Christ. His nostrils flared at the sight of his wife's pretty backside.
Rubbing her cheek against the silk coverlet, she said throatily, "Is this how you fancy me tonight, Mr. Kent?"
"I'll have you anyway I can get you."
He made quick work of the apron strings and tossed the fabric aside. Reverently, he ran his palm along the smooth length of her spine, past the elegant dip, and over her sweetly rounded bottom. Would he ever stop marveling at all the grace notes on her person? Without a doubt, he was one lucky bastard.
"Mrs. Kent," he said gravely, "have I told you lately how much I adore your ass?"
She sent him a coy look. "Aren't you afraid of offending my delicate sensibilities with such language, sir?"
"If you're offended by that, I shudder to think what you'll think of this." Reaching for a pair of pillows, he tucked them under her hips. Elevating her thus gave him delightful access. He fingered her delicate pink crease, a growl rising in his throat. "I love how wet you get for me, sweetheart."
She hummed with bliss. "Mmm. That feels so nice." When he continued to gently pet her, however, she grew impatient. Cheeks flushed, she said, "Oh, do stop playing now. I'm awash already—hurry."
"You know I'm a patient man," he chided her, "and never one to rush my pleasures. And you are mine, aren't you, love?"
"Ambrose."
At his wife's threatening tone, he hid a grin and bent to taste her honey. His name left her lips again, only this time it was a keening cry. He licked her slit up and down, her addictive flavor making him want more. Spreading her with his thumbs, he entered her with his tongue. Moaning, she began to wriggle, pushing back against him, craving even that small penetration. As he stabbed his tongue in a steady rhythm, he reached beneath, plucking and rolling her swollen pearl.
She came apart against his mouth, and he almost came, too, from the joy of seeing his wife go over. Breathing harshly, he moved onto his knees between her quivering thighs and notched his cock to her opening. He loved to watch her pussy spread for him, the primal delight of seeing her flesh blossom around his veined beast. Flames licked his spine as he sank in, seating himself to the last inch. With her snug heat pulsing around him, the angle impossibly deep, it took everything he had to hold still.
"Alright, love?" he rasped.
"I'm not certain." The languid twitch of her hips nearly undid him. "You'll have to fuck me so I can decide."
With a laughing groan, he acquiesced to her demand. He withdrew and pushed inside, each thrust building his hunger. Her sighs urged him on as he began pounding into her, his mate, his love. His vision blurred, his body melting in her fire. There was nothing like this in the world—nothing to compare with the heat, need, the unending desire.
"I love you." The words tore from his chest, his soul. "With all that I am, Marianne."
She twisted to look at him, and her glowing eyes affirmed all that was in his heart. He lost himself in their hot intimacy, in the wet, rhythmic slap of his bollocks against her sex. He played with her knot as he fucked her, and when her moans soared in a sweet, familiar crescendo, his dew-slickened finger searched out her shy, puckered hole, sliding in deep and true, in the way that never failed to summon his wife's bliss.
She cried out instantly. She pulsed around his cock, his finger, and shuddering, he crammed himself as deeply inside her as he could before her contractions overtook him. Her release milked him, suctioning the seed from his cock with violent, ecstatic force. Panting, he collapsed onto the bed and pulled her close.
He didn't know how long they dozed, but he was awakened some time later by the unladylike growling of his wife's stomach. Smiling, he ran a possessive hand over her hip.
"Hungry, love? Emma packed a basket for us."
"Thank goodness for the dear," Marianne said ruefully. "I'm starved."
Ambrose went to fetch the basket, and they had a midnight picnic upon the bed. Feasting on roasted chicken, garden vegetables, and fresh baked bread, they reminisced about the past and talked of the future. Earlier this month, Ambrose had given his notice at Wapping. To his surprise, he'd grown tired of being a soldier—he now wanted to march to his own drum. With Marianne's encouragement, he'd decided to open a private investigation agency.
"By the by," Marianne said, "I have something for you."
"I thought we agreed on no gifts for our anniversary," he said with faint alarm.
'Twas one of the few sticking points between them. Marianne enjoyed showering him with...things.While he appreciated the thought, he felt wholly inadequate at returning the favor. When it came to trinkets, his wife had expensive tastes, and since he refused to touch her money, he was left with few options. He'd stuck with poesies and the like and though Marianne always had stars in her eyes when he bought her anything, privately he wished he might give her more.
Thank God for his mother's ring. 'Twas one thing he'd given Marianne that he knew she adored, for she never took it off. The emerald winked at him now as she handed him a box the size of a pack of cards.
"It's not a gift for our anniversary," she said. "Open it."
Resigned, he untied the ribbon and lifted the lid. An elegant silver calling card case gleamed in a nest of tissue. He took the case out, his thumb brushing over his engraved initials.
"It's very fine," he said. "Thank you."
"Look inside," she said.
