.

It felt like Emily was his.

And Paul wanted to make her his all the way.

He’d reached behind his back to grab a fistful of his t-shirt to pull it off when Emily came out of the bathroom.

“Hey,” she said, “Did you eat?”

“I ate. I didn’t dare risk your wrath otherwise.” He dropped his arm and turned around to look at her as he spoke with a teasing quirk of his mouth.

She was laughing softly at his comment, and her sandy hair was hanging in pretty waves around her shoulders, but she wasn’t wearing any of her normal pajamas.

She wore a little nightgown. It was simple and casual—made of gray cotton knit with thin straps. Its only ornamentation was a slim ribbon that tied just under her breasts, but the simple silhouette flattered her small, lush figure, and the flutter of the fabric around her thighs made him gulp.

There was no way to mistake the gown for an attempt to be seductive or tempting. It was just as casual as most of the other nightwear she wore.

But it worked on Paul anyway. His body immediately tightened at the sight of her, and he felt an almost painful tug of desire at his groin.

Afraid she would recognize his reaction, he turned around to face the dresser. He took off his watch and set it down, mostly for something to do.

“I’m not really very wrathful, you know,” she said, responding to the earlier comment he’d almost forgotten. She obviously had no idea how absolutely irresistible he was finding her at the moment. “At least, as long as you do what you’re supposed to do.”

He gave a huff of amusement, since he knew that was the appropriate response. He was having a world of trouble not leering at her reflection in the wall mirror.

“Sorry I took so long in the bathroom,” she said. “Were you waiting long?”

“No.” His voice was too hoarse, but he couldn’t seem to clear it. “I just got up here.” To give credence to his words, he grabbed the back of his shirt again and this time actually pulled it off over his head. He opened a drawer to find a pair of pajama pants to wear to bed.

Emily’s breath hitched audibly. “Oh, Paul,” she murmured, the words almost a caress.

He looked at her over his shoulder in confusion before he remembered it was safer not to look at her at the moment.

“Your back,” she explained, obviously reading his puzzled expression. She walked over until she was standing behind him. “I’d forgotten how awful those scars are.”

He swallowed and looked down into his drawer again. “You see me without a shirt every night.”

“But you’re always in bed already, and it’s dark.” She reached out and lightly touched his shoulder, tracing the line of what he knew was a scar.

He hated those scars on his back. They reminded him of his father, and he knew he’d have them for life. “Probably better not to spend much time staring at them,” he muttered, self-conscious about Emily’s eyes on his mangled back.

In general, his body was nothing to sneer at, and he’d been working out a lot lately so his muscle development was even better than normal. But naturally Emily would be diverted to the ugliest part of his anatomy.

Emily gently stroked another scar, her fingertips light, soft, triggering nerve endings that made Paul’s body tighten with even more carnal interest.

He was about to pull away. It was like the last time she saw his scars in New York—his physical response mingling with his emotional response to her deep sympathy and then leading to the utter undoing of his control. He just couldn’t risk it. Not when they were sharing a room, sharing a bed. Not when she was looking like that.

But Emily was still caressing his back, gliding her fingers over the sensitive skin and scar tissue, arousing him deeply. His partial erection hardened so quickly it hurt. “I’m so sorry he did this to you, Paul. I can’t stand that he did this to you.”

Paul lowered his head, closed his eyes, clenched his hands around the edge of the drawer as a last ditch effort to maintain control. He wanted her compassion, her understanding, her tenderness—as much as he wanted her body.

And the fact that all of that—all of her—was just behind him, reaching out, caressing him, was almost more than he could resist.

His arousal throbbed painfully in his trousers, and he felt his face break out in a sweat.

He was actually shaking with the restraint it took for him to hold himself back from grabbing her, kissing her, carrying her over to their bed so he could slake his need in her at last.

“Emily,” he said, his voice noticeably thick. “Emily, please don’t.”

Her hand dropped. “What’s wrong?”

He couldn’t move, couldn’t let go of the drawer, or he would let go completely. He felt her eyes on him intently. She might be inexperienced, but she wasn’t a fool. He didn’t think it was possible for him to hide his response from her.

Not this time.

“Paul?” she breathed, stepping around so she could see his face. Her eyes scanned his face and then darted down below his chest to the obvious bulge in his pants. “Oh.”

“I’m sorry,” he managed to say.

“I didn’t…” Her voice faltered. Her eyes were lowered now, and her cheeks were very pink. “I didn’t think you were…I didn’t think you thought about me that way.”

He swallowed. He didn’t want to make her uncomfortable with him. She might be hesitant around him, might not want to sleep in his bed. But what the hell else could he say in response to her comment, when the truth was more than obvious. “I do.”

“I didn’t know.”

“It’s fine,” he said, finally letting go of the drawer and rubbing his face in an attempt to pull it together. “It’s an involuntary response. But it’s probably better you not…you not touch me like that.”

“Oh.”

He was too embarrassed and too worried about her reaction and his lack of control to study her expression. He just grabbed a pair of pajama pants. “I’m going to take a shower. There’s an easy way to take care of it. It’s nothing for you to worry about.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Paul hurried into the bathroom before he changed his mind and gave into his lesser instincts.

Emily was in bed when he came back out of the bathroom, his body clean and relaxed. He turned out the light and climbed in beside her. He knew she was awake and looking at him in the dark.

