I giggle, then shriek with laughter when he picks me up and carries me away.
His brothers call out something I can’t quite catch. Someone starts a champagne shower, and the priceless Dom lands on us as Noah’s long-legged strides eat up the distance, taking us to the house—our home.
“Don’t worry about the champagne. I’ll get you clean with my tongue,” Noah murmurs.
I giggle at his faux gravitas, but soon it turns into a soft moan when his mouth fuses over mine.
Vaguely I register us moving up the stairs and then along the cool corridor that seems almost as long as our kiss. Finally, we enter the bedroom. Noah gently stands me up. The backs of my legs hit the mattress and he tugs at the small buttons and lace ties on my bodice. His lips and tongue plunder my mouth with such urgency I expect him to lose patience and rip the dress off. But he takes his time, like a man given a gift so precious he can’t bring himself to be rough, even with the wrapping.
I cradle his cheek, then pull at his bowtie, letting the strip of silk slide down his tux. His kiss deepens as I undress him, revealing more of the gorgeous physique I adore for its beauty and strength. My bodice loosens and droops. He drags the dress down, the priceless silk pooling at my feet with a soft whisper. He runs his mouth over my exposed body, every touch of his lips searing. There is a reverence and possessiveness to the kisses he rains all over me. He doesn’t have to speak, and I still hear it—mine.
I tremble with need and love. Sex with Noah is always amazing and hot, but the sweet tenderness of the moment undoes me.
He strips me out of my underwear, and I lie panting. My nipples bead in the cool air, and he runs his tongue over the pointed tips, one by one, making my toes curl.
He pulls one into his mouth and sucks. A low moan swells in my throat, and I clench his hair. He tugs at my other nipple. The callused tips of his clever fingers know exactly what to do to drown me in a pool of desire and pleasure.
“Please, please,” I beg, desperate for deeper intimacy. My legs move restlessly against him.
He spreads my knees. His breathing has roughened, but his touch couldn’t be more tender. He runs his mouth over my quivering inner thighs. “Mine.” A kiss. “Mine.” A kiss closer to my core. “Mine.” A lick that results in an impossible ache and pooling of liquid heat in my flesh. “My wife.”
Our eyes lock. Warmth suffuses my cheeks, and a breath shudders out of me. His eyes blaze.
He dips his head. His tongue moves up, licking me like he’s devouring the fluffiest nama-cream. I arch my back at the pleasure twisting through me, my fingers scratching the sheet. He links our hands, our palms pressed tight, and then uses his lips and tongue on me, his breath fanning against my sensitive flesh.
Sweat mists over me as a blinding bliss overpowers my senses, leaving me sobbing my husband’s name. But even as I begin to shake with orgasm, there’s an aching emptiness. He senses my need, grips my hips and pushes inside, stretching me and filling me all the way. I gasp at the rightness of it, the sheer intimacy of the union.
His forehead rests on mine.
“Hello, Mrs. Lasker,” he whispers.
“Hello, Mr. Lasker.” I lay a loving hand on his cheek. “Welcome home.”
A stunning smile breaks over his gorgeous face. And we rock each other into a blissful oblivion.
Chapter Forty-Six
Noah
–six years later
I make it home just in time for Mother’s Day. I told Mom if I missed it because of a logistical fuckup, I’d never shoot the cheetahs again, and voilà! Magically I got a flight back home out of a shithole where I had to wait in position to kill some authoritarian thug who’d been wanting to blow up one of our embassies.
I slip silently inside the house. Bobbi’s probably still sleeping. Victor’s been invaluable, and he’s now the manager at Bobbi’s Sweet Things, giving my wife a more flexible schedule while she juggles four kids.
I grab a quick shower in the bathroom on the other side of the house so I don’t disturb her, then quietly round up our three oldest. The youngest is only eighteen months old, so she won’t be able to help.
“Okay, boys, we’re going to treat your mom to a fabulous Mother’s Day breakfast,” I say as we arrive in the giant kitchen.
“Oooh, can I toast the bagel?” says Aiden. He has his mother’s bright eyes and smile. Steve and Ryan—the oldest and second-youngest, respectively—have my eyes and jaw, but Bobbi’s mouth. It’s amazing how I can see her in them. And that makes me love them even more each day.
“Yeah.” I help Aiden cut the bagel, while Steve gets water for the coffee, and Ryan gets the cream cheese. I scoop out the premium beans, grind them and start the coffeemaker. No breakfast is complete without fresh java.
Señor Mittens watches us, looking bored from his favorite spot right underneath the Marilyn Monroe picture. He’s gotten quite plump from all the cream and caviar and tuna and steak, although we’ve cut back on treats due to the vet’s concern that he might have a heart attack or develop gout. He resents his vet and probably wisheshewould get gout, but the man is rail thin and fit from his daily runs.
The kitchen starts to smell like coffee and toasted carbs. I pull out a tray, and Ryan spreads cream cheese on the bagel before placing it on a plate. Aiden pours some fresh mixed berries into a small glass bowl. We assemble everything on a tray, and Steve picks it up since he’s the oldest and most likely to carry out the task without an incident. I carry our little princess Evelyn so she can join in the celebration, even though she’s busy sleeping at the moment.
By the time we reach the bedroom, Bobbi’s lazing around in bed. She knows the Mother’s Day breakfast comes at nine thirty every year. When Steve was too little I did it myself, and then after that I did it with our children to show her how much we all love her.
