I cross my arms and lean against the doorframe, staring at my wife in the kitchen. She really is in her element in here. Even though I know she's incredibly busy and has a million things going on, she doesn't look frazzled or worried; she calmly checks each dish in turn, stirring and testing things occasionally, smiling to herself when something is to her liking.

We've been celebrating Thanksgiving together for years now—more than ten, actually—and it's because of her that I've gone from hating this day to actually looking forward to it. At the risk of sounding incredibly cheesy, I just have so much to be thankful for now, this year more than any other.

It's hard to believe that it was just a year ago that we got the call letting us know that someone was going to give us their baby—so much is different now, and all of it is so much better.

I also have a hard time remembering that Jack and Erica aren't biologically ours; they feel like such a part of us, and there's so much of us in them that it feels like the fact that another woman carried them is only a technicality.

I can't help but chuckle as Monica bends over to check the turkey, looking extra tiny in her pajamas. She wouldn't normally cook Thanksgiving dinner in anything but nice clothes—don't ask me why—and she certainly would have never still been in her pajamas after ten in the morning at the very latest, and definitely not after noon, things are a bit different this year, and there's not a lot of sense in putting on nice clothing when the kids are just going to hurl on us.

And, not that she would admit it, but she's already taken a nap this morning; slept right through most of the parade.

In all fairness, she's been up since five, cooking and taking care of two fussy babies, so I think she more than deserved the nap, but she'd still never admit to it.

I shake my head and sigh—she insists on being supermom, stretching herself to the breaking point, even though she's already fantastic at the job. Jack and Erica took turns being sick over the last few weeks, which was a new, horrifying experience for the both of us, and, naturally, Monica caught it. I mean, I had a cough for a few days, but she definitely bore the brunt of it. While we figured out early on that they both prefer their mother when they're tired and fussy—she has the magic touch, I swear—it's even truer when they're sick. There was little I could do to soothe them; it was all Monica. I've never felt so helpless, but she did it without complaining—she'd rock them and sing to them and sit up with them for hours, first while Erica was sick, then with Jack, and has been pushing through her own illness for the last several days.

The only part that's been frustrating to me is that there's absolutely nothing I can do to be of help. I'm just not Mommy. For the last two, almost three, weeks, she's been doing the bulk of the work on her own, and she's been incredible; the twins are pretty much back up to speed, and Monica seems to be over the hump, still pretty exhausted, but mostly healthy.

So, in my opinion, that nap was well-earned.

She looks up at me and smiles. "You going to stand there all day, or are you going to help me?"

"Do you actually want my help in here?" I ask, surprised.

She looks around for a moment, then shrugs. "Actually, no. The turkey still has another couple of hours, most of the stuff that needs to be ready is ready, and anything else needs to wait until closer to dinner time. I think I'm actually ahead of the game."

I look at the clock—it's just after one. Dinner isn't until four, which means everyone won't show up until three at the earliest. "That's pretty impressive, honey."

"Well, it's amazing what I can accomplish in this kitchen," she says, gesturing around. This room was one of the biggest selling points for her when we were house hunting; it's much, much bigger than the one in our apartment, and it has plenty of space for us to add in the things that Monica will want and need.

I just nod and pull her into a hug, kissing her forehead as I try to covertly check her temperature. She feels pretty normal, which is a relief. Her arms wrap around my neck as she stands on tiptoes, kissing me gently. I'm surprised, but I kiss her back.

"I guess you're feeling better," I mumble against her mouth, and she nods as she smiles.

"I'm feeling a lot better," she answers, pushing her hips against mine.

"Really? You want to?"

She shrugs, kissing me again. "It's been a few weeks. I don't know about you, but I'm feeling pretty ansty."

"Well, yeah, but are you sure you're up for it?" I feel my body react to her despite my concerns; we haven't had sex since before the twins got sick, and while it really was the farthest thing from my mind at that point, now that she's brought it up...

She nods, her hands stroking my hair. "I'm feeling much better; no fever, as you noticed, no chills, no cough, just tired, which I'm pretty sure will be our general state of being for the next eighteen or so years. The twins are napping, we've got some time to kill, so…"

"Most romantic proposition ever, by the way," I tell her, my hands sliding under her pajama top only to be met with a tank top underneath. "How many layers are you wearing?"

