Pumping slowly in and out, I lick her nipples, pebbled under the cold air. Our faces should be cold, exposed to the January air, but blood is rushing everywhere in my body. Wren’s cheeks are pink, the little puffs of air she let out condensing on top of her lips.

“I’ll never get enough of this,” I say before claiming her lips and kissing her deep and strong. My tongue tangles with hers while her fingers pull at my hair.

I keep pumping inside her and circling her clit, and it only takes a minute before she pulls even harder on my hair, moaning and gasping into my mouth as she clamps around my fingers, a feeling I could never get enough of.

When she finally comes down from her orgasm, I pull my fingers out and tuck some hair that fell from her tight bun behind her ear.

“Good?”

“Good,” she answers, still not completely back to her right state of mind. Her eyes are reflecting the twinkling lights from the trees behind us, but also seem to be shining from within.

“Now,” she says as she shifts so she’s straddling me, “your turn.”

“Uh uh.”

“What?”

I rub her hips with the pads of my thumbs. “Tonight was just about you.”

“Why?” She cocks her head. “That’s not fair.”

“Yes, it is.” I gave a peck on her lips. “When are you going to realize that making you happy makes me happy?”

I’m afraid that she’s going to think I’m too much, but instead, she blinks and grins softly. “You’re too good for me.”

“Wren,” I say as a gush of wind drags snow around us, shining in the moonlight. “Nothing could be too good for you.”

Chapter 25

CHAPTER 25

Wren

“You okay?”

The leather of the chair I’m sitting on squeaks as I turn toward Aaron. “Huh?” I might’ve been lost in thoughts for a moment.

“I asked if you were okay,” he says.

“Oh. Yeah, fine.”

While he doesn’t push it, he clearly doesn’t believe me. And he has every reason not to.

Coming to my yearly neurology follow-up always makes me want to throw up. For 364 days of the year, I can pretend that everything is right, or at least that nothing has changed. I can convince myself that all my exercise and my good diet and my organization and my brain-stimulating job and my crossword puzzles have been efficient, and dementia is a faraway threat. Cinderella always knew she’d have to go back home, but as long as the clock didn’t strike midnight, she could still enjoy her time at the ball.

It doesn’t help that I went to see my mother this morning and she somehow seemed worse than usual. The image of her trying to eat soup with her fingers sears my brain, over and over.