A/N: Super long chapter, but I guess I'll just stop warning you all of long chapters...by now, you know what you're in for. (I believe that after this update, I'll return to Mike POV for an installment there, in case anyone wondered.) NSFW...toward the end of this chapter.
Sara's 13 week sonogram looked just as good as week 12: healthy uterine lining, healthy baby, healthy Sara. Michael ticked the boxes of each of these points off in his head, satisfied, at least for the immediate present, that a cloud of doom did not loom large over them. It was a feeling he fought constantly, and resented fighting: he wanted to feel wholehearted happiness about this pregnancy, wanted it for himself as much as for Sara, but after Henry's birth, that sort of unfettered, naive joy proved elusive. They'd been robbed of it, forever.
He contented himself with cautious optimism. Maybe it was the power of suggestion, but now that he knew she was over three months along, he swore he could tell.
"No, no, I never show until at least week 15," she insisted, with the air of confidence of someone pregnant a dozen times. He didn't argue with her, but she was wrong: she'd already gained weight in her belly, thighs, and breasts, an observation Michael decided to keep to himself, and when he slid his palm over her abdomen, he could feel the slight swell there, below her navel, his fingers not quite spanning as far across her stomach as they usually could.
"Stop trying to take measurements," she said, batting his hand away half-heartedly in bed, but he just smiled, capturing her wrists and raising them over her head, giving him a better angle of examination. She laughed, then stopped protesting as he slid down her body to kiss her cleavage. And ribs. And belly.
Now that their family knew about the pregnancy, Michael wanted to tell others, particularly Sucre and Ellie, but Sara held him off. After wrapping her mind around the reality of her growing stomach, her anxiety had shifted to work. She was scheduled to take on the directorship role at the clinic January 15, which was only about a week away. She paced the living room after work, debating what to do, while Michael entreated her to please take it easy and sit down. She ignored him in this request.
"On the one hand," she told Michael, "I really want this."
"You want…which?" he probed gently. He didn't see how she could be both director of the busy clinic and on bedrest and maternity leave within a short number of months. She frowned at him, and he knew he stood on shaky ground, but he pressed anyway. "You will be an amazing director," he told her, "but…can you be an amazing director right now? Wouldn't you rather take that on when you can give it your all?"
This was sound reasoning, he knew, but where Sara worked, when, how much, and why were her decisions entirely, and Michael felt dangerously close to overstepping. As though to underscore this, she didn't answer him right away, stewing for a moment. At least he hadn't said what he really wanted her to do: quit her job entirely and remain in bed until June.
She finally sat down. "If you pass something like this up, for personal, family reasons, you're pegged as not serious about your career," she told him flatly. She stared at nothing, her gaze on the opposite wall. "It's not fair."
"Of course it's not," he agreed.
She tore her gaze from the wall, and looked at Michael. "But nothing is more important than family," she said resolutely. "God knows I know that. So," she decided slowly, "I'm going to have to go to the board. If Dan hadn't asked me to step into the directorship, I wouldn't disclose the pregnancy so soon at work, but taking on a new position…I need to let them know right away. They'll need to find someone else."
She said this with such resignation, Michael winced. "Maybe they'll have a solution you can't see," he offered.
She humored him with a weak smile.
The board convened on her behalf a couple days later. Even though it was a causal meeting, in the modest conference room of the clinic, and she knew these people supported her, Sara felt intense trepidation as the group filed in. She hated the idea of letting everyone down. She remained professional, explaining why she'd assembled them in a straightforward manner, pausing to acknowledge the offered congratulations to her news, but found herself tripping up a bit as she explained how she needed to put her family first, despite the wrinkle this put in her very serious ambitions at the clinic.
"While I'd still love to move forward with the directorship," she concluded, "I don't want to shortchange the clinic." She paused, because she really didn't want to to do this, but knew it was the right thing. "Therefore, I need to decline the offer of the promotion, though of course I'll fill the role this winter until you can find a replacement."
The president of the board frowned. "Let's not be so hasty," she said immediately.
Sara appreciated this, but: "This pregnancy is high risk," she said. Though she'd already touched upon this, she put a finer point on it. "I already know I'll require an extended maternity leave, maybe even as early as April, if I'm prescribed bedrest."
A second board member clarified her due date, then asked, "Do you think you could be back, full time, by the end of August?"
Her baby would be two months old. "If all goes well," she agreed slowly. Would it? her brain bounced back at her, a thought she squelched.
He nodded, then addressed the rest of the board. "Dan doesn't leave for Ecuador until September. We could get him back as interim through the summer."
Dan? "I thought he was gone?" she asked, already intuiting she was behind the curve on something.
"Not until next fall," the president told her. "His contract starts in September, so he's created a sort of sabbatical for himself before then. Said he wanted time to publish a few articles, do some academic work."
"He's here in the city the next nine months?" Sara's first thought: That son-of-a-bitch totally lied to me. But on second thought, he hadn't actually told her he was departing for Doctors Without Borders immediately. Just that he'd signed on with them, and was leaving the clinic. "It seems a lot to ask of him after he's moved on," she said lamely.
But they seemed to have already decided. "We want you in this position, Sara," the president said, "Long term. If in the short term, we have to tread water a bit, so be it." She looked around at the board. "Goodness knows we've had to piece things together on a wing and a prayer before, and I'm sure we'll have to, again." A few people chuckled…this was indeed the nature of running a medical center in an under-served area. Gratitude to this board washed through Sara as the president pressed, "Will you withdraw your resignation if we can get Dan back as your interim?"
If? Sara had no doubt Dan would do it. The knowledge made her feel guilty, but she wouldn't be able to stop him from swooping in to save the day, even if she wanted to. And she found she didn't want to. "Yes," she said, "I'd be honored to still accept the directorship, if you'll still have me."
Dan called her before the work day was even over. He spoke briskly, as though she had disturbed him, and not the other way around. Which she had, of course.
"I hear I need to congratulate you," he said.
"Um, yes. Thank you, Dan." She swallowed.
"And uh, I just called to let you know firsthand that I told the board I'll be happy to return as interim in the summer, or this spring and summer, whichever you need."
More guilt sluiced through her, chased by relief. "I want you to know, I did not ask them to do this."
"I know that," he told her easily. "You couldn't have…you didn't even know I was available."
"Yeah, about that—"
"Yes, about that, I'm actually pretty busy," he supplied swiftly, "finally able to dig into some research I've been interested in pursuing."
