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“I’d find a way back in. And you’d let me.”
That, she probably would. This man, her husband, made her do and think things she never would have imagined a year ago.
He looked up at her, serious. “But tell me what you’re thinking. Is this the one?”
He moved to sit next to her on the stone bench, wrapping an arm around her back and tugging her against him.
Her gaze went down to the rectangular pond in front of them. Her forefinger lifted, pointing. “I can see sailboat races here on the pond with all the little cousins laughing and screaming and clapping and running alongside it.” Her hand lifted and she swept it forward. “And I can see the young whelps hanging from those trees over there. I can see races at the base of the hill over there. And I can hear the laughter already.”
His gaze moved from her to the main house at their right, the strong Palladian lines of the cream-colored structure a beacon in the greenery surrounding them. “And I can see one very distinct wing that is ours and ours alone. And another wing, far away, that will house all the rest of your family at once.”
She smiled, leaning into him, her hand onto his chest. “You know they will bleed over into our side. Especially the children.”
“Let a man have his dreams, silver bell.”
She laughed, leaning awkwardly over her belly to press her lips onto his. How she loved this man. “Your dreams are my dreams, but reality is real and not always conforming to dreams.”
“I am aware.” He grabbed the back of her head, holding her in the kiss until she was woozy for too little air reaching her lungs. He released her, a wanton grin on his face. “I also have plans for you out here. Today. Now.” His hand reached down to trail up her leg, his fingers tracing tiny circles higher and higher up along her thigh. “Ones that include me slipping under these skirts.”
She grinned. “Iwaswoozy and should maybe lie down.”
“And grab a hold of the edges of the bench for stability.” His fingers moved farther under her skirts, dipping into her folds.
It drew a guttural moan from her. How many times a day could she make him service her? What should rightly be enough for any sane woman, even three or four times a day seemed like never enough.
Fortunately for her, her husband had the patience of a saint and the fire of the devil in him. Both of which suited her very well. For in carrying this babe, all she knew was that in the last few weeks, even four or five times a day was never enough.
His hand paused, his gaze intense on her. “But first, the estate. Is it the one?”
She had to draw a steadying breath before she looked up at the main building, a smile at her lips.
Far enough away from Seahorn and Wolfbridge and Vinehill and London, but in the middle, a center point to them all. It was, in all practicality, perfect. It was also, in her heart, all she could ever want, and much, much more.
She nodded. “It is the one.”
“Then it is yours.”
Her gaze shifted back to him and she settled a hand along his cheek, her thumb rubbing along the rough of the slight stubble that was always present on him. “Ours. It is ours.”
He turned his head, kissing her palm. “Ours.”
~
