Matters of the Heart – By Hi Sailor

I’m not the fidgety type but as I look down at my hands resting in my lap, I realize… I’m fidgeting – nervously twisting my wedding rings as I ruminate in this all too familiar place about just how close John and I came to losing it all.

I don’t dwell on these things but today is an important milestone in my recovery. One which, if reached, means that John and I have beaten the odds again. It’s not lost on me how easily things could have turned out differently. John would be facing a world where an us no longer exists. Not the first time. Hard to imagine, nevertheless. Painful even. Each time he’s left with deeper emotional scarring.

We’re still trying to heal from this latest trauma, made harder by the fact that John and I haven’t really been together in months. I’m on edge and missing him. Sexually, I mean. I know he misses me that way too. Especially late at night. Like clockwork; about the same time he’d normally be seeking my heat and making me call his name. I’ll awaken and roll over to find his side of the bed empty. It’s no mystery where he is. The bathroom light filters through the slight crack of the open door, casting a soft beam into the darkness of our bedroom. His labored breaths reach me, short and sharp – each one chasing the next. His moans have an aching edge to them. The little grunts he makes are rhythmic and raw; timed with his pumping hand. I imagine him hunched over the counter using his other hand to steady himself, boxers down around his ass, body stiff with tension. His frustration echos against the tiled walls and fills our room as he exerts himself, jerking towards completion. If I listen closely, I can hear how sticky he is. How wet. I know it’s me he is thinking about when my name falls unceremoniously from his lips as he quickens his pace and comes abruptly; heaving. My heart races. I want nothing more than to be able to go to him and offer up my body. My mouth. He won’t take me, even if I beg. So I lay there, perfectly still, trying to ignore the puddle his sounds have produced between my thighs and the urge to have him quell the ache there. Touch it. Taste it. Swallow it.

He’s been there for me in every single way that I’ve needed or asked, or haven’t needed to ask, except when it comes to how we communicate, connect and heal each other best. Through sex. Our appetite for each other has always been healthy to say the least. I say healthy because some might subscribe to the too much of a good thing school of thought. John and I? We’re used to having sex regularly. Anytime. Anywhere. A whole lot. Even moreso as we’ve gotten older. Denying the persistent ache that resides between my thighs for him has consequences. There is no doubt that we are sexually attracted to each other; insatiable for one another, really. That hasn’t changed in three decades. It’s not so much about craving the act itself or the satisfaction that is derived from it. Don’t get me wrong. Sometimes I crawl into our bed or saunter into the offices of Black Patch just wanting him to give me good, raw sex without the emotional baggage that often comes with it and for his part, he loves to fuck me (though I’m not so sure Steve enjoys hearing it). Physically, he turns me on even more now than when I first laid eyes on him if that’s possible. But more than that, John and I love each other deeply. Profoundly. We are so emotionally connected that the urge to be physically vulnerable to one another, to surrender our body to each other and give purchase to our emotions is as natural, involuntary and necessary as breathing. It wasn’t this way for me with Don, Roman or any other man I’ve had inside me. I don’t want sex with anyone but John. It’s him or nobody. I felt that bond with John to my core while I was still married to Roman.

