Same Time Next Year(32)

“I need you too. For everything.”

Our mouths collide. Take. “You’ve got me,” she says quietly, but I hear her.

I hear her, and my entire chest, my heart and soul, they know she means it. “You’ve got me too. I’m not going anywhere.”

And it’s like hope has imbued me with another reserve of willpower, because I manage to hold back another few seconds, grinding my cock deep inside her and speaking nasty against her ear. “Knowing I’m fucking my wife makes me so stiff, Britta. You do that.” My middle finger slides down between the cheeks of her ass and jiggles that pucker. “A husband has to earn his wife’s come, huh? Do I earn it?”

“Yes! ” she screams, her hips writhing between me and the door, before they go still and trembles rock her, all the way to her sweet knees digging into my hips. “Sumner. God!”

A storm tears through me, whipping through my muscles, my gut, my head. I’m caught up in it, and I barely register the movements of my body, I’m just blindly humping her into the door, my finger fully inside that back entrance now, my teeth buried in her neck, hinges protesting, liquid fire leaving some deep well inside me, the utter relief and pain of the orgasm making me moan and shake, using Britta as an anchor. Holding on to her and giving her everything inside me, physical and emotional, and my wife holds me through it all.

We hold each other, shaken, our mouths seeking each other for long comedown kisses that brand themselves on my chest.

She said she needs me.

She meant it. We fought her insecurities and won. We’re going to make it as a couple.

In that moment, nothing can go wrong.





Chapter Ten





BRITTA


I’m in Sumner’s kitchen the next morning, having breakfast with his family, when his phone rings. It’s weird, the way everyone stops what they’re doing. His sister ceases turning over the bacon; his mom pauses in the act of pouring orange juice. It’s as though everyone senses that there is something about this 9:00 a.m. phone call that requires everyone’s attention. And I’m not sure why, but my heart starts to pound dully, palms dampening.

“Hello?” Sumner turns slightly to observe the sudden stillness of the kitchen with a raised eyebrow. “Yeah, hey, coach. What’s up?”

The oil sizzling in the pan might as well be a foghorn blaring over a silent ocean.

“You’re serious?” His chest dips, his free fingers plowing through his hair. “They’re really bringing me up. That’s—”

Everyone moves at once, chairs scraping across the floor, arms lifted in victory. Sumner’s mother yelps and does a little dance by the stove.

It’s happening.

Sumner finally got the call. He’s going pro. Or at least to the developmental league, which would put him right at the precipice. This is it.

Pride bursts in my rib cage like a beer left in the freezer too long. Hot pressure pushes in behind my eyes, and I cover my mouth, locking gazes with him across the celebration in the kitchen. I’m so happy for him, I don’t think I could speak if I wanted to, so I just nod. I nod and let the tears roll down my cheeks and soak into the sleeves of my Bandits sweatshirt . . .

But the smile on his face is beginning to wane.

A trench forms between his eyes, the muscles working in his throat.

“AHL. The development team . . . ,” he says hollowly. “In Anaheim?”

One word. That’s all it takes to change the atmosphere in the kitchen.

Every head turns in my direction, but I’m only vaguely aware of the sudden scrutiny, because there’s an engine humming in my ears, my stomach tying up into knots. My legs feel like jelly, I couldn’t stand on them if I tried, and all I can do is sit here.

Anaheim. Sumner was picked up by Anaheim.

Why did I assume it would be on the East Coast?

That was shortsighted of me. Having him play near where we already live would have been too convenient, and there is nothing convenient about a career in professional sports. He’ll be living across the country. On the road constantly. I guess this is it.

I guess this is it.

“Thank you,” Sumner says, hanging up the phone. His hand falls to his side, and he’s not looking at anyone but me. “Britta, can I talk to you outside?”

“I’m happy for you,” I say, letting him hear my pride in every note of those four words, because that is genuine. I am so proud of him. “I really am. You know that, right?”

“Please. Outside.”

I shake my head.

He tosses his phone on the counter, takes three big steps, and plucks me up out of the seat, tossing me up into his arms so I’m cradled against his chest.

“Sumner,” calls his father. “You were taught better than that. You’re not supposed to use your size against a woman, son.”

“This is an exception,” Sumner shouts back.

And he kicks open the back door, shutting it in the same loud manner.

As soon as we’re in the middle of his backyard, a postage stamp with patchy grass in various places, he sets me down, but he doesn’t let me go.

He stoops down until we’re eye level, his big hands settling on my shoulders. “Don’t you dare check out on me, Britta. On us.”

I’m trapped in a weird place, stuck between elation and dread. “Why can’t you just let me be happy for you?”