“I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable,” he said, pleased that his voice was casual and controlled, “It’s really not a big deal.”

“Okay,” she said, “Should I…”

“Should you what?”

“Should I not sleep all over you at night? I didn’t realize that—”

“It’s fine. Nothing has changed. You can do everything you’ve done before. I’ll tell you if I need you to stop.” To prove his point, he reached out for her and pulled her against his side.

She nestled against him in her favorite position. She was warm and soft against him, but his body was fortunately satisfied for the moment. He held her close.

After a stretch of silence, she murmured, “I didn’t think you even thought I was pretty.”

He made a choked sound of indignation. “I’ve told you plenty of times that you’re absolutely—”

“Yeah,” she broke in, “and I appreciated it. But I didn’t think you really meant it.”

Paul shook his head in the dark. She really had no idea how absolutely irresistible he found her, and the only way he’d be able to convince her was to move into territory he’d vowed to avoid.

Sometimes, lately, he couldn’t even remember all of the sound, rational reasons for not having sex with Emily he'd always lectured himself on. His defenses were getting very weak.

All he said was, “I did.”

* * *

Tears filled Paul's eyes and then streamed down his face, despite how he tried to suppress them.

He stared wetly down at the cutting board he was working on and muttered, “You gave me the onions on purpose.”

Emily laughed, working through a pile of wild mushrooms with her knife. “Of course, I did. It’s my birthday. I shouldn’t have to chop onions on my birthday.”

Paul raised one shoulder in an attempt to wipe away the tears with the sleeve of his shirt as he chopped through the onions as quickly as he could. “Is that a rule?” He sniffed as another pungent wave of onion wafted up to him. “Wow, these onions are strong.”

“It’s just common sense. You shouldn’t have to do anything unpleasant on your birthday.” Finishing her mushrooms, she grabbed a napkin and dabbed at his cheeks and eyes.

When Paul could see clearly again, he saw that Emily’s eyes were soft on his face. “I never thought I’d see you cry.”

“And all you had to do was make me chop onions.”

Emily had told Paul several times that she didn’t want to do anything special for her birthday. At breakfast that morning, she’d given him a serious look. “Paul, you’re not planning anything big today, are you? I told you I didn’t want to do anything high-maintenance. It would make me…sad.”

He’d understood and respected her wishes, although he’d really wanted to plan something elaborate to celebrate her birthday, some sort of grand gesture that would make the day special, unforgettable.

That wasn’t what she wanted, though. So, after breakfast, they’d wandered around the neighborhood and stopped by all the places she loved.

The Masons had wanted to have a birthday get-together for Emily, inviting all of her old friends, but Emily had suggested they do something casual the following day without any presents or cake, explaining that way it wouldn’t feel so much like her wake. So Paul and Emily were making dinner together tonight, and that was all the birthday celebration she wanted to have.

Paul was trying very hard not to think about the fact that Emily was finally eighteen.

And they would be sharing a bed again tonight.

Finished with the onions, Paul went over to wash his hands and wipe his eyes. “Do you want me to chop the garlic?”

“I’ve got it,” she said, going back to cloves she was pulling out of the garlic bulb. “You can get the shrimp ready.”

“It’s mostly ready. They peeled and deveined it for us already.” Paul inspected the package of large, beautiful shrimp he’d set on the counter earlier.

“Then you can get the pan ready.”

Paul obediently went over to the stove and turned on an eye to heat up the pan.

The dinner preparations continued and were mostly uneventful, with the exception of Emily’s dumping flour on the counter and getting it all over her red v-neck top and then somehow his shirt as well.

When they finished the pasta with shrimp, mushrooms and wine cream sauce, Emily prepared their plates and carried them outside to the terrace to eat. While Paul grabbed the bottle of champagne he’d chilled earlier, Emily lit candles on the table and laid out the napkins and flatware.

Emily was smiling as she started to sit down, but then she noticed Paul pick up the champagne bottle to uncork and she frowned at him suspiciously. “That looks like it might be expensive. I told you I didn’t want anything special. Just a normal dinner.”

“Of course not,” Paul lied with a quirk of his lips. “Not even mid-level.” He showed her the label, hoping she wouldn’t recognize the very exclusive brand. He’d on purpose not chosen Dom Pérignon, since she would very likely know it by reputation. “But what’s a birthday without champagne?”

Emily laughed as she watched him pop the cork and pour the bubbly wine into her crystal flute. “You’ve come a long way in your willingness to serve alcohol to a minor.”

He arched his eyebrows, making her laugh again, as he poured out champagne for himself too. It would be hypocritical for Paul to hold Emily to the drinking age, since he’d never followed it himself.  Plus, not allowing Emily, in the last months of her life, to enjoy wine with a meal—one of the fundamental ways of celebrating occasions for thousands of years in human history—was simply wrong. It had only made him uncomfortable at first, since he’d been so set on thinking of her as very young.

He thought about her differently now, and she was going to have champagne on the last birthday she might ever have.

Emily was smiling at him as he sat down across the table from her. The evening was crisp but not cool, and Emily looked absolutely beautiful in the flickering shadows of the candlelight.

She picked up her champagne flute and took a sip, closing her eyes as she did.

“Good?” he asked, watching the nuances of expression cross her face.

She nodded. “It’s wonderful. Thank you.”

Paul took a sip too and allowed the bite and bright effervescence of truly excellent champagne to hit his tongue with undeniable pleasure. “Happy birthday,” he murmured, when he lowered his glass.

