Page 26 of Hers By Summer’s End

“Look what you’ve done to me,” he rasped, nearly choking when she eyed his prick and licked her lips hungrily. He angled his body, giving her the best view of his length. He jerked his cock in hard, fast strokes, and then he was coming, his seed spilling over his hand in hot spurts onto the path. He dropped onto the table with a long and satisfied groan.

He gestured, and she moved into his arms with loose limbs and contented sighs. A sheen of perspiration dotted her brow. He wiped it carefully with the cuff of his shirt, then tucked a stray curl behind her ear. At last, he lay still beside her, content to watch the clouds drift overhead. He drifted in his thoughts, lulled by Cecelia’s breath and the soft patter of an afternoon drizzle against the glass panes.

“This might be a silly question,” she murmured a while later, tilting her head back to meet his gaze. Her palm settled over his chest, right above his heart. He wondered if she felt how it sped up at her touch. “But everything you said today…everything we did today…” Her fingers curled slightly into him. “Did you mean it?”

A laugh burst out of him before he could stop it. He hauled her tighter against him until she let out an offended squeak. "Yes, you daft woman," he said, chuckling into her mussed curls. “Every blasted word.

“Daft petal,” she corrected, her voice muffled by his shirt. He loosened his hold just enough for her to peek up at him, looking unbearably pleased with herself. “I’m your petal.”

“You are,” he assured her, pressing a kiss to her brow.

She slipped a hand free and combed her fingers through the damp hair at his forehead, smoothing it back with such impossible tenderness that his throat tightened.

“And it appears,” she said, her voice a curious mixture of solemnity and playfulness, “that my hypothesis was correct.”

“Oh?”

She leaned in until their foreheads touched.

“You, Drew Sutton, are mine.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

August 23, 1909.

Dearest Petal,

Couldn’t resist sending you a boxful of your namesake. Hope you enjoy them. I plan to put a few underneath my pillow tonight so my dreams will be of you. You could do the same, if you’d like.

Affectionately yours,

Drew (still waiting on a pet name).

August 23, 1909.

Dearest Drew,

The petals are exquisite, truly a perfect expression of apricot-yellow tinged with gold. I would have commented on them in your garden, but for some reason, I was quite distracted. I’ll put them by my bed tonight, but I’d much rather stroke them against my skin while I find completion. Would that be all right with you?

I also must confess I’m having a devil of a time coming up with your much-demanded pet name. I’ve even resorted to treating you like an enticing male specimen, with the hopes that inspiration will strike. See what you think:

Andrew Sutton, species: Amator Pertinax. Habitat: the greenhouse. Known traits: excessive confidence, unreasonable kindness, and an alarming tendency to make my knees knock.

So far, I’m torn between Brawny Bloom and Tenacious Tulip. Hmm, they’re both brilliant!

Affectionately yours,

Petal.

P.S. I’m only teasing, sweetheart.

August 25, 1909.

Dearest Petal,

I’ll take your teasing, and whatever else you’ll give me.

On a more serious note, Granddad says you and your mother are to come with us to the fairgrounds for Octogenarian Day. He’s set on winning the prize for Most Sprightly, and he’s convinced the both of you are his lucky charm. I don’t know about that, but I do know the whole day will be better if you’re there. Come with us?