Page 9 of One More Gift

“After breakfast?” he says, patting my leg through the blankets. “You’ll make me pancakes, I think.”

“Fine, after pancakes.”

“Seeing as I am here. Shall we have one last fuck?” he says with a wink, hopping up to straddle me on top of the covers.

“You are unbelievable,” I laugh, shoving him away. “You’ve had about twelve one last fucks. We agreed to stop doing that.”

My pussy betrays me though, muscle memory kicking in, and I clench around nothing, throbbing at the thought of having him inside me again.

Sex with Casper was always incredible, even after fifteen years together. Unlike many couples, that’s not the reason we broke up. If anything, it’s the reason we stayed together far longer than we should have.

The night we met, at a gallery opening in Chelsea, he brought me to orgasm in a taxi on the way home, and then fucked me on the hallway floor of his apartment. I’d had good sex before, but Casper operated on a different level. Nobody had ever touched me that way, ever anticipated my needs or emptied my brain like he did. He made me feel alive.

We were two hot young things with the sort of sexual chemistry people write books about. We pushed each other’s limits and rarely made it as far as the bed in those early days.

Everyone assumed we’d burn out as fast as we’d begun, but there was a ring on my finger within six months, and after a June wedding at his grandmother’s villa in Italy, we spent the entirety of our honeymoon naked.

No, unfortunately, our downfall was not in the bedroom, but in our values and dreams, something we’d failed to learn about each other when we’d been too preoccupied with making each other come.

I turned thirty, and the questioning began. When would we start a family? When would I give up work? When would we move to Italy? When, when, when.

His personality shift horrified me. My work was my life, and still is. My husband was an astonishing, boundary-breaking artist. Who had replaced him with this traditional family man?

Soon it became clear we had very different expectations of what our future together looked like. I don’t dislike children, but I’ve never felt drawn to having my own. I like my life, and my work, and my freedom far too much. I don't care if that's selfish.

Three years later, it was all we talked about. Except it was more arguing than talking. Casper approached it with the same fiery passion he approached everything in life, bombarding me with reasons we’d be happier in Italy, telling me how beautiful I’d be with his baby in my belly.

His reasons were good for him, but the harder he pushed, the less I wanted it. We started avoiding each other. I’d stay late at work, or he’d fly to Europe for weeks at a time, seeking inspiration for his next piece of art. Once upon a time, I’d been all the inspiration he needed.

When he came home, we’d take our frustrations out on each other in the bedroom. Passionate, aggressive sex that left us ina scramble of bedsheets with marks on our skin. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like it, but then he’s always brought a touch of deviance out in me.

“You know it would be a good time.” He pitches his voice lower. The bastard. He knows what that voice does to me. “I know we cannot give each other everything we want, but I want to give you everything I can. Fulfil all those last fantasies.”

“We’ve had fifteen years of fulfilling fantasies,” I tell him. “I think that’s plenty.”

“Not all of them, though.”

His fingers and thumb stroke down my cheeks to cup my chin. His eyes are dark with desire, and I know he’s thinking about one in particular, a deeply held desire he’s never been able to satisfy alone.

Heat pools deep in my core at the thought of it. Of hands, of mouths, of moans upon moans. The hedonistic allure of being worshipped and used, filled and fulfilled, over and over and—

“You need to leave.”

I swallow hard and push one hand against his chest. He wraps his fingers around my wrist, tugging me up against him.

Over his shoulder, I see the door creak open again, and I scramble out of his arms.

Oh, shit.

“Saskia, is everything alright?” Henry asks.

“Of course. She is fine,” Casper says, but everything is not alright. I know how this looks. “Come in, my friend.”

Henry lurks in the doorway, and I shrug, the only way I can think to reassure the love of my life when he’s just caught my ex-husband on top of me in bed.

“I was just leaving.” Casper climbs off me, then bends to press a kiss to my forehead. It’s sweet and tender, and not like him at all. “She’s all yours.”

“What the fuck?” Henry mouths at me as Casper passes him.