"Oh. That's great."
"So I told the board that while I'm happy to step in when needed, I won't be able to come around much, or at all, really, until you go on leave. You tag out, I tag in, like that."
"Alright. Of course." She swallowed. "I'm grateful, Dan."
His tone softened. "I told you I'd never leave you to the wolves," he said.
"Well," she had to object, "this wasn't exactly the situation I envisioned when I worried about fending for myself."
"It's good though? You're…glad?" He said this in a rush; Sara had the feeling he had planned not to ask.
"I am," she told him.
"Alright then," he answered gruffly. "That's what matters. Listen, um, take care of yourself," he told her, returning to that rough tone, then added, "please."
There was something painfully transparent about that 'please', and Sara felt herself wince. When she answered him, she made every effort to match his forced bravado. "Will do," she said swiftly. "We'll be in touch, Dan."
When she ended the call, she felt drained. So much for the clean break Dan had managed to achieve at Christmas.
Michael was super excited to hear about the solution to Sara's work problem. And by super excited, he told her sardonically that evening, he meant 100 percent unenthusiastic.
"I am completely over this guy, Sara," he told her straight out. "Done." The thought of Dan riding in like a knight in shining armor, solving Sara's problems, had him slamming each glass he unloaded from the dishwasher into the cupboard.
She eyed him guardedly. "But my problem is solved," she pointed out, "and that's what matters, right?"
He said nothing, enjoying the alarming sound the next set of glasses made when they landed with force on the shelf.
She told him how Dan had made it clear he would not be visiting the clinic while she was there this winter. "All he's agreed to do is to step in while I'm away." She put a subtle emphasis on that last word.
"And we both know that if you needed him to fling himself off a cliff, he'd do that for you, too." He laughed, but felt no mirth. "Maybe you can ask that of him, next."
"Michael!"
"Would you enjoy it if Nika Volek showed up to help me on a project?" he challenged. "Maybe out of the country?" He watched this ammunition land with the intended effect. Sara looked stung, but again, this gave him no joy.
"Very mature," she told him.
"Sara, I'm sorry," he sighed. "I was just making a point."
She eyed him. "I have no control over either the board's decisions, or Dan's," she said firmly.
This, actually was a much fairer point. Michael knew she had become caught in the middle of a situation not of her making. He believed that without any doubt. "I am glad a solution has been found," he told her grudgingly. "I know how important your job is to you." He looked at her again, feeling himself soften. How could he blame Dan for giving Sara what was in his power to give? Wouldn't he, Michael, do the same?
He set the last of the glasses in the cupboard with more restraint, and reached for her. "I'm glad you have someone in your corner," he told her. "Just do me a favor, and try to find an ally who doesn't want to run away with you, alright?"
She wrapped her arms around him, pressing her lips to his neck. "Speaking of running away," she said, ducking acknowledgement of this request very effectively, "I managed to hang onto my week in February. We're still going to Baja, aren't we?"
He'd been thinking about this. What if she needed Dr. Mills while they were away? What if the long flight was a bad idea?
"Please, Michael," she said. "We need this…you said so yourself. And Mike needs it, too."
It was the thought of disappointing Mike that swayed him. "Let me look into direct flights," he told her.
Sara was already getting a little tired of seeing the inside of Dr. Mill's exam rooms. An appointment every single week felt excessive to her, an opinion she didn't bother expressing to Michael, who she knew felt determined to execute the Dr. Mill's Plan to a 'T'.
At week 14, their doctor said, "We're going to draw a little blood work today."
"Interesting choice of pronoun," Sara responded, maybe a tad testily.
Dr. Mills just lifted an eyebrow. "Is this you being difficult? Because if so, you'd better work on that, sister. I'm not even fazed."
Michael laughed, then tried to disguise the sound as a cough.
"What's the blood draw for?" Sara asked, ignoring Michael.
"Cell Free DNA test," they were told.
"That's not very commonly done," Sara noted. Overseas, yes, but not in the States.
"Why not?" Michael asked. "What's wrong with it?"
"Nothing," Sara said, "it analyzes fetal DNA in the mother's blood, giving you information on any genetic diseases, abnormalities, Down Syndrome, that sort of thing." She looked at Dr. Mills. "But an amniocentesis is more standard."
"I don't want to do an amniocentesis," Dr. Mills explained simply. "We want to avoid anything invasive during this pregnancy."
Sara had to agree. Poking a massive needle through her uterine lining sounded like a foolhardy thing to do, now that Dr. Mills offered an alternative. Although…
"We don't need to do a DNA test at all," she pointed out. "Michael and I haven't discussed it yet."
"Why wouldn't we do it?" Michael asked, while simultaneously, Dr. Mills stated, "We're doing it."
Sara wouldn't allow herself to be bullied. "Give us a minute," she told Dr. Mills firmly, and the doctor gave Sara a speculative look, as if perhaps she had underestimated her stubbornness, before exiting the room to give them a minute of privacy.
"You promised," Michael reminded her right away. "You'd follow the plan, we'd agree to every test."
"Every test that monitors the baby's health and safety in utero," Sara clarified. "This test is all about chromosomal abnormalities and genetic conditions. And it's very thorough, leaving no stone unturned." She knew adding this fact only strengthened Michael's argument, as far as he'd be concerned, but Sara didn't see the point of learning genetic conditions that were already set, which they couldn't change or address until the baby's birth, anyway.
"I want no surprises the day you deliver," he told her flatly.
Sara sighed. "Michael…"
"You weren't there, Sara. With Henry. You don't understand."
She looked at him incredulously. "I wasn't there?"
"You know what I mean," he told her impatiently. "I was the one who had to stand on the sideline, completely helplessly. I was the one who had to watch." He picked up her hand and sandwiched it between his own. "I need to be better armed, this time. I want to know every single thing possible."
"Even the baby's gender?" she challenged. This test would read chromosomes, looking for a Y or absence of Y.
He didn't hesitate. "Yes. I want to know."
She studied him, his shoulders and neck tense, his face set. She'd seen this look on him before, too many times, as they'd set forth together to do something dangerous, something risky, as they'd worked to take down the Company. Michael would never have gone into one of those situations unprepared. How could she request that of him now?
"Alright," she said softly. "We'll learn everything we can."
The results of the blood test were available the very next day, and Michael checked his phone all afternoon, waiting for a call from Dr. Mills. Surely she'd contact them immediately if anything had been amiss. Or, would she ask them to come in to the office if something was wrong? Was it good news, or bad news, that his phone remained silent? He had just about worked his mind into a knot over this when Sara called from work.