They say you want what you can’t have. It really makes no difference to me. I want him even when I can have him. Not being able to have him just means that I burn for him even more. Lately, I’ve been making advances, he’s been making excuses. I roll my eyes and he tries to arrest my straying hands and kid me out of my concupiscent mood; to change the subject before we land ourselves in trouble. You see, he’s staunchly aligned with my doctors and their no sex movement. He tells me he won’t do anything that will hurt me or impede my recovery. We clearly disagree on what’s good for me. If he doesn’t know by now the healing power his hands have on my body… He completes me like no other man ever could. I’d like to believe I do the same for him. We’ve fought about it; we’re both stubborn. The trouble for him in denying me is, he knows the comfort he can find between my thighs if he seeks it. And he wants it – I know that much is true. Fighting each other against something we both want has its own degree of difficulty. Once John and I ignite that fire, we’re no longer fighting each other about what’s right and what’s wrong, whether we’re going to do the deed; we’re fighting the urge to give in – to touch and get burnt. No greater example of this exists than that one stormy night he gave me Belle on the leather couch of the Kiriakis jet, while my husband waited for me at home to surprise me for our anniversary. During our most recent argument, he made me promise to not touch myself. His words were in complete discord with his body language. It wasn’t easy for him. He doesn’t want to be the bad guy but at the same time he doesn’t want me getting excited and putting stress on my heart. I’ll forgive him because his fear of losing me, however irrational, is still very raw and very real. But while I can’t resist those baby blues when they look at me pleadingly with pure love and concern, nothing irks me more than noble John trying to protect me by unwittingly curtailing my freedoms, be they sexual or otherwise, “for my own good”. Just ask him about his sign-in, sign-out sheet, est. 1986. Yet, his instinct and determination to protect me is one of the reasons I fell so madly in love with him.

God knows I’ve tried – tried to abide by his rules; to keep my hands to myself (or not) – I don’t even know anymore I’m so confused. It’s not that I don’t take my health or my doctors’ advice seriously. It’s not that I wish to jeopardize or don’t value this second chance we’ve been given. It’s that the moments create themselves any time John and I breathe the same air… and despite his protests, he can’t help himself any more than I can. What happened between us last night is just one example of that.

