Page 23 of Spicy Nick

I snort with laughter. “No. Of course, not. You’re giving me way too much credit for forethought.”

“Mm,” she murmurs, sounding unconvinced. Her gaze skates down the length of my torso, turning sultry as her hand follows suit. “You’re still wearing pants,” she complains.

“Not for long,” I promise. But, as I climb to my feet to strip out of them, realization dawns. I don’t want to do this here.

Maybe it’s the maturity that comes with age, though that’s probably a long-shot. Maybe it’s force of habit; we’ve made love downstairs only rarely since Cole was born. And then only when he was safe in his crib and deeply asleep, unable to explore, or come in search of us, unlikely to even miss us. And then, once Kate came to live with us full-time, not at all. But I don’t think that’s it either.

The more likely reason is that I’ve grown more comfortable over time. I feel at home here now. I’m no longer content with carving out an occasional corner for myself. No longer satisfied with a stolen moment here, a random piece of furniture (or a wall, or a counter) there. I want it all.

I want room to explore and maneuver. Space to enjoy the sight of my wife, spread out before me like a feast, naked and ready and mine. Time—not forever, since that’s promised to no one—but enough to meet her every need, fulfill her every fantasy. And mine as well.

Bending my knees, I slide my hands under my wife and lift her into my arms.

“What’s this?” Scout asks in surprise.

“Change of venue,” I tell her. “We’re taking this party upstairs More room, more space?—”

“But…no, we can’t. There are stockings, gingerbread, carrots…”

“Which will all still be here when we’re done.”

“But—”

“Shush.” I smile at her. “I’m flattered you think I can still go all night. But I’m pretty sure we’ll be back down here in plenty of time to complete the list.”

“You drive a hard bargain,” she replies relaxing into my arms.

“Oh, I’mma drive a hard something somewhere, soon enough,” I promise, just to see that wicked smile break out once more.

But as we cross the entryway, she stiffens suddenly. “Hold on a minute,” she says urgently. “Put me down.”

I pause, return her to her feet. “What’s going on?” I ask, eyeing her curiously. “Something wrong?”

“Nope. Not at all,” she says as she sidles toward the stairs. “I just… Well, there are all these stairs.”

“I see ’em,” I reply dryly, reaching for her, eyes widening as she dances out of reach. “They’re right behind you. What’s your point?”

“My point is that you don’t have to carry me up them. That’s all.” Eyes still locked with mine, she starts to climb, backing slowly up the stairs, feeling her way, faltering from time to time. “I mean, really. It’s very romantic and all, but… Well. No sense in hurting yourself, right?”

“Is this about your weight?” I ask—and yes! Okay? I know!

I know I should keep my mouth shut. I know I should know better than to bring up such a weighted (excuse the pun) topic. And the fact that clearly—clearly—I do not proves yet again that I am still and always, eternally her fool.

“My…? What? No, it was not.” Halting her upward progress, she glares at me with what looks like the beginnings of outrage. “Just what exactly are you suggesting, Nick?”

But, oh, hell no; we are not going there. Not on my watch. “Nothing at all. I’m just trying to figure out what you think the problem is.”

“It’s simple. Like I said; you could get hurt.”

She’s resumed climbing the stairs, and now I am, too. Eyeing her with intent, stalking her from step to step. “How?”

“You could…you could have a heart attack.”

I chuckle in response. “I’m not going to have a heart attack.”

“You don’t know that!”

“Pretty sure I do. As of my latest check up, I’m healthy as a horse.”

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