1
Smith
The path to hell was paved with remodeling dust. I stepped over a precariously abandoned wood saw and made my way past two men arguing over grout for the backsplash. If I wasn’t careful I would be drawn into the sodding debate. I’d had enough arguing in my ten years as a lawyer to know that some battles aren't worth fighting, particularly when it came to tiles. I only had one thing on my mind—one person, actually—and I didn’t care to speak to anyone before I saw her. It never sat well to leave my wife, Belle, alone with an entire construction crew for the day. First, she had a tendency to add more work to the project, which was already well-past due, but, mostly, because I coveted her. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust her. It was that I wanted her all to myself. The last few days I’d had to share her with ten crew members, a foreman, and the rest of the household staff. Gone were the honeymoon days of fucking her two steps into the entryway of our London townhouse. I knew that when I pushed to move to the country. I just hadn’t expected that finding her in all the chaos would be as daunting as finding a moment alone.
For five months, we’d sought the perfect estate to call home, butting heads at every turn. Our wishlist had turned out to be a collection of opposite needs and wants. She wanted a homey feel. I wanted a modern kitchen. She insisted on a swimming pool. I hated them. She wanted to be within an hour’s drive of London or less. I wanted to take her as far from that city as possible. I’d never voiced that particular desire out of a well-honed sense of self-preservation. I had no doubt Belle suspected that I wanted her away from not only the city’s chaos but also her circle of friends. I loved them like an extended family almost as much as she did, but being best friends with the monarchy meant having a target on our backs. It was time for a new chapter. We’d agreed on that much if we argued about everything else.
The only option, in the end, had been to buy something that checked as many boxes as possible and rip apart what didn’t work. Thornham Park had been built in the late sixteenth century, updated every few decades to include the latest conveniences like plumbing and electricity as well as the passing whims of its various owners. Its location in Sussex might not have been far enough from London for my liking, but it had everything else she wanted, meaning it would fulfill the only item I saw as non-negotiable: moving out of London.
As it turned out, five months of fighting with a hormonal, pregnant woman paled in comparison to dealing with contractors. I began to suspect this was part of her plan the whole time. As long as half the house was in ruins, we kept finding ourselves back at our home in Holland Park.
A quick search of the grounds yielded no results. I wouldn’t have blamed Belle for trying to get away from the house, given the persistent cacophony of drills, hammers, and saws billowing from the kitchen. The remodel was nearly complete, but it would be months before we’d finished updating the entire estate. Our focus had been on the most important elements of our home: our bedroom and bath, the kitchen and living areas, and, of course, the nursery. We’d been coming back and forth the last few weeks. Belle had been taking her goddaughter, Elizabeth, a couple days a week to help her best friend out, and I’d been wrapping up the last of our affairs in London. With the baby due any day, I’d finally convinced her to move the bulk of her belongings here. Now, I just had to convince her to stay put more than an evening at a time.
Twenty minutes later, I had no choice but to check my least favorite amenity of our new home: the pool. It has felt like a cosmic joke to finally find the perfect country house within a short drive to London—Belle’s demand—but with the security features I’d insisted upon, only to discover it came with a sodding pool in its basement. The coincidence left a bad taste in my mouth. My family’s home in Kensington, the house I’d grown up in after leaving Scotland when my father took a job in England, had also had a pool in its basement. My memories of that pool were colored by the memory of finding his body in it. I’d been pleased to get rid of the old albatross and move to Holland Park with her after we married. I’d never expected that I’d finally find the ideal estate and it would have the same feature. Even without the grim memories of my childhood home, I didn’t particularly love the idea, especially with a baby on the way, but I couldn’t deny the estate was otherwise a perfect match.
Stepping into the muggy lower level, I spotted her. She was doing a lap. The water rippled around her, her shapely ass cresting over its surface to put on a private show for me. And it was a show, because Belle wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing. I had a house full of contractors and their crews, and she was down here skinny-dipping. I felt a familiar swell of blood in my groin. No matter how many times I saw her, how many times I fucked her, how many times I made love to her, it was always the same. I only wanted more.
She reached the tiled wall at the far side of the pool and grabbed its edge. Beads of water snaked down her back as she shook her wet hair.
“Are you just going to keep watching me, pervert?” She called in a lofty voice, not bothering to turn around.
“I’m appreciating my prize possession.” I wouldn’t apologize for appreciating my wife. Not to her or anyone else. She was every fantasy I’d ever had, come to life.
Belle finally threw a simpering grin over her shoulder, as though she knew exactly what I was thinking, before turning to give me a full frontal view of all of her assets. Her breasts, once small and pert had rounded into globes with dark nipples that begged to be in my mouth. I reached down to adjust my dick, allowing my gaze to wander below the water’s surface to the curve of her stomach where our child grew. She’d always been as lovely as her name implied, but now she was the most fucking beautiful woman on the planet.
“If looks could knock a girl up,” she teased, before adding, “Oh wait.”
Her hand reached to stroke her bump, and she winked at me.
“Come here.” I curled my index finger, beckoning her closer. “There’s something I want to show you.”
“I think I can see it from here,” she said dryly, but her teeth sank into her lower lip.
I glanced down at my trousers with a grin. “What a dirty mind you have, Mrs. Price.”
“What a giant cock you have, Mr. Price,” she purred.
“How can you tell from over there?” I reached for the towel she’d left on the chaise lounge and held it up. “Don’t make me ask twice, beautiful.”
Even from a distance I saw the tremble of anticipation roll through her. A familiar plan played across her face. I’d asked her to join me. She’d resisted. I’d warned her. We both knew what came next.
Belle didn’t budge.
“Beautiful,” I growled.
She enjoyed pressing my buttons almost as much as she enjoyed being reprimanded. It was our own brand of foreplay.
“I really should get out,” she said with a sigh. “I think we have more interviews this afternoon.”
I frowned at the reminder. I remained unconvinced that a nanny would be necessary. We’d gone back and forth on the issue. Trusting someone that close to our child didn’t sit well with me. But neither of us could commit to being full-time caregivers. Belle planned to expand Bless, her couture wardrobe rental start-up, into a separate clothing subscription for babies. Her business partner had recently flaked on her to babysit our most recent headache, the bastard brother of King Alexander. I planned to set up a law office in the village, which would look perfectly respectable and give me an excuse to avoid future investigations on behalf of the crown. It was time for us to focus on ourselves and our family, and we were going to have our hands full. But I’d seen too much in the past few years—in a lifetime really—to believe it could be that simple.