"Dr. Mills' office forwarded me the lab report," she told him, "with a note confirming everything looks fine. She would have called us in, otherwise," she confirmed.
Michael exhaled. "What does the report say?"
She sounded surprised he'd ask, like he'd accused her at sneaking a peek at a wrapped gift. "I haven't opened the attachment," she said. "I thought we could do that together, tonight?"
He made a nice dinner, mostly to keep his mind occupied, then on impulse, added candles and their best tablecloth. With the baby's health confirmed, all that really remained newsworthy in the test results was the fun part: gender. They might as well make an evening out of it.
When Mike arrived home from soccer practice, he stepped into the dining room and said, "Whoa. Fancy."
"Go wash up," Michael told him. "And leave those cleats at the door."
Mike started for the stairs, then turned. "Should I wear a tie?" he asked.
Michael thought about this. "Optional," he decided.
When Sara walked in the door a half hour later, she laughed in surprise. "This is fun."
Mike and Michael were in shirt and tie, and even Henry had decided to don his 'bestest' clothes, dug out of his top drawer after seeing his brother's attire. He'd wanted a tie of his own, of course, and Michael had offered him one of his…a bad idea, since Henry had immediately tried to wrap it around his neck.
"Stay still," Mike told him now, trying to re-tie it correctly for him.
"I'm pretty sure Mike's the only nine-year-old boy who can expertly knot a tie," Sara mused, still looking a bit bewildered at the scene she'd stepped into. But even given his skills, Michael's tie on Henry's body proved too great a challenge.
"Wear it like this, Henry," Mike told him, retying it around his waist. The end of the tie dangled behind him. "Now it's a tail."
"Tail tie?" Henry confirmed, studying Mike as though trying to determine whether this was really a thing.
"If tail ties are wrong, I don't want to be right," Sara told him, tugging on his tail and making him laugh. "Do I need to change?" she asked Mike and Michael.
Michael scanned her ensemble: the only remaining pair of slacks she could button, and a loose blouse. She was in that difficult in-between stage, in which regular clothes felt uncomfortable and maternity clothes didn't yet fit. He was about to tell her to skip it, when Mike enthusiastically said, "Yes, you have to, Mom!"
"I'll try," she told them.
"Dinner in five minutes," Michael called after her.
She came back downstairs to Michael wrestling Henry into his booster chair. He looked up to note she'd donned a dress he hadn't seen in quite some time, not in fact, since early in her pregnancy with Henry. It was the dress she'd bought for their first New Year's party in Ithaca, the one that hugged the curves of her hips and chest so appealingly. It fit snugger in the midsection tonight, the swell of her stomach distinct for the first time.
Michael's attention left Henry, who used his distraction to his advantage, escaping the booster. He tugged it to the floor so he could stand up on the chair instead. Michael didn't care. "Wow," he told Sara. "This dress just keeps improving." He kissed her lightly, and (mostly) chastely, so as not to embarrass Mike, but let his eyes convey his full appreciation, turning them intently on her.
She flushed under his gaze, then again when Mike said, "I can see where the baby is, now."
"It's still very small," she told him, "but definitely there." She rested her hand against the slight rise, in that almost absent-minded way of expectant mothers.
"Can you feel it?" Mike asked her.
"Oh," she said, as though just realizing she'd been cradling her stomach. "Not yet. Soon though." She smiled, then looked from the table to Michael. "Is all this for the lab results?" she asked, indicating the candlelit meal.
He felt a little silly admitting so, but, "It kind of got away from me."
"I'm glad," she said, sitting down. Henry offered her the end of his tail.
"Hold it, Mama," he requested, "'cause I'm your monkey now, 'kay?"
She took the end of Michael's tie and winked at Henry. "I sent the file to my phone, so we could print it out after dinner," she told Michael.
"May I look too, Mom?" Mike asked. "I asked Dad, but he said I had to ask you."
She glanced at Michael. "A family affair, hmm?" He couldn't quite tell how she felt about this.
"Like I said," he apologized. "It got away from me."
"How can your doctor know things about the baby by looking at blood from your arm, Mom?" Mike asked.
"Well," she said, as they began to eat, "While the baby is in my body, our DNA mixes, somewhat. By drawing a little bit of my blood, we can read the DNA of both people. DNA is like a…recipe," she told him, staring at her pasta. "It tells the whole story, all the ingredients of someone."
Michael pulled up images of DNA strands on his phone, and passed it to Mike. "Cool," he said.
"Dee-in-nay baby," Henry echoed, pausing to carefully pick up his cup. He looked at Michael. "Wif a tail, Dada?"
"We definitely hope not," Michael told him, as Mike laughed.
"One monkey is enough for me," Sara told him, and even though Mike continued to laugh, Henry looked pleased by this. He declared himself done with his dinner, and Michael set him up with his favorite PBS program in the living room, even though TV was never permitted before bedtime. When everyone else finished eating, Sara dug her phone out of her bag and sent the emailed document from Dr. Mills to the printer. When Michael grabbed it from the tray in the library, he realized he was looking at three pages of what Sara had described as a 'DNA recipe': long strings of code were interspersed with medical jargon. This was not a report written in layperson's terms. If he'd thought he was getting a sneak preview of the gender results by retrieving the report for her, he'd been mistaken. The results might as well have been in Greek.
"You might have to interpret this for us," he told her, laying the printed paper on the table.
"Wow," she said, brows knitting together as she bent over it. Michael and Mike both watched as her eyes scanned back and forth, reading the lingo. "I mean, obviously I don't know what all this DNA code means," she said, "but see where it's comparing strands? That's where it's ruling out various genetic conditions." She glanced up at Michael. "All negative," she confirmed for him. "But for the gender results, the chromosome configuration should make that easy to…oh!"
She froze, a small smile tugging at her mouth. "I see it," she breathed. She looked back up at Michael, to gage if he'd spotted this too, but he hadn't. He just stared back at her, waiting for her to tell him. Either gender…he didn't care, so why did it feel like his heart had caught in his throat?
"Well, what is it?" Mike asked impatiently. "A boy or a girl?"
Sara's eyes danced. "Why don't you see if you can spot it?" she told Mike. "It's written in the DNA code, like a puzzle." She pointed to the section he should study. "Males have one Y chromosome and one X chromosome, and females have two X chromosomes."