“Thank you,” Emily said again. “For everything. I know you wanted to do something big for my birthday, but…”

“But nothing. I wanted your birthday to be good for you, no matter what it took.”

“This is good for me, and it doesn’t feel so much like the end.”

Paul glanced away at her words. “This isn’t the end, Emily. You have months left to live. You have a lot of good things left to do. And we don’t know what will happen in the meantime.”

He didn’t say it, but she might be cured. He wasn’t giving up hope that it could happen. Sometimes, that hope was the only thing that allowed him to enjoy any of these moments. The most likely future would rise up in his mind like a pitch-black shadow, threatening to completely swallow him up. But, whenever it did, he forced it back, forced it down.

Emily might not die, and if let himself think about how he would feel if she did, he wouldn’t be able to make it through another day. He wouldn’t be able to be here for Emily now, when she needed him.

That was something he couldn’t allow.

She nodded and smiled, a little poignantly. “Anyway, I’m not going to mess up a perfectly lovely meal by dwelling on that.” She took a bite of her pasta. “I think we did a pretty good job with it.”

Dinner was good. The food was excellent and, although they were quieter than usual, the mood didn’t feel awkward or sad. When they were done, Paul made Emily stay in her seat as he went back into the kitchen to bring out the cake he’d had made for her.

It was a tiny cake—just big enough for two people. It was decadent chocolate lava cake and decorated with a single live orchid. He also told someone to bring in Emily’s birthday presents.

Emily was delighted with her cake, and she paused in front of the single candle to make a wish.

She slanted him a look that was almost shy just before she blew out the candle, and he wondered what she wished.

He knew his wish would have been for her to live a long, healthy life.

Since the cake was too messy to serve into separate plates, they both ate from the same dish. Emily moaned in pleasure over every bite. That sensual sound, combined with the sight of her tongue greedily licking at the fork and her lips, wreaked havoc on Paul’s body.

To keep himself from doing something very stupid, he got up to bring out Emily’s presents.

She was cleaning off the plate, but she stopped, with the fork midway to her mouth, when she saw that it took Paul three trips to bring out all the presents he’d bought her.

Her mouth dropped open in shock. Then she turned to glare at him.

He had to suppress a smile of amusement, but he managed to give a nonchalant shrug. “Is there a problem?”

“I told you not to do anything big!”

“I thought you meant for a birthday party,” he said, feigning surprise. “I didn’t think I wasn’t allowed to buy you a few presents.”

Emily stared at him for a moment. Then she stared at the pile of at least sixteen wrapped boxes on the patio. Then she collapsed into laughter. “A few presents? Don’t act all innocent with me. You defied my wishes on purpose!”

“What would you expect?” he asked with a smile, feeling warm at the sight of her obvious affection for him. “What else would I do?”

Paul had been looking forward to Emily’s opening her presents since he’d bought them a couple of days ago, and he wasn’t disappointed.

She opened the biggest present first. She screamed with laughter at the top-of-the-line luxury tent she unwrapped. Most of the rest of the gifts were also camping supplies for the trip he’d planned for them to Prince Edward Island next week. She loved all of them, including the hot-water-on-demand portable water heater and the gourmet camping coffeemaker.

He’d had a lot of trouble figuring out what to buy for her birthday, since most of the things he would have naturally chosen would make her think about how little time she had left to enjoy them. The ludicrously expensive camping gear was a good choice, though, since they had an immediate occasion to use it and every new item made Emily laugh even more.

He’d gotten her a couple of other things too, though. One was a delicate music box that opened to display a crystal ice-skater who twirled to the tinkling tune of a cheesy power ballad. He’d had to commission it and pay an exorbitant amount to have it completed in time.

As she stared down at the little ice-skater spin to the music, she choked on a mingling of laughter and tears.

The last gift she opened was even smaller. When she pulled away the paper, she revealed a velvet jewelry box. She gasped and looked up at him questioningly.

He gave a diffident shrug and hoped she wasn’t going to be upset by it. She’d loved the music box, but she wouldn’t know how expensive it was. This gift was obviously expensive.

She opened the box very slowly and gazed down at a deceptively simple diamond and emerald bracelet. He’d looked all over the place for an antique bracelet to match her ring and necklace, but everything was either ugly or unwearably ornate. So he’d resigned himself to a custom bracelet that would work with her other jewelry but she would still feel comfortable wearing. It was an elegant platinum strand of alternating square diamonds and emeralds.

In his search, he’d seen several other pieces of jewelry—beautiful and full of character—that he’d wanted to buy for her, but he’d been afraid she wouldn’t accept them. Since this bracelet would work with the jewelry she already had, he didn’t think she would refuse it.

When she just stared down at the bracelet, he started to get nervous. “I think it will match,” he said at last, “But if you don’t like it—”

“Don’t like it?” she choked, finally looking up at him. “It’s beautiful, Paul. But you shouldn’t have—”

“Of course, I should have. It’s your birthday.”

He stood up and went over to take the bracelet out of the box. Since she was sitting on her knees on the ground to unwrap her presents, he lowered himself to his knees beside her. He delicately placed the bracelet around her left wrist and clasped it.

The lights on the patio glinted on the stones of her ring and her bracelet, set off by her fair skin. They both gazed down at the effect.

