She answered by bobbing up and down on his cock, wanting to make him feel evenbetter. Wanting to give her beloved all the joy and bliss that he gave her every single day, just by being himself. She released him with a popping sound that made him groan (she knew it would). Continuing to frig him firmly the way he liked, she traced her tongue down one of the raised veins of his mighty shaft. Reaching the base, she kissed the soft, supple sac of his stones—then she mouthed them, sucking gently.
“Bloodyfuck.” His neck arched, the tendons stretched taut.
She returned to the tip, taking him as deep as she could, savoring his hot spurts of pleasure.
The next thing she knew, her chemise was whipped off, and she was flat on her back, her husband’s mouth between her legs. It wasn’t long before she was crying out his name, her climax rippling over her. And it wasn’t long after that—in fact, it was less than a minute because her climax was still rippling—when he surged inside her, vital, essential, filling her completely.
He took, and she took, and both of them gave and gave.
They came together, face to face, heart to heart, their hands linked on the mattress.
Afterward, they lay on their sides, tucked together like spoons. Content and drowsy with love, she snuggled against him. “I did warn you that I can be a bit dramatic.”
“Be as dramatic as you want, love.” His voice was a wicked whisper against her ear. “I look forward to a lifetime of your apologies.”
~~~
Quite a few years later
Andrew entered the heart of mayhem.
Given that it was his own home, however, he was used to it. Children—his and Primrose’s as well as those belonging to her family—were everywhere: laughing and playing and generally carrying on like wild animals that had been cooped up too long. He didn’t blame them. The opening ceremony of the new hospital had dragged on for hours, taking place out in the hot summer sun, and, through it all, the bantlings had looked and behaved like little angels.
Now his children and their cousins were making the most of their freedom. The adults sat around the drawing room chatting, enjoying the respite; like him, they knew it wouldn’t last. The children always got on like a house on fire… until they didn’t.
“Papa!” On cue, Miranda, his eldest, dashed over to where he was standing, her beautiful jade eyes full of pique. “Oliver is being a pest again!”
He placed a hand on her sunny curls. “What did he do now, little chick?”
“He’s waving his sword about like amaniac. I told him to stop, but he wouldn’t listen to me. Look,”—she pointed accusingly at a tiny tear in her puffed white sleeve—“he’sruinedmy new dress!”
“Oliver.” Andrew crooked his finger at his brown-haired middle child.
Oliver toddled over, lugging his wooden sword with him.
“Yes, Papa?” he said, all innocence.
“What did I tell you about playing with your sword indoors? Now apologize to your sister for ruining her dress.”
“But I didn’t do anything,” Oliver protested.
“Liar,” his sister hissed.
“Tattle-tale,” he shot back.
“That’s enough from both of you,” Andrew said sternly. “Oliver, when you do something wrong, you take responsibility for it. That is what gentlemen do.”
“But I didn’tmeanto ruin Miranda’s dress.” Oliver’s brown gaze widened. “I was trying to give her an aclade with the sword—the same way Her Majesty gave one to you, Papa.”
“That’s an accolade, dummy,” his sister said.
“Miranda, a lady doesn’t engage in name-calling.” Crouching, Andrew looked into his children’s adorable faces; from experience, he knew not to give into those pleading eyes. “Now apologize to one another—and mean it.”
“I’m sorry for putting a hole in your dress,” Oliver muttered.
“I’m sorry for calling you a dummy,” Miranda muttered back.
“Good. Now go play with your cousins.”
