SHELLY
‘Put your arse away, will you, Marcus!’ My left hand swats at him through the heavy humidity, while my right grasps my rose gold iPhone at a perilous angle from where I perch at the edge of our Portuguese pool, trying to capture an Instagram-worthy shot of the shimmering turquoise water. Not as easy as it may look. The angle has to be precise, the lighting natural and bright, and the clarity exceptional, if it’s going to be worthy of a spot on my grid. It’s a sad state of affairs when my successful Instagram account is my only achievement, bar being an exceptionally grateful wife and mother that is.
With three hundred thousand followers, who seem to enjoy seeing pictures of our home and lifestyle, connecting with strangers on social media offers a sense of purpose separate from the day-to-day WAG duties.
As former captain of the Irish rugby team, my husband has always been in the limelight, meaning I have too, by default. For the last ten years, more even, I’ve lived in his shadow. Happily, I might add. But Instagram is my way of carving something creative. It’s an expression of myself as a woman rather than simply a wife.
Marcus huffs and splashes warm glittering water in my direction, not strongly enough to actually wet me – he knows better – but enough to know the possibility is real.
‘Huh! Why don’t you get yours out, Mrs Williams, then at least we’ll be matching for “The Gram”.’ He yanks his pants down further, flashing more of his pert butt. Gazing over his shoulder, his huge hazel eyes roll into his head. A rumbling snigger floats on the humid summer breeze.
‘You’d be happy for the world to see your wife’s arse? The mother of your children?’ I tease. After almost ten years of marriage, I categorically know the answer. A resounding no. ‘Give me thirty seconds, then I’ll hop in with you.’
‘You’ve got yourself a deal, so long as you remove that flimsy bikini top before you do.’ The corners of his eyes crinkle with mischief that’s been missing all too often lately. God loves a trier. In all honesty, so do I. I love that after all these years Marcus still eyes my body like it’s the most delicious thing his hungry eyes have ever feasted upon. I’m thirty-five and have birthed two babies. I’m no waif-like teenage model. Yet the attention he showers on it, you’d think it was page-three worthy. It’s definitely not. His, on the other hand, is poster pin-up worthy.
Marcus is a rough diamond. He has the Jason Statham thing going on, but Marcus is bigger, even more masculine. Not traditionally good-looking, his prominent features give him a hard edge, but there’s something delectably caveman-like about him. Perfect pecs rest above an exquisitely carved six-pack and the distinct V across his hips has me licking my lips. His powerful body promises protection, and his huge hazel eyes hold a love so intense that even years later he manages to flip my stomach.
‘The kids will be back in thirty minutes,’ I remind him. A nanny takes them every afternoon from one until four to give us some alone time while we’re on holiday. It’s a luxury we only indulge in while we’re away. In Dublin, I wouldn’t dream of having a nanny. Not when I’m able to be a stay-at-home mother. I don’t work, not anymore.
We live a completely and utterly privileged life, a fact I appreciate every single day, especially because it wasn’t always this way.
‘When did it ever take me thirty minutes to get you off? And as for myself, thirty seconds would do.’ A grin rips across his rogue-like face before he pokes his tongue out in a promising fashion.
The laughter that bursts from my chest causes my hand to wobble. His statement is one hundred per cent accurate. My pictures will likely be useless, but I can’t bring myself to care. The promise of al fresco holiday sex with my huge, hot husband is one I can’t turn down. It’s been few and far between lately.
Hastily snapping a few shots, no longer concerned with anything other than the longing stirring in the pit of my stomach, I discard the phone onto the fluffy towel stretched across one of four wicker sunloungers lining the top of the twenty-metre pool.
Glancing over a tanned shoulder, my eyes scan the back of the eight-bedroomed, red-brick Spanish-style holiday villa, Marcus’s wedding present to me. It’s a gift we can enjoy so much more together now he’sfinallyretired from the pitch.
We got burnt with property in the housing market crash in 2008, but thankfully we managed to hold on to this place. After a near miss, we both agreed never to buy bricks and mortar again. People say you never lose money on property, but it’s simply not the case. Two houses are more than enough for anyone. The risk associated is more than it’s worth.