“It’s perfect,” Emily said, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him into a soft hug. “You really shouldn’t spoil me so much. But thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Paul hugged her back, pleased that she’d appreciated his efforts. He ignored her admonishment about spoiling her. Of course, he was supposed to do that. If anyone deserved it, Emily did.

* * *

Emily was taking a shower when Paul came into their bedroom that evening. He blinked when he saw there was a wrapped present on the bed.

He walked over and looked down at it, even more surprised when he saw a plain white card tucked under the blue bow on which was handwritten in Emily's script, “Paul.”

Since the gift was obviously for him, he untied the bow and slid his fingers under the folds of paper to unwrap it.

Inside was a framed photograph of him ice-skating with Emily last week. It wasn’t the notorious photo of them almost kissing that was plastered all over. This one showed the two of them holding hands as they skated. They were looking at each other, and both of them were smiling with transparent happiness.

He had no idea how Emily had gotten it. Then he realized there was a note. He picked it up to read.

Thank you for making me happy. I didn’t want you to forget that you were happy with me too, at least for a little while.

Paul couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t swallow. The ache in his throat was unbearable.

That pitch-black shadow in the back of his mind loomed forward to swallow him up as he thought about a time in the future when he’d have to look back, when he’d only be able to remember being happy with Emily.

He stared at the picture for a long time. Reminded himself that he had expert investigators looking into his father’s research facility, where they might find a cure. Eventually he was able to force the shadow back. Eventually he was able to breathe.

Then Emily’s light voice came from the doorway to the bathroom, “I contacted the guy who took that other picture. He’d taken this one too, and he sent it to me. I thought it was nice.”

“It is,” he said, far too hoarse.  His eyes hadn’t moved from the photo. “It is. Thank you. You didn’t have to give me a present.”

“I know, but it’s my birthday. I can do whatever I want.”

His eyes cut up to her for the first time, and he swallowed hard when he saw her. She was wearing another little gown—this one lavender and a little clingier than the one she'd worn last night.

His defenses had already been battered too far this evening. His body leapt to immediate attention, and he might have made a soft sound in his throat.

Emily came over and sat beside him on the edge of the bed. She looked down at the picture he still held.

“Paul,” she said. Her voice sounded a little strained, but he couldn’t think clearly enough to figure out why. “I know that we’ve been working on the assumption that we aren’t…that we aren’t going to consummate our marriage. And I was all right with that, particularly when I thought you weren’t interested.”

He stared at her, dazed and uncomprehending.

“But,” she continued, her eyes darting self-consciously from his face to the photo, “but it seemed like you might be interested last night. At least a little. And I would really like to…to be married to you all the way. So I thought maybe we could talk about …” She took a shuddering breath and looked away from him, as if she was too embarrassed to continue. “I’m eighteen now. Does it make any difference to you?”

He kept staring at her, trying to process whether she was saying what he thought she was saying, what he desperately wanted her to be saying. It shouldn’t matter—he should be strong enough to resist no matter what.

But he just wasn’t.

He wanted her desperately, and she seemed to be offering him exactly what he wanted.

“I’ll understand if it’s not what you want,” she hurried on, when he didn’t answer. “And if you say no, I promise I’ll never bring it up again. I don’t want to make you feel guilty or awkward or anything. You’ve done so much for me. You don’t have to do this, unless…unless you want to.”

He knew he needed to say something, since her voice had grown stretched and uncertain. His mind and body had started to throb in excitement, in hunger, in a thrilled kind of satisfaction.

He wanted her. So much. And she could be his.

“Paul?” she prompted, peering at his face now. Her hands were twisting nervously in her lap.

It was that last sign of her nervousness that finally prodded him into action. He reached over and covered both of her hands with one of his. “I do. I do want to.”

She gasped, her face transforming with a slow kind of excitement. “Really?”

He nodded, a little stiffly. He couldn’t believe this was actually happening. “I do. Want you.”

Her hands had shifted in his grip until both of hers were clutching his. “So we can…”

“Yes.”

“Tonight?”

Paul swallowed hard, the shattered remnants of his old defenses now in rubble at his feet. He didn't even care. “Tonight. If you’re sure it’s what you want.”

“I’m sure,” she said, her face glowing in that way that had always taken his breath away. “I want you too.”

Paul wasn’t sure who moved first—he thought it was probably him—and they were suddenly kissing.

Since they were sitting side by side on the edge of the bed, he took Emily’s head in both of his hands and pulled her toward him more closely, brushing against her lips lightly with his and then sinking into a deeper kiss.

Her arms wrapped around his neck, and she made a pretty moan in the back of her throat as his tongue stroked her lips, her tongue, the inside of her mouth. A swell of pleasure and primitive pride rose up inside him when he heard the husky sound she made and felt her body respond eagerly to his embrace. He was already hard, but his arousal intensified as the kiss grew deeper and more urgent.

When he felt one of Emily’s hands stroking the sensitive skin at the nape of his neck, the stimulation was so torturously good that his hips gave a tight, involuntary buck, causing him to momentarily lose his stability and fall backward onto the bed. Emily moved with him, passionate and eager. She found his mouth again and continued the kiss, rubbing herself against him, her breasts against his chest and her pelvis against the bulge in his trousers.

Paul almost lost it then and there, his body wound so tightly from weeks of wanting her desperately. He pulsed with need, possessiveness, and satisfaction at finally being able to touch her, to feel her, to have her this way.

