You'd think we hadn't had fast nasty sex earlier that day. Or the morning before-I had no idea what time it was, which day of the week it was, how long I'd been back from hell, how long it had been since I got run over on The Magnificent (ha!) Mile, what hideous terrible thing we had to avert, who was alive in this timeline, who was dead, and who we had to save, nor did I care.

My husband demonstrated his pleasure in our reunion by shredding my borrowed shirt, ripping my borrowed scrubs off, yanking his own shirt off, nearly strangling himself by removing his tie (who wears a tie on a rescue mission?), and though he managed to get his belt unbuckled and his fly down, he couldn't quite manage to rid himself of his slacks before he fell on me.

Which was fine by me; I was the ultimate welcoming vessel. I practically had a "Help Yourself, Neighbor!" sign hung around my neck. Our mouths nearly slammed together, his teeth cut me, hurt me, and I didn't give a ripe shit.

He seized my thighs and slung them apart, then surged forward and I felt his cock enter between my thighs and stop somewhere around my throat. Felt his mouth on my neck, nuzzling, not biting, and heard him, heard him murmuring into my throat, "Sorry, sorry, my own, my queen, oh forgive . . . oh . . . oh . . ."

He . . . he thought he was hurting me! Which he was. But, as above: I didn't give a ripe shit. I loved it; I loved him. It didn't matter what he did to me; I'd heal in minutes or even seconds. It was worth anything. It was worth anything to be with him.

I had to die to learn about love.

Dumbass.

(Love I love I love O Elizabeth I love I love . . .)

(Don't stop. If you stop, I'm getting a divorce lawyer.)

(Love O I love O O O O O O O O O O O O O!)

I saw stars. Cliche, right? But they were streaming past my eyes, they were screaming through my heart. They were everywhere, we were everywhere, and while we were together it was impossible to worry, or be scared, or . . .

. . . or anything.