I was ensconced in his oversized t-shirt, face down amongst the pillows on our bed and 5 chapters deep into Michelle Obama’s Becoming, when I heard his soft footfalls on the carpet as he approached our bedroom. Before I knew it, I was enveloped by the scent of his cologne mixed with the leather of his jacket, the air around me was charged with the warmth emanating from his body and I could feel the tips of his fingers skimming my bare calf. I didn’t take my eyes off the book but he had my full attention. My leg involuntarily flexed up at the knee to follow his touch. I’ll admit I wasn’t playing fair – my glasses, his tshirt. It’s a combination that drives him wild and a conscious decision I made as I settled down for the night.
What’s that you are reading?
Surely, I thought, his hands will stop. He’s my husband. My soulmate of 32 years and counting. He knows exactly what gets me going. Instead, he sank into the bed next to me and pressed his thumbs into the ball of my foot beginning a massage that sent little waves of pleasure shooting up my legs and spine. I hung my head between my shoulders and moaned my approval. Michelle Obama, was my muffled reply. He hadn’t touched me in weeks, let alone so intimately. I could barely get her name out. Oh honey, that feels so good.
Anything for my first lady, he whispered bending down to place a featherlight kiss on my ankle.
You have a second lady? I teased. There is no lie in the insecurity I’ve been feeling of late.
You’re my one and only… His voice was as smooth as his answer. His hands stroked me and his lips branded my skin as he wove his spell. Have I told you how much I love you in your reading glasses? He flicked his tongue across the back of my knee. How sexy I think you are in my tshirt? He made a bruise with his mouth as he suckled on my skin where my bottom meets the back of my thigh.
Not lately, I whimpered. I made a move to turn around and face him. Honey?
He stopped me with both hands. It’s ok. Just let me take care of you tonight, he breathed against my skin as he ran his hands over the back of my thighs, kneading my flesh sensually, manipulating my taut muscles.
What’s gotten into you? The temptation to melt into his seduction, let him carry me away with his caress was real. I could feel my body relaxing at his command.
You’ve been asking me for weeks to touch you.
What’s changed?
Nothing. I need my wife.
She needs you too, I squirmed as his fingers teetered dangerously close to the hem of his tshirt. His fingertips ignited every nerve ending in my body and the warm trickle between my thighs served as a reminder that I was sans panties fresh out of the shower. I startled as his hands skimmed the underside of my buttocks and I scrambled up to the head of the bed putting distance between us, holding my knees up close to my chest, feet together.
Did I hurt you? He looked confused. Worried.
I shook my head, no. If I didn’t know any better, I would think you wanted to make love to me.
Leaning in closer to me he reached up from his position at my feet and gently removed my glasses; brushed his thumb against my lips. I didn’t dare move an inch. I always want to make love to you. Don’t ever doubt that. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. He was so sure of himself.
There was a long beat as our eyes locked, my book long forgotten. I could see my own lust and desire reflected back at me.
John… I warned, biting my lip.
If I didn’t know any better, I would think you were wearing panties. Nothing gets past him.I was so transfixed by the blue flecks in his eyes, by the passion that dwelled there, it took me a moment before I realized he had slipped his hand between my ankles to test his theory.
Don’t… I hiccuped as he swiped his finger between my wet, swollen folds.
His eyes widened. Is this all me?
I hugged my knees together tighter. You know it is, my mouth fell open as I exhaled sharply, about ready to crawl out of my skin. He skimmed and circled my opening. Don’t, I repeated weakly.
Don’t what, baby? He used my juices to run his finger up and down, up and down my folds. Agonizingly slow.
Don’t stop. My whole body trembled uncontrollably, knees knocking together. Even my voice faltered as I begged him. Please. Honey, put your fingers in me. I can’t take this distance between us anymore. I sounded desperate. I didn’t care. I was. I parted my feet a little, resting my knees together.I felt myself dripping onto the comforter. John, oh God, I might come.
He lowered his eyes, stole a glance and licked his lips at what he saw. No. Not until your doctors say you can. Feet together, Doc, he ordered as he continued to rub me, drawing wide circles around my clitoris. I did as I was told. Tell me this doesn’t excite you.
I had to quash the panic that unfurled in the pit of my stomach. I think you know better than that.
I need you to promise me you won’t come, Marlena.
You’ve lost your mind, I exhaled as my eyelids fluttered and closed and my head hit the headboard.
I’m sure of it. Not being able to touch you or make love to you drives me insane.
Oh! His fingers.
You’re going to relax your body and let me massage your…
What? I was incredulous.
I’m going to touch you inside. Do not come.
I can’t do this, John.
If you don’t curb your excitement right now, I’ll stop. He was serious.
My eyes stung beneath my closed lids. I felt my emotions well up painfully in my throat as my body continued to tremble.
Do you want me to stop?
No.
I wanted to cry. I couldn’t turn this off. I needed him. I needed release and he was not prepared to give it to me out of some misguided attempt to keep me safe. He needed me to play the role of a mere spectator in our sex and hoped that somehow it would satisfy us both.
Look at me.
I did. Tears threatened to escape.
I love you.
He never took his eyes off me as he lowered his zipper and reached into the wasteband of his underpants to pull himself out. He began making slow strokes, timed with his fingering of me. His strokes became smoother as he got harder and longer.
Oh, Doc, baby, he choked.
My breath hitched in my throat and I pressed my lips together to keep from crying out when I felt him push two thick fingers inside me.
These are the fucked up games we play.

Maybe I had that coming. Two weeks earlier I had asked him if he remembered what this felt like as I dug my hand inside my panties, rolled my shoulder and made soft, mewling noises. He was speechless. No? Maybe you remember what it tastes like? I could see the lust, the sheen of a thousand of memories in his blue eyes.
Don’t do this, Doc, he warned sternly as he wrapped his fingers firmly around my wrist.
Or else what, baby? What will you do to me? I asked him hopefully, feeling playful and mutinous as I continued slowly moving my hand up and down.
I *won’t* hurt you by doing what you want me to, he responded through gritted teeth. I am not sure if he was trying to convince me or himself as his hand moved with mine.
You don’t have to do anything, honey, I cooed. Not a single thing. I was so turned on, so wet, I had to concentrate to keep from fingering myself to completion as he watched. You just have to lay very still. I moaned. I’ll do all the work – guide you inside me. Hmmm? Ride you nice and slow until you come. If anybody asks, it’ll be all my fault.
He didn’t appreciate the generosity of my offer to take the blame. He made me promise to not touch myself and decided he couldn’t trust himself or me for that matter and took the couch.