The spasm of hot tension in his groin, warning of an involuntary release, broke through the blur of his feelings. He tore his mouth away and stared up at her as she sprawled on top of him.

Both of them were gasping, but Emily’s flushed face suddenly twisted with distressed frustration. “Please don’t stop, Paul,” she rasped, her hands fisting in his shirt. “Please don’t stop again.”

“I’m not stopping. Not for long, anyway. I just need to think for a minute. We need to…” He was vastly relieved when she hauled herself into a sitting position on the bed, her legs folded and tucked under her butt. Freed of her weight and her irresistibility on top of him, Paul found some leverage with this legs, which were still hanging over the side of the bed, and sat up too. “We just need to take a minute first.”

“Okay,” Emily said. Her mouth gave an unexpected little quirk. “I guess I can refrain from jumping you for a few more minutes. As long as it’s just a few.”

He gave an involuntary breath of laughter at her wry humor, which did nothing to help the tenuous condition of his arousal.

He was suddenly absolutely certain that he wouldn’t be able to last through a couple of minutes of foreplay, much less any sort of satisfying intercourse. It was painful to admit such a thing to Emily, whom he only wanted to impress, but it was better than embarrassing himself completely before he managed to get his clothes off.

“I’m going to take a quick shower,” he forced out, rubbing some of the perspiration off his forehead. “I’m not sure I smell very good and—”

“You smell fine,” Emily interrupted, looking highly indignant either at the suggestion that he was less than fragrant or at the idea of waiting until he’d taken a shower, “You don’t need a shower.”

Touched at her response despite his physical condition, Paul explained the truth. “I won’t be long. But, if I don’t take the edge off first, this is not going to be very satisfying for you.”

She stared at him for a minute. Then her face transformed with understanding, with a touch of self-consciousness, and with something like pleased pride. “Oh. Well, you don’t need to do it in the shower. I’m happy to help you—“

Paul leaned over to give her a quick kiss. “I appreciate the offer, but I’ll feel better if I have a shower anyway. I’ll just be a minute.”

“Okay.” She watched him as he stood up, holding himself very tensely, “You’re not going to change your mind in there, are you?”

“I’m not going to change my mind.”

Paul took a few deep breaths when he closed the bathroom door and turned on the shower. He desperately needed to pull himself together if he was going to make it through the evening with any sort of pride intact and if he was going to please Emily the way she deserved.

He took care of himself under the spray, coming embarrassingly quickly at the image of Emily waiting for him in his bed—flushed, tousled, and impatient in her little nightgown. He lathered up efficiently and rinsed off. When he stepped out of the shower to dry off, he felt more like himself.

And he’d realized a couple of things they needed to talk about before they got swept away by lust again.

He pulled on a pair of pajama pants before he left the bathroom. When he opened the door, he saw that Emily had gotten off the bed. She’d put the clothes she’d been wearing earlier in a hamper and she’d set the gift and card she’d given him on the dresser. Now she was turning on the bedside lamp.

She turned around when he emerged and gave him a narrow-eyed look of scrutiny.

“I said I wasn’t going to change my mind,” he told her. “Don’t look so suspicious.”

“Well, I hoped not, but I wasn’t sure.” She sat down on the edge of the bed. She was smiling at him, but she also looked a little self-conscious. And a little nervous.

Paul went over to sit down next to her. “Do we need to use some sort of protection?” he asked, trying not to hold his breath. He wasn’t sure if there were any condoms in this house, since he hadn’t lived here for years, but he’d make sure he found some if Emily wanted him to.

She shook her head. “Obviously, I wouldn’t want to get pregnant only to die in a few months, but I’m infertile, remember?  And since you haven’t slept around in a while and since disease is kind of a moot point for me anyway, we should be fine.”

He nodded slowly. “Are you a virgin?”

Her cheeks reddened even more, but she met his gaze in almost a challenge. “Yes.”

Paul knew he shouldn’t be pleased. It was an irrational, archaic, unworthy response.

But he was.

Emily stuck her chin out, obviously misreading his expression. “But that fact is irrelevant. I want this, Paul, and it doesn’t matter if I’ve had sex before or not. It’s not like I haven’t had the chance. It just…it just never felt right.”

He reached out to cup her cheek with one of his hands. “Are you sure it feels right now?”

She nodded. “I’m sure.” Then a teasing smile flickered briefly on her lips. “So, if it’s not too much trouble and you don’t need another minute, will you please make a move?”

He leaned into a kiss, taking her head in both of his hands the way he had before. But this time, he kept leaning forward, gently pushing her down onto her back so she was sprawled out sideways on the bed.

She twined her arms around his neck and held him tightly as she opened to his kiss and arched up into his weight.

Paul kept kissing her, pulsing with hunger and excitement. As they kissed, they managed to adjust their position on the bed so their heads were near the pillows, if not exactly on them, and their legs were on the bed all the way.

After a few minutes, Paul’s mind was a hot blur, and Emily was squirming impatiently beneath him. He finally released her mouth, hearing her gasp desperately as he trailed his lips along her jaw and then down her throat until he’d found a lovely hollow at the juncture of her neck and shoulders.

“Oh God!” Emily gasped, clutching at his head as he applied suction to her skin. She was trying to pump her hips against his weight, and she couldn’t seem to hold herself still. “Paul!”