"Just those two," she answers, her hands sliding down my chest to my waist, her fingers playing with the belt loops on my jeans. "It's almost December—it can get cold."

"It's just more work for me," I tell her, my fingers already working at the buttons on her top, sliding it off her shoulders once it's open. I move one of the tank top's straps out of the way as I kiss down her neck to her shoulder, and she makes a happy noise. "You're able to turn me on far too quickly. Shouldn't this have mellowed out by now?"

"Actually," she says as she tilts her head to one side. "I read recently that married couples usually have more frequent, better, and often more adventurous sex than non-married couples."

I pull back and look at her in surprise, smiling. "Really?"

She nods as her hands slide under my thermal shirt, her nails gently scratching my stomach. "It's true. I don't think we're supposed to be less attracted to each other as the years go by. Personally, I want you more today than I did at the beginning."

"Well, that's true." I stroke her hair back from her face. "You're definitely sexier now than you ever have been."

"The fact that you can say that to me with a straight face right now must mean it's love."

"It is love," I assure her. "But you are definitely sexier than hell." I see her roll her eyes as I lean in to kiss her again. She may think I'm exaggerating, but this woman really does get more beautiful to me by the day. There's never been a day that I've wanted her less than the day before; we may not want each other as urgently as we did back in the beginning, but there's no doubt that we still do it for each other.

She grabs the baby monitor off the counter and takes my hand, surprising me by leading me into the laundry room. She shuts the door partway, putting the monitor on the shelf, before wrapping herself around me again. "One of the best things about our house," she tells me, kissing her way across my neck, "is that we can have sex in privacy. We don't have to worry about someone wandering across the hall any time they feel like it; the whole place is ours."

"Mmmmm," is all I can say, my mind already turning hazy with desire. I grab my shirt, yanking it over my head and tossing it off into the corner of the room. Technically, I don't have to get completely or even mostly naked for this, but I've discovered over the years that I much prefer skin-to-skin contact with Monica. I take the bottom of her shirt in my hands and pull it off, throwing it in the general direction of mine, and I take a moment to appreciate her, my hands skimming up and down her sides, watching her shiver beneath my touch.

She starts to work on my pants, and I gasp a little as her hands slide over me, but let her push them down my legs, my underwear right behind. I kick them away from me as I slide my hand down her pajama pants, the other wrapping around her back, and stroke her gently. Her eyes flutter shut as she moans, pushing against my hand. I kiss her again, pushing her until her back hits the washing machine. Her leg wraps around the back of mine as she pushes against me harder for a few moments, before whispering, "Naked."

I grab her bottoms and her underwear, yanking them down her legs. She stands on tiptoe once more, trying to reach me, trying to be closer. I grab the backs of her thighs and pick her up for a moment before sitting her on the washing machine. "Kinky," she says, grinning at me. "Want me to turn on the spin cycle?"

I can't help but chuckle. "Maybe later." I kiss down her chest, my lips headed toward her breasts, the objects of my fantasies for so many years. It doesn't hurt that she gets wildly turned on by it, either. I take her nipple in my mouth and she hisses, shoving at my shoulder.

"Too sensitive today," she says, panting.

"What about around them?" I ask, and I can hear the desperation in my voice—it kind of turns me on as much as it usually turns her on.

"Try it."

Tentatively, I move my lips across her breasts, hoping for a positive reaction this time, relieved when she moans and arches her back, increasing the contact.

Her hand slides between us and I groan when I feel her fingers gently sliding up and down me.

"I'm ready when you are," she whispers.

"No foreplay?"

"No, I'm pretty set right now." She gives me a gentle tug, pulling me toward her, and I push into her slowly, shuddering as she envelops me. Her legs wrap around my waist, pulling me closer, and I grunt as I bury myself in her up to the hilt.

"Jesus, Mon. Trying to kill me?" I gasp.

She gently rocks her hips against me, moaning. "I just need you. I need you so bad."