Michael and Mike both swung their attention back to the paper like this was now a race, and in hindsight, Michael decided they probably saw the answer at the exact same time.
"Oh!" they both gasped, in the same tone Sara had, only louder. Mike slammed his finger down on the double X, claiming victory. "Girl!" he yelled.
A girl. This baby is a girl. Michael still felt tongue-tied, but after a moment, realized he was grinning. Sara grinned back at him, and he pulled her onto his lap, where he could wrap his arms around her. Around both of them.
"Crazy!" Mike exclaimed, after calming down, as though the odds a sister had been as slim as Sara having Henry's monkey with a tail. Michael laughed at him, tugging him against him as well.
"You're not disappointed?" Sara asked Mike. "You said you wanted another brother."
"I thought I did," Mike decided, "but now a girl sounds like a lot of fun."
"It does sound like fun," Sara agreed, still grinning, and Michael kissed her then, un-chastely enough to send Mike scurrying away to find Henry.
"What do you think?" Sara breathed. She looked at him with such earnest anticipation, he he thought he might cry. Which would definitely give her the wrong impression, because he was very, very happy with this news. He told her as much, just as they heard Mike declare to his brother,
"It's a girl monkey, Henry!"
Henry answered agreeably with his usual, "Okay, Mi, we do that, then," and Michael laughed into the curve of Sara's lips.
By week 15, everyone at the office had been made aware of Sara's pregnancy, as well as Katie (Sara hadn't minded admitting to her that she'd been right, that day in the diner) and Ellie. The latter had been especially overjoyed, actually, which touched Sara: she considered her an extended family member by this time, and was heartened to know Ellie felt the same.
"I know our time with you is limited," Sara had been sure to say, because she respected Ellie's pursuit of her nursing degree. "But we wanted you to be one of the first to know, and if you could use any extra hours this spring and summer, we'll certainly have them to give you, while I'm on bedrest and on maternity leave."
Ellie's face had fallen, as she'd realized that not long after the baby was born, she'd have her degree and be looking for a job as a pediatric R.N. "Oh," she'd said, "But if I can't find a position, maybe I could stay on?"
The last thing Sara wanted to do was stand in the way of Ellie's career, as loathe as she was to lose her. She told her so, but for purely selfish reasons, couldn't stop herself from adding, "But as long as you want to work for us, we want to keep you."
At work, Sara felt some of the fatigue she'd unwittingly experienced in her first trimester slip away, which was convenient timing, as she tackled the directorship. Hiring a new doctor had proved as challenging as Dan had warned, and managing the staff, setting policy the way she wanted it, and ordering supplies and sitting through pharmaceutical sales pitches seemed to eat up almost all her time. The only patients she saw personally now were in the addiction recovery program; the rest she'd had to hand off to her employees. So much for avoiding becoming a 'behind the desk' type director.
Given how much time she spent at said desk now, she supposed it was no surprise that it was there, in her office, that she first felt the baby move. She'd been filing patient reports, ignoring increasingly insistent hunger pangs as she scrambled to finish before lunch. When her stomach rumbled again, her body begging for the granola bar stashed in her desk drawer, she fished it out and ate it as she worked. But then felt it again: or rather, not a rumbling at all, this time, but a light flutter, quick as a stirring of wings inside her.
She stilled, her hands instinctually falling to her abdomen. She knew this feeling, though she'd nearly forgotten it since Henry's pregnancy, since Mike's. Quickening: always so furtive, like a fragment of melody that she couldn't call to mind offhand, but would remember if she heard again. Like a waft of scent, nearly elusive.
She dropped everything and focused, willing the baby to do it again. Two minutes passed, then three, and then…there. Another flutter, as subtle as the first time, as soft as a brushstroke. She laughed out loud, both hands on the swell of her belly, staring down at herself like an idiot. She waited another minute, but it didn't happen again, so she picked up her phone and called Michael.
"Is everything alright?" he said as way of greeting.
This was pretty much his standard greeting to her now, but she was too happy to feel irritated. "I felt her move," she gushed, unable to curb the sudden joy that gripped her. "She just moved. The baby," she added unnecessarily.
"Really?" he breathed, with exactly the reverence she'd hoped to hear, exactly the wonder she felt herself. The ever-present worry and fear would catch up to them both, but for a moment, Sara felt as though they'd outrun it. That they had at least a minute, maybe two, of unbridled happiness to immerse themselves in.
"Really," she told him. She tried to describe it, that deep, private stirring of sensation, smiling into her phone, one hand still on her stomach, though she knew she wouldn't be able to feel the baby from the outside of her body yet. Michael asked half a dozen follow-up questions that really had no answers, and they speculated together.
"I want to feel, too," he said, and she smiled again, knowing how frustrated it made Michael to be behind the curve on anything.
"Probably not for another month or so," she reminded him. "Remember when you felt Henry? I was at five months along, at least."
He made an impatient sound. "Maybe it will be earlier this time. You're showing earlier."
She was…she was told this wasn't unusual, for a third pregnancy, but already, she'd shopped for new clothes, having given up entirely on her regular wardrobe.
"Do want to meet somewhere for lunch?" he asked hopefully.
She eyed the stack of files on her desk. "I have to work through lunch," she said regrettably.
"I want you to take it easier," he pressed, "especially with the baby moving now."
She pinched her eyes shut. The fear had found them; it had caught up to their moment, and loomed over them now, a cloud over the sun. "I'm fine," she told him. "I'm just sitting while I work, anyway."
"But you'll remember to eat?" he probed.
"I'll eat," she promised.
The granola bar had actually been enough, but after disconnecting the call, she dutifully swallowed a sandwich, too.
"Will you do something for me?" Sara asked Michael one evening, as they lay together on the couch a few days later.
Michael paused in scrolling through the Netflix menu, already tensing to rise. "What do you need?"
She hesitated. "Call your brother?"
He slumped back into the couch cushions. "I've tried," he told her flatly.
"What, he won't answer you?" She shifted against him, trying to get comfortable on the couch.
"No, he will," Michael said, moving his arm to accommodate her new position, "but he won't talk about the baby. If I bring up the subject, he changes it."
This sounded crazy to Sara. "What, literally?"
Michael nodded. "When I called to tell him we have a delivery date, he said, 'That reminds me, when's Mike's science fair?'."
"Does he know she's a girl?"
"Nope."
