Her hand curls around my neck, urging me to recommence my activities. Rather than obeying, I sweep her into my arms instead. Given what I feel like doing to her, my daughter’s room isn’t an appropriate place to linger.
Back in our room, I deposit the soon-to-be-mother-of-my-child on the bed and set about divesting her of every stitch of clothing.
“I don’t know why you go to so much trouble picking out these extravagant outfits,” she grumbles. “Considering how little time you allow me to remain inside them.”
“Stop your moaning,” I order, kissing a line from her neck down to her naval, then dipping below her panty line. My fingers have the same idea, ducking inside the elastic and peeling it from her hips.
“Yes, Sir.”
Her mocking smile earns a growl and I flip her over onto her belly, giving first one cheek then the other a hard smack.
She wriggles her butt as the skin turns bright pink. “Get your money’s worth while you can, mister. Pretty soon you won’t be able to turn me over your knee so easily.”
I put a finger on the sparkly plug nestled between her cheeks, moving it with my thumb so the sensation travels deep inside her. When I pull it out a little, she whimpers, then moans as I reach the bulbous part and play, stretching her as I wriggle it in and out before letting it slip back into place.
“Tease,” she says in a voice even sleepier than Sophia’s was a few minutes ago.
Despite being early in her pregnancy, the side effects are hitting hard. The first month was spent sampling every anti-emetic on offer and now her morning sickness is showing signs of ebbing, she’s falling asleep on a moment’s notice. Show her a patch of sunshine and she basically turns into a cat.
I strip off my jacket and shirt, rolling Isabelle towards me.
“Don’t stop,” she whispers.
“Fine,” I say laying a trio of kisses on her shoulder. “I’ll remember to wake you up when I get to the important part.”
She waves a hand near my face. “It’s a deal.”
As her breathing softens with the early stages of sleep, I settle for curling her into my arms and watching over her slumber. She wakes long enough to take my battered hand in hers, stroking the puffy and bruised flesh as she slips back into her dreams.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-TWO
ISABELLE
One Year Later
A shout draws me to the window, and I peer from the upstairs office as one of the skating pairs regain their footing after a tumble on the ice.
“Do it again,” their coach yells from the sideline and the pair dutifully shake off their failed attempt to return to their starting position.
I stay watching for a while, the routine practised so many times this month that I can chart out every movement in my head. My muscles tense with every jump, thighs twitching when the girl lands with perfect timing.
The pair are good and getting better. They should ace the next leg of the competition, bringing them one week closer to finals and their almost-certain win.
Not that I’m counting chickens just yet. There are so many moving pieces at any stage that nothing can be guaranteed. Except that they’ll continue to receive the best training our fledgling rink can offer, and their coach will be handsomely rewarded, no matter the results.
I tear myself away from the view as the coach puts them back into exercises rather than a run-through of their routine. It’s nearly time for the junior classes, and I want to be finished with my accounts by the time those lessons start.
“Mummy,” a voice yells from the staircase, putting paid to that idea. “Are you ready? I’m going to wear my sparkle princess costume and I need help with the fastening.”
I shut off the computer and go to meet Sophia halfway, picking her up so she won’t break her neck on the steep staircase. “How’s my favourite girl in all the world?” I ask, covering her cheek with kisses.
She giggles and lets me hold her for a few moments more than necessary once I escort her back downstairs. Then she squirms to be let free.
“Aren’t you saving the princess costume for the Saturday showcase?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
Little Miss Impatient isn’t into delayed gratification and her father really doesn’t help. If she tears the outfit, he’ll just buy her a new one. I swear, if I didn’t love him, I’d think he was the worst kind of doting parent.
Not that my affection stops him from being that, just that I refuse to think of him in that light since it’s a clear conflict of interest.