As a general rule, the couch (especially at 36,000ft) wasn’t any safer. It began when I touched him over his jeans. I wasn’t really concentrating on the movie as I laid in his arms. I was consumed by thoughts of times past, of the two of us moving hungrily against each other in the darkness, illuminated only by the flickering lights of the muted TV.
Doc? It wasn’t exasperation so much as it was questioning. He thought we’d settled this in the morning when I woke up horny and wanting him.
I miss feeling full, I hummed softly rubbing him where I knew I’d get a reaction. He didn’t pull away – my touch always lowers his defences… and raises something else. At least initially. His breath quickened as he stretched his body out against mine and for a moment I thought I had him right where I wanted him.
How many times do we need to go through this, baby?
Forgive me? I whispered against his lips, kissing him softly, his jeans now a tent in my palm. I need you, John.
You have me, baby, he stole kisses, tried to kid me out of it, to lighten the hot and heavy mood.
Don’t do that, I pouted on the verge of tears. I want you. I need you to do things to me.
He ran his hands through his hair in frustration. When his eyes met mine, they were piercing in their intensity. You think I don’t want you, is that it? Honey, the doctors said…
I am a doctor, remember? I don’t need you or Kayla telling me what my body needs! I took his hand and placed it over my breast so he could feel the distended bud of my nipple through the thin fabric of my shirt. Do you feel this? He groaned as he squeezed me firmly. This is my body telling me it needs you, I softened. He found an opening in my shirt and slipped his hand inside, tugging down at the flimsy cup of my lacy bra. He needed to feel the tackiness of my flushed skin. I hissed at his touch. Feels so good, honey, don’t stop.
I found myself panting and guiding him as he pulled at the cotton and lace to expose my breast and lowered his head to feast on my nipple. His bite was as sharp as my cry and it only served to remind him that we shouldn’t be doing this. He sighed defeatedly before relaxing his jaw and letting his tongue spill over my breast to soothe me as he told me, you’re getting too excited, baby. I don’t want anything to happen to you now!
I was desperate to convince him otherwise. I can get excited. What feels good is good. You. Inside me. Is always good. I grinned as I applied more pressure between his legs. Come on, put it in just a little bit?
It killed him to do it. With a deep guttural groan, he found the willpower to resist me; to release my breast and remove me from his already burgeoning erection. There’s no half way for us, Doc. The pained expression on his face said it all. You know how hard this is for me too. We just can’t, I’m sorry. He couldn’t even look at me. He untangled our limbs and left me there alone on the couch to go and take care of things in a cold shower. I couldn’t stop the tears from falling.

My emotions have been running high of late. His constant rejection, though not his fault, crushes my heart. So here I am frustrated, anxious, nervous, all of those things. I’d reach out to take his comforting hand now, to feel the reassuring pressure of his thumb as it grazes my skin and calms my nerves… but he’s not here. Admittedly, not by choice – I’ve deprived him of that. He’ll be upset to know that I’ve denied him the opportunity to have me lean on him for support especially today, but I am hoping good news will overshadow his disappointment and he’ll understand my wanting to surprise him. That’s if there is good news.