Glancing around, I check for any sign of the staff. The couple who maintain this house for us, Ana and Rodrigo Santos, have caught us in compromising situations on multiple occasions. After a brief giggle, they’ve learnt to make themselves scarce. They reside on the property grounds year round, in an annexe at the front of the property, and they’re the best staff we could hope for – loyal and discreet. Ana is one of the best chefs we’ve ever had. Over the years they’ve come to be our friends as well as housekeepers.
‘Tick tock, Shelly baby.’ Marcus wiggles his dark eyebrows at me from across the pool. Hungry eyes stare at my chest like a lion waiting to pounce on its prey.
Twisting my arm behind my back, my fingers slowly tug at the string of my luminous bikini top. I love bright clothes almost as much as Marcus loves watching me remove them. His Adam’s apple bobs and his tongue traces his lips in anticipation. Despite the time constraints, I deliberately draw it out. Watching him watch me is one of the sexiest things I can think of. The bikini top loosens, hanging only by one thin remaining strap tied at the base of my neck. Beneath the water, his rising shorts display his impatience.
‘You’re going to be the death of me, woman.’ He takes three steps towards me, wading through waist-deep water.
‘You know, you often hear of people retiring, then just dropping dead,’ I tease, finally tugging the neon-yellow string. It drops to the floor and the moist humidity deliciously envelops my bare skin.
I slip into the water and three matching strides see us meet in the middle of the pool. His mouth captures mine with a familiar urgency, as though it’s been weeks rather than hours since the last time. Strong firm hands grip my bum, thumbs slipping beneath each side of my bikini bottoms as he lifts my weightless frame. I wrap my legs around his waist, forcing the most sensitive parts of me to rest across the most sensitive parts of him.
Hot lips push fiercely against mine. A mutual groan of appreciation passes into my mouth. His tongue drops to the exposed tingling skin of my neck, tracing lower until he finds my weak spot. Rolling his tongue across my flesh, teeth gently nipping in the way only he knows drives me crazy with lust.
Stalking towards the edge of the pool, he drapes my limp frame across the front of his tanned torso, effortlessly projecting me into a sitting position on the white marble border. Heated, hazel eyes bore heavily into mine with clear intention. Strong hands grip my knees, parting them. It will be him that’s the death of me at this rate. Gripping my backside again, he shimmies me to the very edge of the ledge he’s driving me over, in more than one sense of the word. In one swift motion he yanks my bikini bottoms to the side.
‘Marcus.’ It’s a plead and a pant rolled into one. Recognising the desperation in my tone, he doesn’t make me wait. With his face pressed firmly between my thighs, his tongue traces the length of me in the exact repetition that causes my quads to flex and tighten across his stubble, building into a climax which is only enhanced by the possibility of getting caught under the blazing Portuguese sun.
Within minutes a million tiny delicious stars obstruct the sun as a familiar pleasure ripples through my centre, and the cry that falls from my mouth is of raw, free-falling pleasure. One of the benefits of being together for so long is intuitively knowing exactly what the other craves.
The second Marcus lifts his head to display his victorious grin, I hop down from the throne he placed me on, fingers fighting the waistband of his bulging shorts. Once they’re low enough for me to take him, I turn to grip the same marble edge I just jumped from and rest against his hardness. His hands grip my breasts as my thighs part and he enters me from behind. Another mutual groan permeates the air and he increases the pace.
‘How did I get so lucky with you, Shell?’ he murmurs into my ear, his hot breath tickling my ear.
‘It’s me that got lucky,’ I remind him. He saved me, in more ways than one.
He drops a hand from my chest across my stomach, low enough to have me moan again. When he increases the pace, we shudder together, joined both physically and mentally in our euphoria. He twists my torso until I sink into the security of his powerful arms where his lips press against my head with a tenderness that doesn’t match his physical appearance. My husband is huge and loud, both of us can be a little brash, but underneath it all he is a giant teddy bear. This man would do anything for me, and our daughters. Speaking of which…
