Page 11 of A Dance with His Angel

“Yes,” he squeaks, squeezing his eyes shut.

So, I was right. “You were so into giving me pleasure that you found your own.” It’s not a question.

“Yes,” he says, dropping his chin.

I lift it with two fingers. “Thank you, Lord Martin.” I press a kiss to his lips with a little thrill, tasting myself on him.

His eyes fly open. “For what?”

I bite my lip shyly. “You’ll see.” Lowering myself to kneel before him, I unfasten and drag his jeans and wet boxer briefs down his strong thighs.

“Oh, mercy,” he groans loudly when I lick the tip of his soft cock, taking it into my mouth to clean him.

It’s not easy, since he’s still impressively large, even while flaccid. It’s even more difficult when he starts to swell in my mouth, his fingers combing through my hair, gently fisting it at the roots. I suck his crown, hollowing my cheeks, and moan around his girth. I don’t rush his pleasure, either, taking my time. I grip the base of his thick shaft and work my right hand up and down his length, while giving most of my attention to his flared tip.

“Angel,” Martin moans when I flick my eyes up, holding his unwavering stare. My jaw aches fiercely, but I don’t stop working him over, wanting to taste more of him.

Martin sucks in a deep breath, his abs flexing beneath my left hand as I rub it up and down his defined muscles. I tighten my grip on his shaft, feeling his veins thicken and pulse along my tongue.

“My beautiful angel. Marry me,” he groans just as the first spurt of his release fills my mouth and slides down my throat. Rolling up on the toes of his Converse, he proposes again and again with each rope of cum that I eagerly swallow. As soon as he’s spent, he pulls out of my mouth and drops heavily to his knees with a thud. He gathers me close and slides his tongue between my lips, worshiping my mouth until he has to jerk his head back to breathe. “Marry?—”

The baby monitor that I keep plugged in on the side table nearby flashes green, Ivy beginning to stir in her crib withher first little cry. Instead of getting upset or annoyed by the interruption, Martin smiles and skates a palm down my hair, giving me one more loving, but brief, kiss on the lips. He helps me rise to my feet and draws my sleeves back onto my shoulders, while Ivy’s cries become more insistent.

Insecurity begins to curdle in the pit of my stomach when Martin pulls up his jeans, leaving the zipper open, and finds his T-shirt to shrug it on. Now that he’s had his pleasure, will his interest in me begin to wane? Surely the answer is no, but I’ve been wrong before.

“Will I see you again tomorrow?” I ask.

Martin’s brows dip, his head tilted adorably with confusion. “Not a day will go by with us parted, my lady,” he says tenderly, then takes my hand, steps around me, and pulls me along into the hallway bathroom. He opens the interior linen closet, fetches two terry cloth hand towels, and wets them with soap and warm water before handing one to me.

He’s not at all self-conscious as he cleans himself, and surprisingly, neither am I. We discard our towels in the hamper, and I bury his underwear at the bottom of the bathroom trash bin in the hopes my mom won’t find it. He takes my hand once more, kisses the back of it, then turns left toward the living room. “I’ll blow out the candles and tidy up while you tend to Ivy.”

Outside my bedroom door, I grip the knob and ask, “You’re not leaving?”

“Not unless you want me to.” Vulnerability layers atop his voice when he asks, “Do you? Want me to leave, that is? Your mom…”

“I don’t want you to leave,” I tell him truthfully. Never.

“Then I won’t.”

Twenty minutes later, I sigh, since Ivy hasn’t settled back to sleep after I’ve changed and fed her. I pad into the living roomin one of my regular, full-coverage nightgowns, half expecting Martin to have fallen asleep on the couch. But no, he pulled one of my mom’s thrillers from the bookshelf and now sits at the kitchen peninsula, reading by the light affixed to the underside of the upper cabinet. He looks up as soon as he glimpses me from the corner of his eye.

“She’s wide awake,” I say by way of apology, our one on one time together having come to an end.

Martin stands and cups the back of Ivy’s head, cooing to her, “I get it. I wouldn’t want to sleep and miss a moment with your mom either.” He gently kisses her crown, then ushers me into the living room. Taking a seat on the couch, he grabs the TV remote and grins. “Want to watch another episode?”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Ok,” I say, warmth blooming in my chest.

I blush when Martin arranges one of Mom’s crocheted afghans across our laps and rests his left arm over my shoulders. With my feet tucked beneath me, I settle into Martin’s side, dropping my head on his shoulder. Sitting with him and Ivy, doing something as normal as watching TV while we wait for Ivy to fall back asleep, is as magical as when Martin was on his knees for me.

It feels like home. Not this house, but him. Us. Martin, Ivy, and me.

“Yes,” I say when the episode is over, bleary-eyed with exhaustion but happy all the same, after Martin thoughtfully cooked a midnight meal for me when my stomach rumbled not ten minutes after we sat down.

“Yes?” he asks, his brows pinched.