It’s been six weeks since I’ve been released from the hospital after getting shot at my wedding. Sixteen weeks to the day since I had surgery to remove a bullet that was meant for John. I wince as I feel an all too familiar twinge in my chest. I’m told, and of course as a doctor I know, this pain is psychosomatic and all part of the healing process. The memories are fleeting and hazy, the night terrors come and go, but I do remember vividly the moments before the bullet struck me in the back. John, my forever protector, was standing in front of me, left arm out, trying desperately to shield me from those who threatened our life, our happiness. It all happened so quickly. Scenes of the two of us flickered before my eyes like an unhinged reel rattling on an old projector. These moments we shared, they felt surreal. Like they belonged to someone else, like we hadn’t lived them. Like they hadn’t moulded us, changed us. Left scars. And yet every one of them filled me with an overwhelming sense of love for the man standing beside me. I felt so out of control, helpless actually, as I stood there with my feet rooted to the ground behind him. The seconds passed and the blurred white noise that was John’s voice, begging Sami to reconsider, reached fever pitch in my ears. It was all I could hear. My senses were heightened. My body in fight or flight. My eyes volleyed back and forth between the two of them. There was nothing protecting him. In my mind I kept imploring Sami, please oh please, don’t hurt him. She was hesitating but I know my Sami well. She was too unstable and reckless in that moment to be swayed by terms of endearment that were meant to remind her of the bond they shared. Don’t do this, punkin. Please. She is his little girl, his punkin, but she was too far gone to listen to John, to be reminded of their indestructible connection. I simply couldn’t leave it to chance any longer. Sami was under the influence of a potent drug and a Dimera. A deadly combination. Panic unfurled like a fireball in my stomach and without a second thought, I flung myself in front of him and threw my arms around his neck to cover his body with mine – to protect my own heart and soul. My world. For a fleeting moment, as I held him in my arms and inhaled his scent, a calming sense of relief washed over me – I’ve got you, baby – he was safe. I could breathe again. A deep, exaggerated breath I didn’t realize I was holding in. And then suddenly I felt winded; like a tonne of bricks had descended on my lungs, crushing them. It hurt to inhale even slightly as a raging fire tore through my chest. Feeling myself suffocating, I clung to John for dear life. I could hear faint screams beyond the ringing in my ears. I’m sure I heard John’s panicked Marlena over and over again as his fingers clasped at my jaw to keep my head from rolling back and to force me to focus on him. He was pleading with me. Look at me, Doc. Look at me! Stay with me, baby. I tried. He was a blur – my beautiful, handsome husband… to be. We didn’t make it. I’m not entirely sure if it was the pain of that truth or of the bullet tearing through my flesh that was utterly blinding – it stole my breath, my voice. My tears fell freely as I struggled to keep my eyes open. The words just wouldn’t come out. I love you, I do. From the moment I laid eyes on you, I do. The last thing I remember is looking up into his deep blue eyes as they came into crystal clear focus for me; seeing the fear and devastation in them and hoping he could see in mine the incredible love I felt for him in that moment and in my lifetime before mercifully the world turned pitch black around me. I could have sworn I heard his anguished cry even as I succumbed to the darkness.