This stung, that Lincoln wouldn't grant them the joy of sharing this news with him. "So he's just decided to bury his head in the sand?" Sara surmised.
"It's like Henry: if he closes his eyes, what he doesn't want to see will cease to exist." Michael paused. "Actually, that's not fair to Henry. He understands basic reality. Linc does not."
She leaned up on one elbow, the better to read Michael's expression. "What's his deal, exactly, do you think?"
"He cares about you very much," Michael said simply. His face remained flat, causing Sara to wonder whether Lincoln was the only one avoiding his feelings. "He's furious at me for risking your health again."
She went quiet, then offered, "I don't think that's it, really, though I know he does care. I think he's more worried about you. About what will happen if…if he has to pick up the pieces if…"
"I don't want to discuss this," Michael told her abruptly, like he'd sensed a trap too late.
"But we need to."
He spoke in a whisper. "Please let's not," he said. "I can't."
He looked like a cornered animal, and she relented. "We'll have to, eventually, Michael," she told him quietly. "And maybe, if Lincoln learns we have a plan, that we aren't burying our heads too, he'll feel better."
"it's not my job to make my brother feel better about this," Michael noted stubbornly. "He can get onboard or not, but I can't indulge his negativity." He lay his hands over her stomach. "We're doing this, so I can't wallow in the 'what ifs', Sara. I have to stick to the plan, and make the plan work."
Again, he sounded so much like the Michael she'd known as they'd taken down the Company, his tone took her right back to their earliest days together. Again, she couldn't shake the feeling that he viewed this pregnancy as an operation he could control, with enough of the odds in his favor. With enough wit, guts and know-how.
She lay her hand on top of his, and threaded her fingers through his. "Okay, Michael," she said softly. They'd tackle this his way, for now.
The first thing Michael's new psychiatrist did was throw his prescription bottle of Paxil into the trash can. Amid his surprise at this move, Michael experienced a little thrill of gladness, hearing it land with a hollow rattle at the bottom of the bin.
"I'm not anti-medication," Dr. Hawthorne clarified, "but based on what you're telling me, and what Kate has noted in her records here, a beta blocker is not for you. Your brain will simply find paths around it, which will entrench the images and situations that lead to your anxiety even more deeply in your psyche."
The doctor encouraged Michael to focus less inwardly and more externally, instead, becoming more proactive with what he could control in his life, instead of worrying over the unknowns. "You're already doing all that's in your power to ensure a healthy pregnancy for your wife and unborn child," he observed, "so let's look beyond that."
"But that's really all that matters right now," Michael told him. It was definitely all he could think about.
"With two young children, and a career that takes a great deal of talent and expertise, I find that hard to believe," Dr. Hawthorne said.
Michael conceded this point, and the psychiatrist said, "Tell me about your eldest son." He consulted his notes. "Michael, Jr."
"We don't call him Junior," Michael corrected, "But Mike is nine. And he's amazing." He smiled. "I can't imagine a better introduction to fatherhood."
"He was six when you came back into his life?"
Michael nodded. "Six and a half." In some ways, those early days of uncertainty and unfamiliarity felt so long ago, ancient history, really, but in reality, Sara still had six years to Michael's three with Mike. He tried not to view it that way, like a chart he could never measure up to, but he couldn't help it: he'd never catch up. This remained his greatest fear, when it came to parenting Mike, and he said as much to Dr. Hawthorne.
"Do you think Mike sees it that way?" he asked. "Because without even meeting him, I can say with near certainty that he does not. Three years is a very long time to a young child. I'd go so far as to venture he would be hard pressed to recall a time you weren't there."
"You don't know Mike," Michael told him grimly. He'd never get that time back with him. Those precious six years had proven to be a sacrifice almost too great for Michael to bear.
"You put a lot on your shoulders," Dr. Hawthorne noted, when he expressed this. "Why do you think that is?"
He shrugged. "Someone has to."
"Actually, no, Michael. Some things can just be broken, can be wrong with the world, without it being anyone's fault or anyone's responsibility to fix."
"That's not the way I like to view things." Be the change you want to see in the world. He smiled as Sara's favorite motto sprang to life in his head.
"But there's a difference between wanting to help where there's need, and believing the need is your fault." He raised an eyebrow at Michael. "The latter leads to needing Paxil to get through the day."
"I'm not sorry to see the Paxil go," Michael countered, meeting the doctor's gaze.
"I'm used to getting push-back from patients when I take away their medication, so that's great to hear, but it's important to replace it with a positive coping mechanism. Otherwise, you'll continue to experience the panic attacks, because here's what I'm noting, Michael: your guilt and your anxiety are linked. They're feeding off one another, as you drag more and more onto your plate. When you feel anxious, instead of medicating or focusing inward, with self-blame, I'd love to see you do something outwardly proactive."
"Like?"
"Your wife works closely with a number of social service organizations. Maybe start there."
"A charity? Take on a pet cause?" This sounded like the whim of a petty, privileged person.
Dr. Hawthorne read his expression of distain correctly, and took a different tack. "You were a foster kid growing up, yes?"
Michael nodded. "For a time."
"Was that your fault?"
"Obviously not."
"And yet somehow, I'm guessing you now feel the weight of borrowed responsibility when you think of current foster children in the system, am I right?"
Dammit, he was right. He thought of Sara's colleague, from the party. "We gave a sizable donation to the child welfare office of Cook County this past year," he admitted slowly. "We were invited to their holiday charity auction, too, but I'm still feeling out where my name is welcome in this city, and where it isn't."
Dr. Hawthorne nodded, then chuckled. "For what it's worth, anywhere you're writing a large check, your name will be welcome," he noted. "Let me ask you something. When you were a foster kid, what would have made a true difference for you?"
Michael supposed most former foster children would immediately respond with a more stable or more loving home, but he thought instead of Sable, and how much of an impact going to such a school would have made on him. "Actually, I'm on the scholarship board at Mike's private school, and I've wanted to try to collaborate with the foster system to get a few spots filled there. Should a child in need meet the qualifications required at such a school, of course."
"That sounds like a very promising way to channel misplaced guilt, that may have the welcome side effect of easing some of your anxiety," Dr. Hawthorne approved. "Shall I ask for an update at our next meeting?"
Michael knew what he was really asking: did he want to continue sessions? While he preferred Dr. Kate, perhaps just due to his comfort level with her, he appreciated Dr. Hawthorne's approach. He nodded. "I'll see you in a week."
