Sybil placed a kiss on her sleeping husband’s cheek. With a faint hint of morning sun streaming through the cracks in the heavy curtains, the light illuminated his unfairly handsome face. Her kiss didn’t move him from slumber, however. He remained still on his back, eyes closed, one arm snaked around her waist, his chest rising and falling with deep, even breaths.
She jostled his arm lightly. “Everett.”
Still, he slept on.
“Everett,” she tried again.
But he was in a deep sleep.
It wasn’t the moment she had envisioned when she had decided to tell him that he was going to be a father. But last night, he had distracted her by carrying her across the room, burying his face between her thighs, and using his tongue until she had quite forgotten anything and everything else.
Including her own name for a few wild, blissful moments.
She tried one last time, shoving gently at his shoulder, but he refused to wake.
There was one way she knew that roused him from slumber every time.
Feeling wicked, she kissed her way down his chest. Slowly, lingering, enjoying the ripple of his muscle as he came awake, the swift intake of his breath when he realized where she was headed.
By the time she reached his cock, it was rigid and thick, standing at the ready, a bead of liquid seeping from the tip. She lapped it up with her tongue, gratified by his groan and the flex of his hips.
“Sybil, what are you doing?” he rasped, his voice husky with sleep.
“Good morning, Riverdale.” She gripped the base of his cock and gave him a saucy look. “What do you think I’m doing?”
And then she took his cock into her mouth.
“Bloody hell,” he bit out, his hand going to her hair, sifting it through his fingers as she sucked on his thick length.
He tasted musky, like herself and him blended together with a hint of salt. And she wanted more. Sybil set about making him lose control, using every skill she had learned, all the ways to bring him to his knees. She licked from base to tip, swirling her tongue over the ruddy head, and then she took him as far as she could.
To the back of her throat, just as she knew he liked.
“Sybil,” he groaned.
It wasn’t protest, this she knew. It was pleasure. She sucked harder, cupping the heavy fullness of his ballocks as she did so. That was all it required to make him lose control utterly. He threaded his fingers through her hair, hips pumping with eagerness, following her lips as she worked up and down his shaft, coating him in saliva.
He came with a thunderous cry, hot spurts of his seed jetting into her mouth. With a low sound of approval, she swallowed it down, releasing him slowly, tenderly, before dragging herself back up to the headboard and collapsing at his side.
“My God, woman,” he breathed. “What a way to wake me.”
“Better than a pitcher of water to the face?” she teased.
“Much.”
She tucked herself against his chest, and he wrapped an arm around her, drawing her comfortably close to his warm strength. She laid her head on his chest, pressing herself to his side.
“As soon as I catch my breath, I’ll return the favor,” Everett said, his hand coasting up and down her spine in a slow, tender motion.
“There is something I should tell you first,” she murmured, caressing his chest.
How she enjoyed this closeness they shared, still so new and so beloved. She could lie happily thus for days and never leave.
“Oh?” he asked mildly, his voice still velvety with sleep. “I do hope you’re not going to tell me you want a divorce.”
He was jesting, but Sybil didn’t particularly care to be reminded of the day she had stormed into his room at Wingfield Hall, demanding that he grant her the divorce that—as it had turned out—she hadn’t truly wanted after all.
“Never that.”