My trauma, at least my conscious awareness of it for a long time, ended there. John’s experience has been very different. He’s had to watch me suffer and has himself suffered because of that. I’ll never forget his trembling voice as he held me in the darkness of our bedroom on my first night home from the hospital. I didn’t tell him that laying up against him this way caused me incredible discomfort. I ignored my bandages and the twinges in my chest, happy just to be this close to him again, in his arms. You ok? His enquiry was gentle, just like him. I told him he was all the medicine I needed as he squeezed me tighter. I was relieved to be home. Earlier that afternoon, having signed my release papers and helped me slide into the wheelchair so he could escort me to freedom, we were excited and ready to make our escape from the hospital when we were stopped and admonished by my treating doctor, Dr Newman. So he walked in on us fooling around in the hospital bed a couple of times! Thankfully, one of those times, he was called away while still at the door to my room, giving John just enough time to remove his hand from my sex where he had spent the last 15 minutes making me whimper and seep. John had straightened my hospital gown and was sitting beside my bed with his hands in his lap by the time the doctor returned to examine me. My vitals however told the tale… On the day of my release Dr Newman wished me well, looked John up and down like he was some sort of depraved sex fiend and laid down the law. In no uncertain terms, there was to be no sexual intercourse, no getting me excited, for at least 6 weeks and, in any event, not until I have been given the all clear – understand, it’s like asking John and me not to breathe. So there we were. Our first night alone together not sharing a hospital bed – not permitted to love one another; to give each other pleasure; to unleash our grief and seek comfort in each other’s body. Our bed felt enormous until he joined me and motioned for me to climb into his arms. Our hands instinctively sought each other’s bare skin beneath the comforter. Mine found its usual resting place – under his t-shirt; my fingers tangled in the short grey fuzz on his chest. His hand found my bare hip where his thumb stroked the skin inside my panties.
I want nothing more right now than to make love to you.
I nodded against his shoulder. I know, honey. Me too. Tilting my head up, he kissed my lips softly and then traced them lightly with his fingers as his eyes met mine. His gaze was piercing, it almost frightened me. What is it? He was hesitating to open up to me, to have me share his burden. I waited for him to break the silence. He spoke softly, hauntingly of the terror he felt when the realization of what I had done sank in and I crumpled like a rag doll in his arms. While he held the proof of my dead weight in his arms and he felt the force of the bullet against his own body as it struck mine, for those first few seconds, he was in complete shock and denial. His worst nightmare wasn’t confirmed until he was forced to watch, in slow motion, the faces of all of our friends and family contort in abject horror as they took in the sight before them. Reality crystalized for John when he looked down at his violently shaking hands covered in my blood. He fell to his knees, cradling my body. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry you had to witness that, I cried. We both did as our bodies trembled against one another. Our roles reversed and I held him for the first time in this mess. Ever so gently, he reached up to cradle my face and bring our tear stained faces together. As he slipped his tongue into my mouth to caress and taste me, he pleaded with me even though he knew I could never abide by his wish: don’t ever hurt me like that again – I can’t live without you, Doc. He was hot and insistent between kisses. My hand found his in my hair and I slid my fingers between his as I swallowed him. Honey? It felt like he had decided he was going to make love to me. He bit my lip and drew blood and I yelped. It didn’t stop him. His intensity didn’t scare me. I welcomed it. I needed it. I wanted him to take me against my doctor’s orders. I gasped and clutched at his bicep when he brought his hand down to touch me over my cotton panties. Yes, I whispered to him rolling my hips to feel more of him. To my surprise, he breached the material from the side and hastily swiped his forefinger between my wet folds.
No, he answered vehemently. I misunderstood. He was merely monitoring my excitement. Apparently, I was too excited for his liking. He struggled but he eventually tugged at my bottom lip with his teeth and rested his forehead against mine to compose himself. I won’t do this to you. Do what exactly, you may ask? If we weren’t abstaining, he’d have laid me down, dug the ball of one of my heels into his shoulder and made me endure his intensity between my legs; panties hooked to the side as he pushed his love inside and fucked me. He loves to contort my body; bend me to his will until I’ve taken every inch of him. He’d have told me he doesn’t want to stop hearing me; that he wants me panting and vocal until he finishes. He’d want to hear from me the sustained plaintive cries he’s used to; the kind that would hoarsen my voice and often confuse our children when they were small – noises mommy makes because daddy loves her. Every whimper, every moan, spurred on by even the slightest of his strokes inside me – he’d want to hear it all. Propped on my elbows, I’d have hung my head back and vocalized my pleasure and pain for him – there’s never one without the other with John. Close to climax, over the sound of my mounting cries, he’d have asked me to repeat his words as though they were sacred vows sealed by the furious rubbing of our sexes. I’d have cried out with abandon and told him: I’d take the bullet all over again.