He couldn’t help but be thrilled that she was so responsive, so eager already, when he hadn’t gotten any farther than her throat. He’d always known she lived her life passionately, letting herself go without inhibition when she felt it was safe.

He just couldn’t believe she was letting herself go this way with him.

His arousal already tightening again, despite the relief he’d gotten a few minutes earlier in the shower, Paul moved lower down her body, nuzzling the soft swell of her breasts. She arched up into his mouth, and he brushed one of her nipples with his lips through the cotton of her gown.

She made a delicious breathy sound in response, so he did it again. And then again. And then he took the very tight nipple between his lips.

She sucked in a ragged breath and dug her fingernails into the back of his neck, arching her spine even more.

Hotly pleased by her response, he moved his mouth to her other breast, twirling the nipples he’d just been sucking with his fingers as he teased the other one with his mouth.

Emily made a little sobbing sound, her head tossing on the pillow, mussing her hair.

He pleasured her until she was writhing uncontrollably and trying to rub herself against his thigh.

“Paul, please,” she begged at last, her hands clutching desperately at his shoulders. “I need…I need…”

He knew what she needed. He lowered himself even farther down her body, stroking down her belly and hips until he’d reached her thighs. Then he caressed his way back up, pushing up the fabric of her gown as he did. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of her underwear and pulled it down her legs.

Paul stared down at her as he bared her intimately to his sight. Her belly was mostly flat, with just a delicious little outward curve. It was shuddering with her fast breathing. Her hips were as lush as he’d known them to be, and the little strip of hair between her thighs seemed to be inviting him in.

He realized he was breathing as rapidly as Emily was, and he was fully erect again, the coiled pressure pulsing urgently.

He suddenly hoped he’d be able to last long enough to please her.

“Paul?” Emily prompted. “If you’re just going to stare, maybe I should resign myself to taking care of my—”

“I’m going to take care of you,” he interrupted, managing to angle a dry look at her face. “Just give me a minute.”

“These minutes are getting to be annoyingly long.” Her voice was wry, but her expression was soft. He could also see some lingering shyness there, and he knew he needed to be careful to not embarrass her, no matter how much he wanted to gaze down at her luscious body and howl.

He lowered his mouth, nuzzling between her thighs and suddenly overwhelmed by the visceral scent of her desire .The noise that escaped his throat as her fragrance hit his senses was so primal, almost animalistic, he couldn’t believe it had come from him.

“Paul,” Emily breathed. Her hips squirmed restlessly, and her hands had curved around his head, tangling in his hair.

He lifted his head to meet her eyes—saw she was torn between desire and self-consciousness. The desire needed to win out, so he stroked her thighs gently until she’d parted her legs for him. Then he slipped one of his hands in between.

She made a little sound when he touched her. She was warm and soft and slick. When his finger slipped inside, his breath hitched as he realized how wet and ready she was. For him.

He pumped his finger a few times, causing her to respond in clumsy little bucks of her hips. Then he pulled out his finger, now wet with her moisture, and caressed her flesh until he’d found her clit.

She rolled her pelvis and released a shuddering exhale of pleasure. She’d lifted her head from the pillow and was staring down at him. “There, Paul, there!”

He smiled up at her, losing his breath at the wild, hungry look in her eyes. Then he slid one finger back inside her and lowered his mouth to nuzzle her again.

“Oh God!” she gasped, as he started to pump his finger. She made a choked sound as he joined the one finger with another.

She was incredibly tight. So tight he was hit with a flicker of concern. He didn’t want to hurt her, and he was afraid he was going to have to.

“Eh,” she gasped again as he thrust the two fingers, curling them up slightly. She was trying to ride his fingers with her hips, and her arms had flailed out to the sides and were fisting the bedding.

Paul teased her clit with his tongue, causing her to cry out in response.

Everything about her was passionate and responsive and somehow real. Paul had never experienced anything like it, never felt anything as utterly genuine.

All of it was Emily, and she was giving all of it to him.

His arousal throbbed dangerously as Emily’s motion grew more urgent. He closed his lips around her clit and sucked hard.

She came undone completely, crying out wordlessly and shuddering as orgasm took her. He felt her clamp down hard around his two fingers. He kept pushing against them and sucking her clit to extend her pleasure as long as he could.

He was gasping as much as she was when her body finally started to soften, and he was embarrassingly grateful that he’d managed not to come in his pants.

“Oh my God,” Emily rasped, wiping what looked like a tear off her cheek. “Wow.”

He raised himself up, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and adjusted so he was beside her again. He leaned over to kiss her gently on the lips.

She grabbed his head and pulled him back into a much harder kiss. “That was…that was incredible,” she murmured when she withdrew. “I had no idea it could be so good.”

Paul smiled, ludicrously pleased with this affirmation that he’d pleased her more than anyone else ever had.

She reached down and grabbed his left hand. Then raised it up to her mouth so she could press a kiss on his palm and then on his wedding band. “I always knew I had an exceptionally talented husband, but I had no idea it extended to that.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Why would you doubt me?”

 “I never will again.” Her eyes darted down his body, where they rested on his obvious arousal beneath his pajama pants. “Did you want me to do you now? I’m not any sort of expert, but I can try my best.”

Paul made a choked sound at the thought of Emily going down on him. His pelvis even gave an involuntary little thrust. But he managed to say, “No. Not tonight.” When she frowned, he explained, “That might be the end of it, and I thought you wanted to have sex.”