"Well?" Sara asked him, when he returned home from that first appointment with Dr. Hawthorne. "What do you think of this guy?"
He shrugged out of his coat, brushing a kiss to her cheek as Henry barreled into his legs in greeting. Sara had left work early to make it possible for Michael to make the session, something she was absolutely willing to do once a week if it meant Michael went back to regular sessions.
"He's a drug-free do-gooder type," Michael told her. "You'd love him."
He smiled at her and she took the jibe like a good sport, glad to see him looking relaxed. "Did he have any advice about Linc?"
"We didn't talk about Linc," Michael told her.
She wanted to ask what they had talked about, but knew that for Michael's sessions to help most, it was essential that he have the freedom to express whatever he needed to to Dr. Hawthorne, without being expected to report back. He read all this on Sara's face, and pulled her against him. "It was good," he assured her. "He has some techniques for me to re-channel some of my anxiety."
She drew back enough to look him in the eye as he told her this, and decided he really did seem more relaxed. "So thank you for coming home," he told her, "because you're right…I needed that."
"Up, Dada!" Henry requested, wanting in on this hug, but Michael just reached down with one hand to tousle Henry's hair. Sara knew he worried about the toddler's squirmy feet too close to her stomach, and sighed. This didn't bode well for her getting a favorable answer to her next question, one she felt she had every right to ask.
"What are the chances," she ventured anyway, "of a little quid pro quo?" He looked at her in confusion, and she added, "Maybe you could practice those new anxiety-channeling techniques while meeting your wife's needs, after the kids go to bed tonight?" It had been too long, Michael always intent on being so damn careful.
She felt the tension return to him, but he made an effort to rebuff it, teasing, "What do you need, a foot rub?"
"No…"
Henry had given up on Michael's attention and moved to Sara, grasping her knee. "Mama, I want you now."
"Do you need a snack? Tea?"
"No…" she whispered to Michael, then shifted out of his embrace to kneel down to Henry. She lifted him up, ignoring Michael's frown. She wanted to prove a point: she didn't need to be treated with kid gloves.
"Do you need a hot bath?"
She considered this option, while allowing Michael to shift Henry to his arms, his little legs wrapped now around Michael's waist instead of Sara's. "Will you be in it with me?"
Michael's eyes warmed to this idea, but their son beat him to the punch. "I will be, Mama," Henry offered. "I be in a bath wif you." He leaned toward her from Michael, pressing his hands to her face while nodding to her earnestly.
She smiled at him, marveling at his perfect lips, his mouth set in serious inquiry, an expression she'd seen mirrored on Michael's face so many times. "Thank you, baby," she told him, kissing his nose. "That sounds like a date." She tapped Michael's (identical) nose with one finger. "You had your chance," she told him.
Henry didn't forget about their bath date, but when faced with the fact that he couldn't have both Sara and all his bath toys in the tub with him, he opted for the toys. She played from the edge of the tub, sitting on the bathroom floor, elbows-deep in suds.
"You be this guy, Mama," Henry instructed, handing her a plastic pirate, but when she tried to have her assigned figure board the ship floating by the faucet, he said no. "He's a space guy," he informed her, moving the pirate through the air.
"My pirate can fly?" she clarified.
"Yep, this guy does what he wants."
Yes, he certainly did, and Sara loved this. Mike, at this age, would never have allowed a pirate to fly through the air. He still wouldn't; if he were in the bathroom with them right now, this would drive him crazy. Mike would gather all the information possible about the seafaring marauders, then play it by the book, careful to not make mistakes. So would Michael, for that matter. But Henry, despite looking so strikingly similar to his father, was so much freer. He wouldn't let boundaries or rules or expectations stop him, as Sara feared Mike might, one day. Instead, in everything he did, Henry went rogue, falling back on his natural ability to charm when he got himself into hot water. Michael never believed Sara when she said Henry already had this all figured out, but he did. He did.
She played space pirates until her back and knees felt too uncomfortable on the tile floor, then made Henry wash up, the cupfuls of water rinsing his hair causing a tsunami that wiped out the ship. Henry wasn't afraid of dark endings, either. "That's it, Mama," he told her matter-of-factly. "That's the end for them."
"Okay," she laughed. "Brutal."
She wrapped him in a towel and let Michael take over, saving her from the heavy lifting required to wrestle Henry to bed. He disliked bedtime in the manner he'd disliked his car seat as an infant: being confined to his room at night felt as restrictive to him as the seat harness. Released from toddler duty, she went in search of Mike.
She found him at his desk, still pouring over a textbook.
"Time for bed," she told him, at the door, and he glanced up at her, his eyes much like her own, but shining with Michael's intensity.
"I have to get this right, first," he said, pointing at the book.
She stepped into the room, coming up behind him at the desk. "Is it due tomorrow?" She suspected it wasn't even for school at all.
"No," he conceded, "but I don't fully understand it yet."
"That doesn't mean you can't take a break." She laid her hand over the page, folding it down. He let her close the book, though she could tell he didn't like it. "Maybe you'll figure it out tomorrow."
"I won't be able to sleep, with this bugging me," he argued.
"You know, Mike," she said, leaning against the desk, "that's only if you let it."
He frowned at her.
"Do you want to be bugged by this all night?"
"No," he hedged, staring at the edge of his desk.
"Then don't be." He looked at her in bafflement. "Just change the rules for yourself." Be a space pirate.
He made a sort of scoffing sound, and she ruffled his hair, directing him to bed. "If you don't want to be tortured by something, you don't have to be," she told him firmly. "Look at your brother," she added. "When he doesn't like something, he just…pivots, you know? Switches gears, and doesn't look back."
Mike climbed into bed. "He also thinks rocks are food, Mom," he noted dryly.
She laughed as she cut the light. "You are such a realist, Mike," she said, bending down to kiss him goodnight. "I love you."
She found Michael in their room, studying a book of his own. "Mike good?" he asked.
"He's good," she said, turned toward the closet to peel off her shirt and find something more comfortable to slip on. She felt his eyes on her, which was encouraging, considering he'd looked as immersed in his book as Mike had.
"Still have any interest in that bath?" he asked her.
She turned to find him already rising, setting his reading glasses on the end table. "Yeah?" she smiled.
He joined her by the closet, running his hands slowly over her bare shoulders and arms, then up her torso. He ran a fingertip absently along the bottom of her bra. "Or we could skip the bath and go straight to bed," he said into the curve of her ear, his voice velvet. The tickle of his breath sent a welcome shiver down her spine.
