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So yes, damnit, I was falling for him.
And even though we’d shared a lot in a short period of time, we were still very new…
But I didn’t mind in the slightest.
Twenty-Six
THE DREAM
That day the wind was more like a breeze.
The sun was out.
At long last, winter had passed.
The warmth thawed the bones.
It was spring.
I heard children’s laughter, and I turned my head from gazing at the moors.
He was there with them frolicking about him, on his back on the blanket, the detritus of our picnic littering the wool, our youngest gurgling and giggling as he tossed him in the air and caught him.
I saw this beauty before me, but my mind was on that morning. The vision of his dark head buried between my thighs, the love he made to me with his mouth, the rapture he gave me replete on his face in just watching the culmination of it, knowing it was him who gifted me with that, and I hadn’t yet given the same in return.
My breasts were heavy with the longing for more.
Five children, and my hunger for him wasn’t close to slaked.
I used to fear it.
It lived in me now, alongside my days, seen to in our languid nights, our indolent mornings.
He put our son down, rolled to his side and got up on an elbow, facing me, as if he felt my regard.
Our youngest scampered into the heather, but he lounged there, that long firm body, so full of energy always, now at rest, his gaze on me…heated.
Basking in it, I could feel the phantom touch of his fingers, his tongue, his shaft surging inside me.
And I could see the promise in his eyes of what was to come.
I knew, if our children weren’t there, if he hadn’t insisted, under the censorious eyes of the nannies and the tut-tutting of the staff that we were taking them out of the schoolrooms and onto the moors on this, our first warm day in what had seemed an interminable winter, he and I would still be here.
But both of us would be on that blanket.
No, I would be. He would be covering me, moving inside, gazing in my eyes, in as many ways as he could, telling me the vastness of his love for me.
I thought of that morning. Of the time after he pleasured me. Of turning him onto his back. Of pitching my leg over his hips. Of watching the carnality saturate his expression as I lowered myself on him and took him inside.
And I thought of that evening, when I would ask him to sit on the edge of the bed, and I’d kneel before him, worshipping with my mouth the long, thick shaft he used to pleasure me. Of taking it in my hand when I heard he was close and stroking it with my head tipped back in awe, in wonder, watching his handsome face as I coaxed the pearls of his love for me to jet onto my breasts, my neck.
He loved that.
He loved everything.
And I gave him everything.
There was no opening he hadn’t breached without my heartfelt invitation and welcoming of him inside. There was no fantasy he could whisper in my ear that I would refuse him.
