Elle
elle
. . .
I wake to heat.
Not the sun. Not yet. The sky outside the wide-open shutters is still that gentle shade between night and morning where lavender shadows stretch across the horizon, the sea holding its breath until the sun brighten all around. But the heat is real. It’s wrapped around me like a blanket and pressed behind me like a promise.
Ben.
My husband.
The father of my children.
The love of my life that I almost lost because I was selfish and too afraid to love him.
His chest is against my back, his hand low and wide over my belly, as if he needs to hold his boys. I can feel each breath he takes, slow and deep. I can feel his mouth at my neck, kissing the space just below my ear. He’s awake. His hand slides down, inch by inch, until his fingers graze the inside of my thigh.
My pulse skips.
I don’t speak. I just breathe. One long inhale as he slides even lower, his fingers finding me, testing how ready I already am. And God, I am. My entire body hums with memory and need. With desire and eagerness. I shift my hips back into him, my eyes close, and I hear him groan softly behind me.
“You’re already wet,” he murmurs, his voice thick and sleepy.
“I dreamed of you,” I whisper, pressing my cheek into the soft pillow. Him with our boys, laughing in fields of wheat, on the beach, in our home with the sun beaming through the window. In my heart, I know they’ll look like him. They’ll be strong, and mighty, and love fiercely like their father.
I never thought I’d be a mother. But in months I’m going to be a boy mom. The thought scares the shit out of me, but I’m ready. I’m ready to be the wife, lover, and partner to Ben, and the perfect mother to our boys.
He kisses the curve of my shoulder, then again at the nape of my neck, his fingers still stroking between my thighs with unhurried devotion. “Tell me what you like.”
I smile, eyes still closed. “You touching me like this.” I adjust slightly, giving him a better angle. “Slow. Like you don’t want to rush through anything.”
“I never want to rush with you,” he says, kissing behind my ear now, his lips moving lower, across my jaw. “I want to taste every sound you make.”
His hand leaves me, and for a second, I whimper at the loss, but only until he nudges my thighs to part farther and slides inside me from behind in one, long, perfect stroke.
I gasp. My whole-body clenches around him.
“Oh,” I breathe, reaching back to grip his hip, to anchor myself. Over the last month and ever since the boys started to grow, sex has taken on a whole new sensation for me. Ben has been a magician, breaking me and putting me back together, only to push me toward the edge again. He’s always there to catch me, to keep me from falling.
Ben doesn’t move, not at first. He just stays there, fully inside me, both of us frozen in the stretch and the ache and the intimacy of it all.
I feel full.
Claimed.
Worshipped.
His hand slides back to my belly, resting there with tenderness that cracks something open in my chest.
“You feel different,” he whispers.
“I am,” I whisper back.
“Even more perfect.”
He moves then. Slow, deep thrusts that rock my body forward into the mattress and back into him again. His pace is measured, intense, like he’s savoring every second. One of his hands wraps around to find my breast, heavy and sensitive, and he groans as he palms it.
“You drive me crazy,” he says. “Your sounds, your scent, the way your body grips me. I could lose my mind inside you.”
I moan softly, arching my back, giving him better access. The air is warm and thick with sweat and salt and us. His hips snap harder, and the angle changes, brushing that spot inside me that makes stars explode behind my eyes.
“Right there, Ben. Oh, God.”
“I’ve got you, baby,” he murmurs, one hand holding my hip now, the other caressing my breast as he thrusts harder, deeper. “Let go. Let me feel you.”
I cry out when it happens, my orgasm stealing my breath, my body shaking as he continues to move, riding it out. He follows seconds later, groaning into the back of my neck as he thrusts inside me, his hand still protectively cupping the round of my stomach.
When we sag, still tangled, I feel utterly claimed. Completely loved. And totally his.
We stay that way for a long time, his body wrapped around mine, his mouth occasionally brushing against my spine.
Eventually, I turn in his arms, wanting to see him. My heart clenches. His eyes are already on me, soft and golden in the dawn light.
“You okay?” he asks, brushing sweat-soaked hair from my cheek.
I nod, pressing a kiss to his chest. “More than okay.”
Ben smiles, that lazy, post-orgasm grin that always makes my stomach flutter. “You’re glowing.”
“Because you just made me come so hard, I forgot my name.”
He laughs, head tipping back. “God, I love you.”
I grin and slide a leg over his hips, straddling him slowly. “Good. Because I’m not done with you yet.”
His breath catches. “Oh?”
“I want to ride you while the sun comes up,” I whisper, brushing my lips against his. “I want to watch your face when I come again. I want you deep. Slow. And I want to make a memory that makes my legs shake whenever I think about Fiji.”
Ben’s hands grip my hips. “Jesus, Elle.”
“No,” I murmur, lowering onto him with a breathy moan, “just your wife.”
And as the sun rises—golden and slow, flooding our room with light—I ride him with everything I have, making him fall in love with me all over again.