The bullet very narrowly missed my heart. There are fragments still left inside me, you know? Fragments too close to my heart that could not be removed. Not yet, anyway. Not until I’m fully recovered. That’s why I’m here today, sitting in the waiting room of my surgeon’s office at Salem University Hospital – my second home. Ironically, not merely because I’ve worked here for more years than I wish to count, but because I have spent a good part of my life between these walls, hooked up to machines, fighting for another chance. Stefano, Kristen, patients. They’ve all tried to deny me my life; John. I look up at the door impatiently, willing it to open. Valerie Grant, the name of a dear friend, esteemed colleague and a brilliant pulmonary surgeon, is embossed on a brushed stainless steel plaque. She played her part in my recovery. It was an important part at that. But it was John who saved me, who gave me time. Again. There aren’t enough gold watches in the universe for me to buy on which to inscribe my feelings and gratitude for this man… For giving me time. M. He still wears it. He knew what those words meant then. He knows they mean even more now if that were possible. Today, I am seeking permission from my doctors to draw my husband deep into my body again and show him what he means to me; to cry out with love for him as he holds me flush against his body and does things to me that no other man ever could. I’ll spread my legs, hold myself open to receive his manhood. He’ll pulsate with love and make me take his engorged length to the hilt even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts. He’ll feed me his copious seed. My breasts will swell; my folds will moisten. I’ll tell him I don’t know how to live without him as my womanhood pulses with my lifeblood and drips with nectar. I’ll ask him to nestle himself deep inside me and stay there for a while so that I can feel his heart beat against mine and savor the sensation of feeling full; whole again. I’ll eventually come for him. If he has his way, multiple times.

“Marlena?”
I startle at the sound of Val’s gentle voice when it interrupts my intimate musings. Returning her smile with one of my own, I stand and greet her, “hi, Val.” I respect and admire Val – not least for her good taste in men (she has after all married one of my very best friends). Being a woman in the field of science and medicine has its own set of challenges. I’ve felt the solitude and the inevitable pain of being the first to break a glass ceiling. I know not of her own battles – they have been unique for sure. I just know how lucky and grateful I am to be in such good hands and to still be here. We exchange pleasantries and engage in lighthearted chit chat about John and Abe as she leads me into her office and invites me to take a seat opposite her. Kayla picks that moment to join us having just finished a consult that ran over time. “Sorry I’m late!” She tucks her short hair behind her ear and takes the seat next to me, reaching over to give my hand a reassuring squeeze. “Did I miss anything important?”
“No, in fact, we were just getting started,” Val reassures her.
I look at them both, my friends and colleagues. “Let’s cut to the chase. Tell me John and I can have sex again,” I say hopefully and maybe with a hint of desperation in my voice. There is a long pause as we all look at each other and then the three of us break out into peals of laughter…

——

My wife is physically beautiful without a doubt. Breathtaking even. This is true especially for me, but I would not be a man if I didn’t notice how many heads she turns, male and female alike. So I guess you could call it a universal truth; An objective fact. My heart stopped the moment I first laid eyes on her and my attraction to her has only intensified as we’ve gotten older. It’s not just a mad physical attraction – not just one single thing about her that makes me go weak in the knees. She is indeed a woman to her very core, the depths of which I have plundered to the gentle, mounting cadence of her cries. But it’s her kindness, warmth, intelligence; her generous, fearless heart that took me in and gave me a sense of belonging that makes her especially beautiful and infinitely precious to me. There’s something about Marlena, something innate and indefinable that just gets into your heart and into your soul. Whatever it is, it has captured mine for all eternity.

