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“Faster!”
“Fucking hell, Rose, what’s the rush?”
“My cake,” she pants. “Needs to come out of the oven.”
The fuck? I stop moving, staring down at her in horror.
“What?” she wheezes.
“You baked a cake?”
“Yes, I baked a cake.”
“An edible cake?”
She gasps and smacks my arm, and I laugh, pulling out of her and getting her off the bed. “What are you doing?” she snaps. “Danny, it’ll burn if?—”
I spin her and get her against the wall, front forward, crowding her, taking her hair. Fucking cakes, parties, having sex by the clock. “I think we need a little reminder of who we are, Mrs. Black,” I hiss, reaching to between her legs and stroking through her arousal. She tenses, looking over her shoulder, her dark blue eyes darker.
“Make it bloody,” she whispers, and I grin, slamming into her on a grunt, fucking her hard and fast against the wall like the very first time we came together. It’s loud, it’s hot, it’s chaotic, and when we both come, it’s with force, both of us collapsing to the carpet, breathless, wet, and fucking knackered. I pant, dropping my head to see her splayed on the floor next to me, her salon-fresh hair a beautiful mess. Still deadly gorgeous. “I fucking hate you.”
She finds some life and sits on my stomach, dipping and kissing my scar, my lids, my nose. I sigh and sink into the hard floor, happy to let her kiss me back to life. “I think I ruined your hair, baby,” I wheeze, panting up at the ceiling.
“Never mind,” she says, easygoing, moving down to the bullet wound on my pec. “I love you.”
“I love you too.” She gets up and saunters off to the bathroom, my tired eyes nailed to her arse. She stops. Looks back. “And I’m pregnant.” She disappears quickly into the bathroom, slamming the door.
What?
I stare at the wood for an age, frowning. “Rose, baby,” I eventually call, not moving.
“Yeah?”
“I think I heard you just say you’re pregnant again.”
“You did.”
“Oh.” I rest my head back on the floor. “My fucking God,” I whisper, slapping a hand over my face. “When?” I call. Love how she drops that bomb and takes cover.
“You remember that day we went for a romantic beach picnic?” she yells through the door. “When your mom and Otto watched Maggie after they got back from their honeymoon?”
“Yeah.”
“Then.”
“Oh.”
The door opens and she peeks out at me still lying flat on my back on the floor. “Are you mad?”
“Furious,” I say dryly. Fuck me, please give me another boy! “Wait.” I sit up, resting back on my elbows. “Mum and Otto got back over two months ago.”
“I know.”
“How long have you known?”
She shrugs.
“Rose, how long?”