“Oh. I do.” She reached over and stroked his chest, almost hesitantly. “Honestly, I’m kind of nervous.”

“Don’t be,” he murmured gently, breathing deeply at the feel of her hands on his chest and then moving lower to his belly. “I’ll make it as good for you as I can.”

“I know you will.” Emily was smiling at him again, and her eyes reflected such affection, such trust, he couldn’t comprehend it. “I’m so glad my first time’s with you.”

Something swelled in his chest at the words, at the thought that she wouldn’t rather be doing this with someone else. He was momentarily paralyzed with the emotion—so strong and aching he could barely recognize it.

Then he realized Emily’s hands had reached the waistband of his pajama pants. “Can I?” she asked softly, slanting him another hesitant look.

He nodded and helped her as she started to pull down his pants, gently bypassing the prominence of his erection.

Emily stared down at him.

Paul felt an irrational wave of self-consciousness himself at her unwavering gaze. According to other women he’d been with, his anatomy was nothing to be ashamed of, but Emily was the woman who mattered to him most.

Her eyes moved up to his face. “Can I?”

He realized she was asking permission to touch him. Not trusting his voice to speak, he just nodded as he had before. He held himself very still as she reached out to gently brush the hard length of him with her soft fingers.

The light stimulation fired off thousands of nerve endings, sending shudders of pleasure through his entire body. He had to fight not to thrust into her hands.

She seemed mesmerized by her exploration of his body. Paul tensed his muscles so he could remain rigidly controlled in order to allow her to continue.

But when her fingers slipped down to his balls, he made a choked sound and pulled her hand away. “I’m sorry,” he said thickly. “You better stop.”

She looked surprised, but then her eyes moved from his tense, sweating face to his erection. “Oh,” she said, hiding a little smile, “Sorry.”

Her expression made him feel fond, almost tender. The emotion was such a contrast to his physical condition that Paul momentarily lost control of both of them.

He breathed deeply until he’d restrained his impulses, and then he gently rolled Emily onto her back. “You ready?” he asked, praying she’d say yes because he just wasn’t going to last much longer.

She nodded, her eyes wide and a little anxious.

Paul leaned down to kiss her and was relieved when she relaxed into the kiss, wrapping her arms around him and spreading her legs to make room for him between them.

He really didn’t know the best way to do this. He didn’t think he’d had sex with a virgin before, unless it had been in his teenage years when he’d been too stupid to realize it.

As he kissed her, he slid one hand between her legs again, relieved to discover she was still very wet. He slipped two fingers inside her as he had before, but this time he pushed against her inner walls in an attempt to stretch them as much as he could.

Emily seemed to like the feeling, since she tried to ride his fingers in shameless little pumps.

He lost concentration for sustaining the kiss, and their lips broke apart. Emily was making more of those breathless sounds of pleasure, and Paul braced himself above her, his face very close to hers as he thrust into her with his fingers.

“Paul, please,” Emily gasped at last. “I want you. I want you.”

With a rough sound, he pulled his hand from between her thighs. Then he repositioned his knees and gently massaged Emily’s thighs and bottom. “It might hurt, Emily.”

“I know. It’s okay.” She gazed up at him with that affection, that absolute trust on her face. “I’m ready.”

So, bone-deep desire and something even stronger coursing through his body with his blood, Paul lined up his erection at her entrance. He licked his lips and braced himself with one arm straightened above her.

He nudged at her gently with the tip, and she raised her hips slightly, trying to meet him.

He penetrated her about an inch, sucking in his breath at the feel of her tightness him, even so shallowly. His body was so tense it was almost shaking.

“It’s okay, Paul. I’m not made of glass. Just do it.”

So he did. He reangled, went deeper, reangled again. Then thrust home.

Both he and Emily made hoarse groans at the full penetration. She felt so good, so hot, so wet, so tight around him that it was almost more than he could bear.

But Emily had cried out for a different reason. Her cry had been pained, and she was shifting restlessly, biting her lip, and looking away from him.

“Is it bad?” he asked, the stab of guilt and concern bringing him down from the edge of exquisite pleasure. “Baby, is it bad?”

“No,” she said, tossing her head slightly. “It’s okay. Just give me a minute.”

Paul didn’t want it to just be okay for her, and he was horribly afraid that it was much worse than okay. She wasn’t meeting his eyes.

He started to pull out, instinctively unwilling to do anything that would cause her pain.

“No,” she gasped, “Don’t you dare! I just need a minute.”

Her outraged tone distracted him enough to keep him from doing anything. He just held himself still above her and tried not to think about how incredibly good she felt around him.

To his surprised, she gave a choked giggle.

He blinked down at her.

Her face soft with affection, she said, “It’s kind of uncomfortable, Paul, but it’s already starting to get better. No need to look like I’m being tortured. You’re very impressive, of course, but you’re not that big.”

He shook with involuntary laughter. “Don’t make me laugh,” he warned her.

It wasn’t an idle warning. He felt tension tightening in his groin, so he forced the amusement back under control.

Instead, he leaned down to kiss her lips gently. He stroked her lips with his tongue and, when she opened for him, he very gently slid his tongue into her mouth.

It didn’t take long until her tongue was fluttering to meet his. Then her hands lifted to his shoulders. And then to tangle in his hair.

He groaned into her mouth at the stimulation from her fingers, combined with the feel of her body relaxing around his erection. She’d felt almost painfully tight before, but now she felt pliant, clinging, responsive.