"Hmm," she intoned. Tough call. "I'm kind of looking forward to the bath now," she decided.
He held up a finger and left her standing there, as he turned into the bathroom. She heard the water start. Then he was back, flipping the lock on their bedroom door before kissing her thoroughly. He reached behind her and relieved her of the bra, then hooked his thumbs under the elastic of her trousers, slowly drawing them off. His hands lingered on her belly — she knew he couldn't help himself — then he slid her underwear off, still kissing her mouth in that same, almost languid way.
He began to steer her backward, toward the steam rising from their bathroom, and she tugged on his shirt. "You're coming with me, remember," she said, and he smiled against her lips, pulling his tee over his head. He dropped his pants at the bathroom doorway, his boxers on the tile by the sink.
She stepped into the tub, which had filled almost completely, frothing with some sort of bath gel he'd added. "Wait," Michael said, grabbing the lavender oil they kept in the cabinet and getting in before her, settling himself against the back wall of the tub. He indicated for her to sit in front of him, her back to his front. She hesitated; she liked to see his face, when they were intimate, but he said softly, "Trust me."
She eased herself down into the water, yielding to a shiver of delight as the warmth engulfed her and Michael's bare body encircled her. He wrapped his legs around her, the already-hard length of him against her rear sending an agonizing tease of arousal to course a steady beat through her veins. "Mmmm," she hummed.
"Nice?" he asked.
"I'd say so," she told him.
He gathered her hair up in his hands and twisted it into a knot, banding it with a hair tie he must have snagged from the vanity, then squeezed a bit of the oil onto his palms. He began to massage her shoulders and neck, and she closed her eyes, finding herself wanting to weep, it felt so good. Maybe Michael and Mike weren't the only ones feeling too tense all the time. He rubbed up and down her arms, then re-applied the oil to run his hands down the sides of her torso, spanning her ribcage, then up, to cup her breasts, his fingers slippery on her pale skin. She felt him sigh against her neck, a slow exhale of contentment that sent an answering pang of satisfaction through her.
"I love your body pregnant," he whispered to her. "I feel guilty loving it, but I do." He circled his thumbs softly over her swollen breasts; when her nipples pebbled in response to his touch, he rolled them between thumb and forefinger, not roughy. Not too gently, either.
She bit her lip. It felt good, in a pleasure-pain sort of way, her breasts still slightly tender. She enjoyed this stage of pregnancy, too, when all sensation seemed to double.
"Talk to me," he requested, his mouth at her ear. "Okay?"
"Yes," she sighed, leaning back against his chest. "Don't stop."
He continued to massage her chest in slow, easy circles, and she kept her eyes closed, feeling like she could float there, against his touch, in the water, for ages. Eventually, his hands moved south, his palms spanning her belly, and he rubbed slow circles there, too, under the water.
"You won't be able to feel her yet," she reminded him lazily, because his hands had stilled, his head bent forward in concentration.
"You never know," he whispered. "I thought maybe, if I made her mother very, very relaxed…"
Sara chuckled. "Well, you're welcome to keep trying."
"Alright," he breathed, allowing his hands to travel farther south. They spanned her hips, then over the tops of her thighs. When he got to her knees, he gently parted them.
"Relaxed, huh?" she murmured, as his palms ran up the inside of her thighs under the bubbles.
"We'll see," he answered. His hands arrived between her legs, and she basked in the dual sensation of warm water meeting sensitive flesh and the welcome press of his finger as he parted her.
Ohhh. Her head fell back against his neck as he stroked her rhythmically, each pass of his fingers under the water unhurried. Sara decided this would be relaxing, it really would, if his touch wasn't stirring her already humming arousal, sending parallel ripples through her and the bath water with each intentional caress.
Her skin had become well lubricated with the oil; beads of it floated on the surface of the water, making everything slick as Michael's hand slid across her, exploring in widening sweeps. She pressed back against him, sandwiched deliciously between his hands and his rock-hard erection, sliding against her ass. God.
She heard herself moan, her thighs falling open wider, her eyes closing again to focus on each leisurely stroke. How was he keeping this up so gallantly? She thought she might positively fly apart as he massaged and rubbed, massaged and caressed, and she writhed against him, increasingly desperate.
"Come," he invited, practically purring the word into her ear, and she wanted to, they both knew how close she was, but everything was so wet and slick, every touch remained a tease. She reached her arms back toward him, circling her hands around his neck, and this did it, this drew her flush to his body where she could finally grind against him, and yes. Michael inhaled sharply, his hands stilling as he cupped her firmly between her legs, pinning her to him with exactly the right amount of pressure. She felt suspended, like a powder keg ready to combust, and then his fingers began to stroke her again, and she imploded, her orgasm shuddering through her like shock waves.
She felt him kiss her shoulder, then her neck, as she recovered, her body floating on lingering sensation. She was weightless. Boneless. After a moment of recuperation, she arched back against him, trying to turn to see his face, and he laughed ruefully, stilling the slide of her hips with his hands.
"I can't take the torture any longer," he confessed.
"Let's get out of this tub, then," she suggested breathlessly.
Michael was quick to agree, and even though Sara still felt limp, she seemed to find herself in their bed in seconds, her body still wet, her skin still slick with oil. He seemed to enjoy this side effect from their bath, running his hands up and over her chest, stomach, and belly, then back around the curve of her hips to slide his palms over her rear. She smiled against his chest, her own hands gripping his biceps, keeping him close.
When he'd evidently decided he couldn't nobly stand this any longer, he tugged her on top of him. She knew why, knew she'd never dispel him of the worry that his weight would somehow hurt the baby. She straddled him, intent on teasing him with a few more agonizing grinds, but when she started to move, he began eying her belly, his gaze intense, his hands reaching out to cradle her.
"It's fine," she told him breathlessly, trying to ignore his trepidation, craving a firmer, more forceful touch from him now, but Michael frowned.
"I'm not sure…"
Oh, c'mon. She remembered what had worked for them last pregnancy, and rolled onto her side, bringing him with her. He held her against him, but they still couldn't find purchase on each other without Michael crushing her belly to him; she slid from him like silk slipping through his fingers. She bit at the corded muscle of his neck in frustration. "Find…a…way," she begged him.
