Page 68 of The Spare

His smile turns mischievous. ‘This is supposed to be an unsexy massage, remember? I just want you relaxed.’

‘Well, I’m very relaxed. But it wasn’t remotely unsexy.’

‘You sure?’ His hand trails up my stomach and circles my nipple, and I gasp. I’m so present, so fully in my body, that every touch is magnified.

‘I’m deadly serious. Deadly.’ I mean it. Don’t fuck with me, Ben. Just fuck me.

I must be telegraphing my seriousness all over my face, because he chuckles. ‘I’ve got you, sweetheart. Roll over for me again.’ He lifts his crotch up so I can obey, and I smirk at him as I roll over.

This time, he crouches over me, kissing my neck and down my spine, his lips brushing featherlight over me. I squirm in anticipation as much as in pleasure. This is it, right? This is the point I was trying, a little hysterically and not at all coolly, to make the other night. A lot of the time, I need some kind of portal before sex where I can shed the real world and rewire my brain.

Foreplay for the foreplay.

Men don’t seem to need context for sex—rather, the only context they need is I have a penis. For me, on the other hand, context is everything. And that context can be I’m on my period, or I’m about to get my period, or I’m tired, or I have too much on my mind, or I have thrush and I’m sore, or even the simplest context of all: I have an actual brain, and my brain is not focused on sex right now, nor is it likely to be in the next thirty minutes.

I spend most of my working days ignoring hunger and thirst and the need to pee, overriding my body’s loudest messages, pushing through, staying locked inside my head—and I need some way to unravel all of that and remember that I do actually have a body before it can orgasm on command.

For once, I am allowing myself to be inside my body. It’s not my weakest link; it’s not the enemy; it’s my best friend. And, as my beautiful husband skates his fingertips over my bottom and slides his hand expertly between my legs, I know this to be true:

Being in my body is my new favourite place to be.

CHAPTER 31

Selena

Ipurse my lips as I read the text from Ivy.

Do you want to go for a walk around the grounds?

I actually do want to go for a walk, but I don’t want to want to, if that makes sense. I’ve been planning on using this precious Saturday morning to get some work done while Ben plays a round of golf with Xavier for a few hours.

But it’s a beautiful spring day, and working is probably not the best way to spend it, and I don’t mind Ivy’s company anymore—not really.

I reply in the affirmative, and she shows up ten minutes later with two travel mugs bearing, apparently, lattes from the fancy new coffee machine Xavier bought for the dower house. I think it cost roughly the same as a car. Both mugs are Emma Bridgewater, decorated with wisteria, and mine is customised with XAVIER written between the flowers. I snigger when I see it. ‘Nice.’

‘He’s such a dork,’ she says fondly. ‘But I love him.’

I can smile at that now because, honestly, things are pretty dreamy between me and Ben. One of these days, I may even be ready to admit to Xavier that he did all four of us a favour—no matter how spectacularly poor his timing and delivery were.

The coffee is excellent.

As soon as we’re outside, I feel lighter. I don’t know why I do this to myself. I’ve spent the morning sneaking longing peeks through the windows at the sun-dappled lawns and the trees bursting into leaf so quickly you’d swear you could watch it happen if you stood still for long enough. Everything is so abundant at this time of year, so indecently green, as if every bush and tree and blade of grass is wearing the hell out of its brand-new finery. The scent of growth is in the air, and it hits me just how alchemic this all is, just how good it feels to be coming back to life along with nature.

‘I still can’t believe this is actually my home,’ Ivy says as we meander across the lawn at the back of the house and down to the lake. It’s impossibly pretty, with the sun sparkling on the water in a way that makes it look effervescent. ‘I mean, look at it! It’s like a fairytale.’

She’s right. It is, of course. And it’s not that I take Belvedere for granted, exactly. It’s more that I tend to look at it with an appraising eye rather than an appreciative one. I’ve known this estate since I was a tiny girl, after all. Known I was destined to be the duchess of it since I was a tiny girl. While my idea of stewardship is more rooted in aesthetics and less in Xavier’s mode—preserving Belvedere like a fly in amber—I can be guilty of focusing on what needs to be done around here rather than losing myself in the romance, the sheer beauty of the place, like Ivy seems to do.

‘When did you first see it?’ I ask her. ‘I mean, after Xavier’s thirtieth.’

‘Early November. Flora invited me up for the weekend. It was really mild and sunny, but obviously I haven’t seen it like this.’ She gestures at the glorious vista with her coffee mug.

‘And you and Xavier were together by then?’ I press. I don’t want to make her uncomfortable; I’m simply trying to establish a clear timeline. I was up to my armpits in wedding planning in November.

‘We got together that weekend.’ She scrunches up her face. ‘Sorry. It still feels shit to admit that to you.’

I shrug. ‘I think we can all admit that it worked out for the best.’

‘How’s it going with Ben?’ she asks. ‘Is he being any more sensitive?’