The pressure of desire swelling up in him again, he tore his mouth from Emily’s. “How is it?’

“Better,” she gasped, wriggling a little beneath him, “Good.”

He muffled a groan and kissed her again. And this time he combined the kiss with a rocking motion of his hips. Not real thrusts, since he was still afraid of hurting her, just rhythmic little pushes against her.

Even the slight friction as he moved inside her felt so good he moaned into her mouth.

She moaned too. Her fingers started to dig into the skin at the back of his shoulders. Then she jerked her head from side to side.

He pumped a little harder, still not making real thrusts. His skin was wet with perspiration, mostly from the effort it was taking to control himself. Part of him wanted to fuck her for real, wanted to thrust hard and fast, wanted to claim her as his in the most primitive of ways.

But the rest of him rose up in defiance against anything that might hurt her.

Emily’s body was changing beneath him. She’d grown softer, hotter. Her motion became eager, in uneven bursts of erratic pumping that stopped and started, as if she were trying to process a flood of new sensation. She started clawing lines down his back.

The combination of relief, pleasure, pain, and inconsistency was almost torturous to Paul, firing through his body and coalescing in the throbbing of his arousal. He gave a few uncontrolled thrusts into Emily’s body, harder than he would have made on purpose.

She cried out in either pleasure or surprise. He didn’t think it was pain.

“Fuck,” he muttered, biting his bottom lip in an attempt to distract himself from the climax that had almost overwhelmed him. He froze inside her, looking away from her with a twist of his neck.

“No, Paul. I want…I need…”

“I know,” he said hoarsely, barely managing to hold it together. He was shaking now. Emily would be able to see it. “I know. Let’s try it this way, baby.”

He readjusted and used one hand to cup her ass, easing it up and then guiding her motion as he started to thrust with a faster, steadier rhythm.

“Yeah!” Emily arched her back and followed the rhythm he’d initiated, matching his thrusts with her own. “Good.”

He grunted in affirmation, overwhelmed by relief brought on by the now consistent rhythm and the rising pleasure from his motion with Emily.

She was moving with him now, and the friction was so good he could barely contain it. She still clawed at his shoulders and back, but that sign of her desire for him only made it better.

Paul stared down at her. Her hair was tousled messily around her face. Her cheeks were deeply flushed. Her blue eyes were almost wild with urgency, pleasure, and something else. She was beyond talking now, and she was rocking eagerly.

It was because of him. For him. With him.

Paul was grunting, the sounds forced out of him to the rhythm of his thrusts, as everything felt so good, so right, so needed.

Sex had never felt like this before, not even with women he’d believed himself to care about. He had no idea how to explain it, but his whole being blurred over in a wave of feeling and sensation.

His speed accelerated, as the whole universe started to crest. He stared down at Emily through the haze of a rising orgasm.

Her face was twisting now, and he felt little tremors run through her whole body. She was about to come. He could feel her. Emily.

Emily, who just last year he’d believed to be a clever but mostly irrelevant part of the neighborhood. Who had been the only person brave enough to agree to testify against his father. Who had proposed to him a marriage of convenience that had turned into anything but.

Emily, with whom he’d jumped out of a plane, seen the Pyramids, and ice-skated. Whom he’d nursed through fevers and had to bully into spending his money.

Emily, whom he had to save from dying.

Emily, who was his wife.

She arched up dramatically and froze for just a moment, her mouth opening in a silent cry. Then her body shook with her orgasm.

It was too much for Paul. He gave a few last pushes into her clenching body and felt his balls, his whole body tighten down. Climax sliced through him, the pleasure of release making him choke out something uncontrollably.

The ripples of pleasure lasted longer than he’d expected, and he was completely leveled when the last of them finally passed.  His elbows buckled, and his body fell down on top of Emily in an embarrassing collapse.

Emily didn’t seem to mind. She wrapped her arms around him and clung to him, occasionally shuddering or whimpering in the aftermath.

She was soft and supple and warm and strong beneath him, and Paul couldn’t seem to pull away. He couldn’t believe how much having sex with her had taken out of him. He couldn’t seem to speak, but she didn’t seem to be capable of it either.

After a minute, she started to gently stroke his back.

He roused himself enough to lift his head and stared down at her.

Her eyes were soft and fond and replete. He imagined his looked the same.

He could feel a gush of their mingled fluid. She might have bled. He needed to get up and make sure she was all right. Instead, he leaned down to kiss her, rather clumsily. She kissed him back, just as exhausted and disoriented as he felt.

Paul’s body felt fully sated for the first time since they’d gotten married. All of his muscles had softened, relaxed, until he could barely support himself. His head dropped again, his face buried in the hollow of Emily’s neck. He pressed a few more kisses against her neck.

“Are you okay?” he finally managed to articulate, worried his weight was too heavy for her, worried that she would be sore, worried that now that her physical desire was satisfied she’d realize this wasn’t really what she wanted.

She felt so small beneath him. She was so incredibly sick. She had only a few months left to live, if the doctors were to be believed. It felt like she could be so easily broken.

“Yeah,” Emily breathed, stroking his hair again. “It was so good. Are you okay too?”

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I’m good. So good.”

It was only partly the truth.

He’d gotten exactly what he’d wanted, and it had been better than anything, but Paul had realized something else that would change everything.

He loved her—he loved her—and she was going to die.