Free Coda (Songs of Submission #9) by CD Reiss Page A

mess!”
    “Why?” He grabbed my waist and pulled me into him. “Afraid it’ll scratch your back?” He pushed me into the kitchen island and bit my neck at the curve.
    “Don’t leave a mark!” I pushed him away, not that it did anything. “We’re going to Sheila’s and—” I couldn’t finish when he stuck his hand between my legs and yanked my pants down by the crotch. “We just did it,” I groaned. I could have ended the California drought with what flowed between my legs.
    “Define ‘just.’” He unceremoniously pulled up my shirt and grabbed a nipple. My body went on high alert.
    “I’m still sore.”
    “That’s how I like you.”
    I pushed him away for real. “I don’t want to use my safe word for stupid bullshit, Drazen, but back off. I’m making a snack. What do you want?”
    He smiled, taking the hint but not believing me. “You, with butter and jelly.”
    “I have a baguette left from last night.”
    “Fine.” He pulled my shirt down.
    “You should have protein. An egg or something.”
    “There’s enough protein in my morning shake to create an entire mammalian species.”
    I kissed him gently. “You should try the bread with the chimichuri.”
    “Hell, no.” He opened the fridge and leaned into where the condiments hung out. His running pants hung low on his hips. “I see you looking at me,” he said, still rooting around the back.
    “You’ve gained weight.”
    “These are my fat pants.” He smiled, shutting the door and putting the goods on the counter.
    I unscrewed the cap on the hot sauce and ripped off a piece of baguette. “Try.” I dipped the bread into the sauce, but I got as little as possible. I wanted my husband to get over the spicy food thing. I knew it embarrassed him. I held it up. “Come on, I made this with my own hands, with my mother. Think of the generations of women who have perfected it for the sake of this one moment in time.”
    “Not to be dramatic.”
    “I’ll get a samba band in here if you like. Cha cha chadda .” I swung my hips to the rhythm, with my piece of bread out.
    He grabbed my wrist and held it still. I froze. Had I insulted his masculinity or something?
    He locked eyes with me then tore them away. He kissed down the inside of my arm, my wrist, and took the bread in his mouth. He chewed. I waited. He had zero change of expression, and I smiled a little.
    He swallowed. “I feel like my face is burning from the inside.”
    “Well, you look gorgeous.”
    He let my hand go and screwed the top back on the chimichuri. “You’re just seeing a free man.”
    “Oh, right, Margie came today. Did you get rid of everything?”
    “I gave up every hotel from A to J. I kept the one where I met you. I’m sentimental like that.”
    “Did she tell you about the Swiss thing?”
    He froze. I swallowed. Was it more complicated than I thought? Was it too expensive an investment?
    “Yes,” he said.
    “And?”
    “I’ll think about it.”
    “Really?”
    “I—”
    I had an explosion I couldn’t control or foresee. All my pent-up feelings went off like controlled detonation, except the building didn’t collapse but took off like a rocket. I threw my arms around his neck, wrapping my legs around his waist.
    He was thrown back a step catching me. “Jesus, Monica.”
    “Happy birthday, baby.” I kissed him seven times. I couldn’t stop, but then I had to talk. “They’re so close they just need a push. I know it’s a lot of money but it’s worth it when they figure out the rejection thing it needs its own special rejection meds which they’re also developing and then a healthy testsubjectwhois—”
    “Whoa whoa.”
    “Young, with no secondary problems.”
    “Monica.”
    “It’s you. You. Especially if you fund it, then they have to make it you. And it lasts forever. You’ll have to get hit by a bus when you’re a hundred and ten.”
    He loosened his grip until my feet hit the floor. “Do you know what the odds are of it