*Horace*
In the length of our short marriage, we have made love four times. I lay Rapunzel on her back, thinking about this, the fifth time. It has to be different.
Better.
She begins wiggling right away, though, batting my hands away. “I want my champagne,” she announces. And then, when she is upright again and holding another glass, she looks at me through those thick lashes of hers and says, “I’d like you to lie down.”
“What?”
She points. “On the bed. On your back. You’re my husband, so…”
*Rapunzel*
I would have laughed at the expression on his face, except this is too serious. I sip my champagne again, hoping that Layla is right. It makes my head swirl, which has to be good. I tell myself again to just let go. Let go.
But first… For a moment I think Horace won’t do it. He is
