I rest my head back, keeping my unparalleled view, and let his expert ways wipe us clean along with the water. The strain on his face becomes more apparent after each advance, the pressure against my internal walls from his increasingly swollen length becoming firmer. His parted lips and his drowsy eyes are a glorious picture of my husband pre-climax.
I clamp my arms around his neck, hauling him in, and I kiss him with a passion that’s natural, taking us both to the edge.
“Rose,” he whispers jaggedly, jerking, coming, and I come with him, tensing every limb around his solid physique.
I strain to drag out the pleasure, every nerve in my body sizzling, pulsing, screaming. “Oh God,” I whisper into his mouth, stiff in his arms, trying to contain the intensity. Every convulsion of his cock seems to trigger another spasm in me, making me twitch and tense, fighting to deal with the sensitivity.
Nipping my tongue, he relaxes into me, burying his face in my wet neck. “I could binge on you forever and never feel full,” he says on labored breaths, and I smile into his shoulder, having a nibble of his flesh. I said that once, I’m sure of it. And I still feel the same. “Come, let me clean you.”
I wince at the pull in my legs as I release them from around his waist, finding my feet, and stand quietly while he washes me down with the utmost care. Like I’m fragile. “You said you wanted to agree on some things,” I say.
His movements falter, the washcloth pausing on my shoulder for a few seconds. “Right.”
“I think that’s a good idea.”
“What do you want, Rose?”
“I want you to wear a vest when you leave the house.”
“I’m assuming you don’t mean a waistcoat.”
“No, I don’t mean a waistcoat.” British lingo fucks with my mind sometimes. I turn so he can see how serious I am. “A bulletproof vest. I want you to wear one. So whoever you’re sourcing your arsenal from, I want you to call them up and add it to your shopping list.”
His smile is unsure as he leisurely soaps his torso down. If he even thinks about coming at me with some spiel about it being unnecessary, I might scream. “A bulletproof vest?”
“Yes,” I reply. “The best on the market, please.”
“Fine.”
I hide my recoil. It’s hard when I’m shell-shocked.
“Now onto some other things.” He takes a towel and wraps me before seeing to himself.
Shit. Whatever he’s going to demand, I can hardly say no now. “What things?”
“Our wedding.” He drapes the towel over his shoulders and starts pulling from side to side, drying himself.
Oh? “What about it?”
“Well, since I’m a crucial guest, it would be nice to know when I should be there.”
“Three weeks,” I say casually as I saunter away butt naked, smiling as I go.
“Confirmed.”
“No, but it will be. What are my boundaries?”
“No guests past our friends. Father McMahon will do the service, so we’d better check three weeks suits him. No wedding planner, no announcement in the local newspaper, and no moaning about it from you.”
I stop in my tracks, my nose wrinkling. “This is going to be the most boring wedding ev . . . oh!” I’m hauled back and thrust up against the wall by his naked, hard, gorgeous, lickable, wet body. I blink, disorientated, gaining my focus. He looks mad. But he isn’t. I push my face forward and lick a long line up his scar to his eye. “Can’t wait,” I whisper.
“You kill me.” And he kisses me ferociously, grabbing at my breasts, pushing me higher up the wall. I yank and tug at his hair, urging him on, at the same time praying that I’m the only person in this world who can kill him. I become more frenzied at the thought. “I have to go,” he mumbles around our manic kiss. “And whatever you’re thinking right now, stop thinking it.” He tears himself away, his labored breaths bursting in my face. He’s got me, and I look away guiltily. Not for long, though, because he forces me back. “Understand?” he affirms with grit.
I nod as best I can with his long fingers gripping my face, and he kisses me, this time softly.
“Don’t go,” I beg, hating the need in my tone. I don’t want to become clingy. I don’t want to be that woman. And yet my hand still reaches for his softening cock, manipulation taking over.
“I’ll be back later.” His voice is strained as he knocks my feeling hand away and locates his jeans.
“Where are you going?”
“I don’t discuss business with my wife.” His lip quirks as he pulls them up his legs, and I scowl. “Anyway, you’re busy yourself.”
“Doing what?”
“Organizing our wedding.”
Oh, yes. That.
After pulling a black T-shirt over his head, he strokes through his wet hair, and I all but dribble at the sight of my man looking casual. I smile to myself. He’s not dressed to kill, so to speak.
He goes to the bathroom and appears a few seconds later with the trash can full of glass. “I’ll put a call in to Father McMahon.”
“I’ll do it.” I wander to the dressing table and sit down. “You’re busy killing half of Miami.”
A small, inappropriate, dark laugh, and the sound of the door closing. I stare into the mirror at my flushed cheeks. “And so my sentence begins,” I whisper, studying myself as I think. And think. He never mentioned that I couldn’t, so I’m going to assume that I can. I go to the bed, get comfortable, and call my boy.
“Mom?” he says in answer, sounding surprised. And then he quickly corrects himself, and I know it’s because he must be around Hilary. “I mean Rose.”
God love him. The mom thing has happened naturally over the past three years of visits to St. Lucia, and I never once questioned it because Hilary was never around to have her feelings hurt. But the fact of the matter is, I am his mom. I deserve that title.
“Hey, kid,” I quip, smiling at the ceiling, hearing scuffling and bangs in the background. “You okay?”
“No, my hamster escaped.”
Oh? A rodent on the loose? I shudder. “How?”
“I don’t know. I’m always careful to lock the door of his cage.” More bangs. “I’m checking the kitchen cupboards. He likes cereal.”
“Nice.” I grimace. “You settled back into school?”
“Yeah, it’s good.”
“I can’t believe you’re in eighth grade.” He’s growing up too fast, the years rolling, and that sucks even more because I feel like he’s only been in my life for a second.
Daniel bypasses it all. “When can I come visit again?” he asks, and I smile. Historically, I’ve only seen him every couple of months, but each year the visits are becoming more frequent, his eagerness to spend as much time as he can with us in St. Lucia the best kind of reward for his absence from my life for so many years. My fear that he would reject me was very real. I never dared hope that he would actually embrace me.
My smile quickly falls when I remember where I am. “You only just got home a couple weeks ago.” I take no pleasure from how this must make Hilary and Derek feel. None at all. But for me? It’s life.