The way she exhales when his fingers stop is—

her hands fists above his grip, and her mouth quirked to the side. He has a captive audience, and she very nearly softens at what he chooses to do with it; forestalling what would otherwise have been an inevitable complaint. Tease, she thinks, not without affection. Her husband knows her well: it is perhaps the best way of assuring himself of something like an honest answer to that question, if only because dissembling might result in his not continuing at all.

She tilts her head back, putting her teeth in her lip, weighing both her words and how easily she thinks she could free herself if she wanted to. (She doesn't want to; he'd let go in a moment if he thought she did. But she likes the way it feels.) Finally,

“I'm not sorry it's done,” which slightly resembles something diplomatic. “And I'm not sorry we've made everyone recognise our marriage.”

Time will tell if it was worth it—or maybe it won't, maybe it'll just be one of a hundred small things that everything would have been worse without. Either way, it wasn't a disaster today, and he's here with her, and she thinks that increasingly it seems there is absolutely nothing that they can't do if they only put their minds to it.

So, enough. It's enough.

And then, warm in a way with promise, “I'm better now you've come to bed.”