Her pause is so brief I might’ve imagined it. “I don’t care if you don’t care.”
That’s all the permission I need. With my thighs pressing against the backs of hers, I nudge her upper body forward until she’s resting her forearms along the cap of the railing. I lean back only long enough to jerk her panties down over the curve of her perfectly rounded cheeks. I take out my cock and rub it through her slick folds before I drag up between those cheeks to coat the crease with her own juices. I dip back down and ease into her slowly, inch by inch, until my shaft is buried all the way to the balls in the silky fist of her body. I close my eyes and revel in the feel of being so deep inside her. I open them again to watch as I pull out. “Ah hell,” I groan when the light hits the wet sheen on my cock.
That’s when my intentions of giving her an easy morning ride leap off the balcony and fly away with the exotic birds.
“Remind me to thank Rogan for this trip,” she murmurs between quiet, breathy moans.
That’s the last time either of us speaks until I carry her limp body inside a few bone-melting minutes later. But as I lie beside her, stretched out behind her as she sleeps, the guilt returns tenfold. What the hell am I doing to this incredible woman? And will she hate me when she finds out?
TWENTY-THREE
Weatherly
Some part of me is very nervous on our return to Chiara. The way we were during the time we spent here, and even when we left two weeks ago for our honeymoon, was quite different than the way we are now. We are married. Husband and wife. Looking out at an eternity together. An eternity of normal life. What worries me is the fear that Tag might find that “normal” is actually “boring.”
One of the part-time Chiara workers, Sam Wyman, drops us off at the bottom of the front steps. He was kind enough to pick us up from the airport and bring us home.
“You two go get settled. I’ll get your bags.”
“Are you sure, Sam?” Tag asks.
He nods, his smile genuine. “I’m sure. Go on, now.”
Tag startles a squeak out of me when he sweeps me up into his arms and carries me up the steps. “What are you doing?” I ask.
“Carrying you over the threshold.”
“I’m pretty sure the steps aren’t part of the threshold.”
“I’m hedging my bets,” he responds, bending to push open the heavy front door. “Besides, I like any excuse to have you in my arms.”
He carries me through the door then kicks it shut behind us and stands, holding me, in the foyer. “Welcome home, Mrs. Barton.”
His eyes flash with a happy affection that warms me all the way to my toes. My heart soars with hope and optimism. Maybe this can work. Maybe this can really, really work.
“Why thank you, Mr. Barton, my handsome husband,” I reply, batting my eyelashes at him.
His smile slowly fades to a gentle curve of his lips. “Say it again,” he requests quietly.
“Mr. Barton, my handsome husband,” I repeat obediently.
“Says my beautiful wife,” he whispers, pressing his lips to mine in a sweetly chaste kiss that shoots all the way into my soul.
“Let me look at you two,” comes Stella’s voice from the dining room doorway. She must’ve been waiting for us.
Tag turns toward her and starts to set me on my feet, but she stops him, bringing her praying hands to her mouth. I can plainly see the tears in her eyes. “Don’t put her down yet. I want to remember this.”
He doesn’t move a muscle, just stands still for his mother. She stares at us, trying to control her tears, for at least two minutes. Content to remain in Tag’s arms forever if need be, I let my head rest on his shoulder. In a featherlight touch, he brushes his lips over my hair. The gesture is intimate and familiar and achingly tender. And it brings a smile to my mouth that I wouldn’t even begin to know how to fight. The pleasure comes from somewhere deep inside me, a place where all the hopes I’ve carried since I was a little girl have lived quietly dormant all these years. Once I was old enough to see what my family expected of me, all my wistful dreams shriveled up and slept.
“You’re happy, aren’t you?” she asks softly, her eyes silently pleading.
“I am,” Tag replies, his words rumbling through his chest and into my ear.
She closes her eyes in relief, and when she opens them again, they are fixed on me. “You, too?”
I don’t hold back. I raise my head and I let my happiness shine from my face. “Very much so.”
At that, she rushes toward us as much as her ailing body will allow and pulls on Tag’s arm until he bends enough that we are both within kissing distance. She presses her lips to both of my cheeks then to both of Tag’s, her powdery lilac scent enveloping us in a cocoon of maternal love.
“Be good to each other, babies,” she warns mildly, just before my phone rings from my pocket to interrupt.