I drag my hands roughly up her back, tangling in her hair, holding her head steady as I kiss her. I feel her push against me again, but she has very little leverage from this angle. Her legs tighten around me, her ankles crossing at the small of my back, and I pull my lips away, panting. I slide one hand down her thigh, her calf, until I reach her foot, and I give it a nudge. "I need to be able to move, honey."

Her legs loosen a bit and I immediately start to move against her. Her fingers dig into my arms as she moans, her head falling back. I kiss her throat as my hands move to her hips, holding her steady as I drive into her.

"It's only been a few weeks," she gasps, "but I missed this so much."

I don't trust myself to answer at this point—all of my concentration goes into holding off so I don't embarrass myself. I don't know if I can help it, though—she feels so incredible, her muscles clenching around me, her skin so soft, her lips so inviting. Three weeks isn't that long to go without sex, not in the grand scheme of things, but at this moment, it feels like it's been forever.

My hips speed up involuntarily and she gasps, my name tumbling from her lips.

"I think I'm about to be in trouble," I warn her.

"Think about Janice," she groans, and I feel like a bucket of cold water has been thrown over me.

I look at her in disbelief. "Why would you—why?"

"Got your mind off of it, didn't it?"

"Yeah, but…ew."

She laughs and strokes my cheek, and I push the damp hair off her forehead. "Okay, so now try to remember that you're actually inside of me."

My body tenses as I react to her words more than anything else. "Now I'm right back to where we left off."

She wiggles her hips and I groan in protest. She pushes against me and I feel my hips start to move again. I press my forehead against hers as we gasp for air. I bring my hand in between our bodies and stroke her, gently for a moment but soon with more urgency. Her body jerks against my ministrations and she cries out. "YES!"

I may not be able to last much longer, but at least I should be able to take her with me.

I move my fingers against her furiously as I pound into her, the washing machine thumping as the force of my thrusts causes it to move bit by bit.

"Ohhhhhhhhh," she moans as her fingers scratch at my back, her face buried in my neck. I feel myself tingling all over and push against her hard, my fingers moving faster. "Oh, GOD!"

"Please tell me you're close," I beg, panting. "Oh, God, please be close. I don't think—"

I'm interrupted by Monica yelling out my name, her voice echoing off the tiled walls, as she pushes against me as hard and as fast as she can. I follow immediately, my hips slamming into hers a few more times before I empty myself into her, my movements becoming sloppy as I lose control. I feel her legs lose their grip on my hips moments later, her body growing slack, and I collapse on top of her, pushing her body onto the surface the washing machine.

"I'm sorry," I whisper against her hair. "I'll do it better next time."

"Call me crazy," she whispers back, "but that was pretty damn good this time. Not saying we can't do it again later tonight, but don't think that wasn't amazing."

I kiss her neck and wrap my arms around her back, bringing us both back to an upright position. Her arms wrap around me as our breathing starts to return to normal. "I love you," I tell her, and I can feel her smile against my skin.

"I love you, too." Her hands gently stroke my back, both of us quiet, enjoying the moment. "Hey, what's the name of the people who live behind us?"

I shrug. "I don't know. The Wrights? The Wrongs?"

"Waynewright!" she exclaims.

"Yeah, that's it. Why?"

"Well," she gestures out the window next to us toward our backyard. "I don't think they're home right now, but they can probably see into our laundry room from their kitchen."

I turn my head in her direction. "Huh. Yeah, it's probably a safe bet."

"If they're home, they just got a hell of a show."

I chuckle in agreement. "Maybe we should invest in some curtains," I suggest.

She laughs and nods, kissing my shoulder. I take her face in my hands and kiss her slowly, gently, for a few minutes until we hear noise coming from the baby monitor.

"Jack's up," she whispers. "That means Erica won't be far behind."

"I'll get them," I offer, finally pulling back from Monica, and she groans a little as I leave her body. I help her off the washing machine and grab our clothes, and we tug them on over our sweaty, spent bodies.

I would love to be able to go another round with my wife, or at least be able to touch her soft skin for a while, but for now, duty calls.

*A/N…so, this chapter is basically how This Charming Life came into being. For some reason, this is the one I pictured first—I just had to figure out how to get to it. I think it was originally in Monica's POV, but you'll find that the next chapter will work better for her.

…I hope.