I watch her silently, intently from our bedroom door. I didn’t expect to find her home this early – she said she had an important meeting – but here she stands, semi naked from my vantage point, in front of our ceiling to floor length wall mirror. She’s looks ethereal wearing her long black silk robe and nothing else. The delicate material clings to her frame. With her back to me, I catch only glimpses of her curves in the reflection of the mirror. A creamy thigh, the curved underside of a breast. Her thick white-blonde tresses fall in relaxed waves just below her shoulders. She has showered. I can smell her shampoo; the fresh scent of her skin from where I stand. It’s mine. She’s bathed herself in my bodywash – something she does, she once told me, when she wants to feel close to me. It’s with no little regret that I have made her feel this distance between us. I wet my lips at the thought of tasting her again, making her happy. I haven’t been allowed to make love to my wife. It’s been months since I’ve held her lithe, trembling body in my arms, flushed and exhausted from my relentless penetration. The last time I made her open her legs for me was the night before our wedding. She showed up at my hotel room; said she wanted to hold me for a little while. I’m not sure you can call what we did holding. We made the bed springs squeak and the frames on the wall rattle until dawn. I wore her scratches beneath my tux. She had some bruising between her legs. I wasn’t sure she’d be able to walk down the aisle to me let alone recite her vows. If Claire hadn’t taken my phone just before the ceremony, I would have seen her message before all the chaos… I can’t wait to make love to you as your wife…

This ceremony I’ve stumbled upon in our dimly lit bedroom, it’s gentle, it’s graceful – much like her. It’s hard to look away. Marlena lets her robe slide to the floor to pool at her feet and my heart picks up the pace at the sight of her completely naked. I love her body. Even more so after our children have stretched it and drawn nourishment from it. As her partner in all things, I have the privilege of doing the same for so long as she’ll let me. Her long fingers begin their dance across the smooth planes of her body as though she is getting to know it again for the first time; inspecting every fine detail; enjoying the feeling of being touched intimately. I can see it in her eyes. She smooths her hands over her breasts and whimpers, circling one darkened areola after the other before spanning her ribcage and turning slightly to the side. She looks… different. And then it dawns on me. The stark white bandage that concealed most of her upper torso for months is now gone and all that’s left are scars. Jarring but nonetheless beautiful scars that have scored her body and branded my heart and soul with her sacrifice. No matter what the outcome, she gave her life for mine. If things had turned out differently, I never would have forgiven myself.

She traces the raised uneven lines, commits them to her body for they are a part of her now – a part of our story. Her hand continues its descent and I begin to feel intrusive, hardening a little in response. I watch her tilt her head to the side as she continues her exploration never taking her eyes off herself. “What are you doing all the way over there?” she asks softly, invitingly. I should have known better. She could always feel my presence.
I walk slowly, deliberately towards her as our eyes meet in the mirror. I stop only when I am mere inches from the warmth of her body. My eyes do not leave hers. “You’re beautiful,” I whisper in awe.
You could hear a pin drop. The air between us is electrifying.
Her big hazel eyes well up instantly. “Prove it.” It’s a whisper. “Touch me.”
To deny her now would be to kill her. Before now, I’ve never given her reason to doubt how incredibly beautiful she is to me. “You’re beautiful, Doc,” I repeat as I run my finger down her spine to her tailbone. With the thumb of my left hand, I touch the scar left by the bullet where it entered her body and almost robbed me of my life.
She inhales sharply as a single tear rolls down her cheek and gently shakes her head, “no.”
“Here.” For the first time, my eyes lower to where she has threaded her fingers through the dark, coarse curls between her legs. “I want you here.” She knows how much I love this part of her, particularly in its natural, unshaven state of being. “I need you.”
“Doc,” I swallow hard.
Tears are streaming down her face now. “Please don’t deny me.” Her chest rises and falls with her every breath. “I need you to trust that I love you. I love us. I would never do or encourage you to do anything that would hurt me… or us.”
Her words hang in the air between us as she looks into my eyes and we both see in each other that devastating moment she covered my body to take a bullet that was meant for me with very little regard for her own life. When the moment passes, I am sure that all that’s left in my eyes is the doubt and insecurity I am feeling. It cuts her to the core as the realization hits that my refusal to make love to her has been less about her doctors and more about my own fears and distrust.
Her voice breaks, “have I destroyed your trust?”
I don’t answer.
She purses her trembling lips to keep from crying out and stammers when she finds the words, “have I… have I destroyed us?”

To be continued…