But when he found one, she didn't like it. At all. She started shaking her head no as soon as she grasped where he was going with this, as soon as she found herself on her stomach, her back to him. He guided her knees upward to a kneeling position to lift her stomach off the mattress, and yes, technically, this ticked all the boxes, this sent her rear straight into his groin, letting him grasp her hips firmly, letting him take her with the force she wanted, but putting her on all fours, with her back to him? No.
"No," she repeated, finally out loud, her body tensing.
"Please try?" he asked, and he sounded breathless, too, his voice tight. This was ticking all his boxes, too, she could tell, but she hated that she couldn't see him. She hated this position. "You liked it in the bath," he pointed out gently, "with your back to me," and she felt the firm press of him against her ass again, sliding against her…a reminder that sent a shiver of pleasure through her.
He felt this, and kissed her, his mouth warm on the dimple at the rise of her butt cheeks. "Michael," she objected. "I don't…I won't like it." She could tell him why, but he wouldn't like that, not at all.
"Are you sure?" he pressed softly. "If you say you're sure, alright. But if you want to try, if you want to trust me, we'll go really slow."
He thought this was just about having her back to him, and it was true she disliked that. She didn't like him looking at her scars, didn't like feeling at a disadvantage, unable to read his expression, but that wasn't all of it. "If you're inside my body," she told him almost harshly, "you should look me in the eyes."
He rolled her back over immediately, abruptly, and knelt over her, his hands now on her face. His eyes burned into hers. "Do you see anything but love here?" he demanded of her. "Anything but respect for you?" She'd injured him, suggesting otherwise, she knew, but he'd literally put her in that position.
Even angered by her words, she didn't see anything but love, it was true. It seared her, actually, and she swallowed roughly. The edge of animosity radiating from him now served to increase her desire for him, actually, further evidence that she was damaged, probably, but she heard herself saying softly, "Okay."
He stroked her face, his indignation fading. "Okay?"
"We can try it your way," she breathed.
He kissed her mouth, slow but hard, then drew her back onto her knees, facing away from him. She tried to force herself to relax as she stared at the headboard of their bed, to trust that he didn't hate her scars, that this wasn't just for him, that he'd touch her only how and where she wanted him to. Of course, she didn't really know how or where she wanted him to, in this position, which was part of the problem.
He ran his hands back over her back and butt in wide arcs, then down the back of her thighs, then back up. He reached between her legs and stroked her the way he already knew she liked, in a familiar slide of of his fingers against the wet heat of her. She felt her hips slide back, the better to nestle herself closer against him. He shuddered, and she allowed space in her head to feel pity for him; he'd been impressively hard now for a very long time. She wanted to give him release. She really did.
"What do you think?" he whispered to her, bending toward her ear, the press of his erection joining the press of his fingers. "Because I think you like it."
His words could have been construed as crude, expect his voice was a caress.
She found herself breathing hard; being unable to see him was undeniably exciting, but… "I don't know," she panted. It was the most honest answer she could give.
His hand stilled, and he said, "We'll just pause then, and you tell me when you've decided."
This level-headed suggestion in such an overheated moment made her gasp a laugh, and laughing shook loose some of her tension, and she pressed back against his hand experimentally. A second wave of pleasure had its way with her.
"Just…touch me? A bit more, first?" she whispered.
She was asking a lot, she knew, but his fingers trailed another slow burn across her, then another, and she bit her lip, marveling at how this had never felt like this before, this position she thought she hated. She ground back against his hand and his groin, until Michael groaned,
"Please?"
"Please," she agreed, and gently, he spread her legs a little wider to finally ease into her from behind, one hand grasping her hip, the other wrapped just under her belly. She waited to feel alarm, or panic, to recall a muscle memory she wanted to forget, but she did not. Michael finally filling her tonight felt incredible, as it always did.
"Talk to me, sweetheart," he reminded her, still moving in her slowly, as promised.
She moaned her approval, mostly inaudibly, rocking back into him in encouragement. His hands gripped her hips more firmly, and then finally, he began to thrust with a groan of his own, moving hard enough in her to satisfy her, to channel the lingering throb of all those teasing touches into a mounting wave. It lapped at her, building, as he stroked in her harder. And then he lifted her hips higher, thrusting deeper, and the peaking wave crashed, flooding her senses, leaving her gasping. She felt Michael tense, and then pour himself into her, practically snarling her name.
Michael sank into the mattress, Sara still spooned against him, both of them now on their side. He encircled her with his arms, his chin tucked against her shoulder. "Will you tell me now?" he asked quietly.
"Tell you what? That you were right? You usually are….that's nothing new."
"No," he pressed. "Tell me why it was so difficult for you to trust me tonight?"
"I felt vulnerable," she said. "It's a vulnerable position." But she'd hesitated. He heard it.
"You've felt vulnerable with me in bed before," he pointed out. "You haven't reacted like that."
She lifted his hand, cradled to her stomach, and toyed with his fingers, kissing a knuckle. "Remember our first night together, in Ithaca? I was a mess."
He smiled softly. "That was about me. And about turning your back." The mild PTSD had been easy for him to identify. He paused. "This wasn't."
She remained quiet for a minute, then said in defeat, "Do you really need me to tell you who had affection for that position? Who liked me best as a conquest?"
How could he not have guessed this? Fury sluiced through him without warning, thick and hot. It wasn't jealousy, though he could find that in him, without needing to look very hard. This was anger on her behalf, righteous and pure.
"You shouldn't have let me," he managed, "You should have said no." Then he remembered that she had said no, that she'd tried, at least, and a healthy portion of his fury turned to shame.
She shook her head, her hair brushing his lips. "It was different tonight, of course," she told him. "You're not him," she said in a fierce whisper, "not in any way, and it was unfair of me to compare the, um, situations. Sometimes…" She still fiddled with his fingers, threading hers through them. "Sometimes I'm surprised, how much resentment I still have, against him. Lying just under the surface."
"You're justified," he told her vehemently, squeezing her hand in his.
"I'm sorry it comes up sometimes," she said. "I never see it coming."
He understood this. How often did sudden panic rise up around him, dense as fog, requiring no more than a stir of scent or snatch of sound to drag him back to terrible places? How he hated the knowledge that he'd inadvertently drug her back somewhere unwelcome tonight.
"But then you took me somewhere wonderful," she assured him, squeezing his hand in return. She placed it back on her belly, settling her own on top of it. "Maybe she'll move for you," she whispered.
Michael drew her firmly back against his groin, giving himself permission to fully enjoy having her naked against him in their bed. He massaged the gentle rise of her stomach in slow arcs. "You never know."