The night of the day they were married was the first time she ever refused. She was exhausted from the smiling and the small talk, waltz after waltz with newly minted in-laws. When the limo finally dropped them at the Copley, the only thing she wanted was sleep. She shucked her dress and draped it on a wing chair, shuffled to the over-mirrored bathroom. She had peed and was about to remove her contacts when six of him came at her from different angles. Then there was just one, the one whose middle fingers found her nipples, pestered twin circles through her nylon bra. “In the morning,” she said, and elbowed him away. “Not now, OK? I love you. You know that.” She had his ring on her finger, and he had hers, and at last she could afford to make him wait.
It was also that night he took it, for the first time, against her will. Not in the bathroom, when she begged him off—all he did then was kiss her neck and say, “I love you too”—but later, in the silent middle of the night. Sometime between the ceasing of the buses on Saint James and daybreak when they started chugging past again, she dream-felt the blunt jabbing from behind. She was gasping in pain as she slept, and before she woke, he was all the way inside. When she reached back to cushion his thrusts, her fingers found sluglike smears of lube. Was it for her ease, she wondered, or for his? But the hot ache prevented her from asking.
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