Chapter 32
I’ve watched her all day fall in and out of daydreams and thoughts. I’ve asked her questions, sometimes three times before I’ve gotten an answer. She loves it here, who wouldn’t? But bringing her here has spiked many more curiosities in her. Her mind’s spinning at a hundred miles an hour, I can see it. I’ve taken endless pictures of her, smiled as I’ve looked back through the album on my phone to the very beginning. The first picture of her walking away from my manor. Did I imagine back then that I would be here now? Not in a month of Sundays.
“Would you like something to eat?” I ask, knocking her out of one of her many daydreams.
“Are you going to cook for me?” she asks, taken aback.
I scarcely hold in my snort of amusement. Me? Cook? “I could’ve had staff, but I wanted you to myself.” I might earn myself a slap with what I’m about to say next, and my barely hidden cheeky grin is evidence. “I think you should look after your husband and fulfil your obligation as my wife.”
Her face. Another for my files. “When you married me,” she says, doing well to keep her tone even and calm, “you knew I hated cooking.”
Yes, maybe, but the difference is, she can cook. She just doesn’t like it. And if we’re having kids, she’s going to have to feed them. Good, healthy, nutritious food. “And when you married me, you knew I couldn’t cook.”
“But you have Cathy.”
“In England I have Cathy to feed me, which is a good job as my wife doesn’t.” I fight to keep my amusement at bay, reeling her in. “In Spain I have my wife, and she’s going to make me something to eat. You did a good job with the chicken.” It was lovely.
Her indignance is brief, and I’m more than surprised when she stands up. “Okay, I’ll fulfil my obligation.”
I’ve challenged her. “Oh good. It’s about time you did what you’re told.” Take the bait, baby. “Get to it, then.” Should I duck?
“Don’t push it, Ward.” She goes to the fridge and opens it, pondering the contents while I watch in amusement, not quite believing she’s taken the challenge. I mean, there are a million restaurants within a few miles that serve spectacular food, but that would mean leaving the villa.
She takes some things out and puts them on the counter, then gets to work while I sit happily at the table, drinking my water, watching my wife cook for me. In our villa. In Spain. Miles away from home. Whatever she’s got planned for the menu, it smells bloody good.
I snap a few pictures of her before I get up, my arse becoming numb, and wander over to see if I can help. I suppose I should. “You’re doing a great job, lady,” I say as she faffs with some bell peppers.
“Don’t patronize me,” she retorts, pointing at me with the knife.
I retreat fast.
She doesn’t plunge the knife deeply enough. She doesn’t lunge and stab, she swipes and drags, and I’m powerless to stop her, completely paralyzed by the pure, unmistakable intent in her eyes. I’ve always thought she was unstable. Always questioned if there were issues that she needed help with. Even before our daughter died.
“Don’t fuckingwave knives around, Ava!” I yell, instinctively swiping it from her grasp with little care and even less accuracy. Jesus, I could have taken a finger off, grabbed the blade instead of the handle. Or, worse, slipped and cut Ava.
My stomach turns as she blurts her startled, urgent apology, my hand slowly lowering the knife down to the counter. I’m hot. My heart is racing. “It’s okay,” I breathe. “Forget about it.” I can’t tell myself to control my reactions to knives. It’s instinctive, fueled by fear. And now the atmosphere is excruciating, and I take no pleasure in silencing my wife or making her feel so terrible.
Because she doesn’t fucking know.
“Do you want to lay the table?” she asks meekly.
God damn me. “Sure.” I turn away, my face screwing up, annoyed with myself for putting a dampener on our day. There she is again. Hitting me in my present. She’s dead. I get some cutlery, fresh water, and lower to the chair, checking Ava in the kitchen. Quiet. She and I. Tension so thick and unbearable. She doesn’t look at me either, probably so I don’t see the tears in her eyes. I’m a cunt.
Fuck it.
When she puts my plate down, I quickly take her hand, and she finally looks at me. “I overreacted,” I say, feeling awful.
“No, it’s fine,” she says, shaking her head and waving me off, like it’s nothing. “I shouldn’t be so careless.”
True, but I shouldn’t be so triggered. Not by Ava. But it wasn’t Ava. It was Lauren. I encourage Ava down to the chair, determined to get us back onto... what does she call it? Jesse Cloud Nine? “We’re missing something,” I say, taking myself to the lounge and collecting a candle from the surround by the wood burner and the remote control for the music system from the coffee table.
I set the candle on the table, light it, and put a bit of Simply Red on.
“Mick Hucknall?” Ava says, smiling.
“Or God.” Absolute legend. “Either will do.”
“You’re willing to share your title?”
I sit, happy we seemed to have kicked the awkwardness aside. “He’s worthy. This looks good. Eat up.”
She tucks in, and I discreetly lean over to check the meat situation. How well it’s cooked. Jesus, it’s sacrilege, really. Everyone knows beef and lamb are ruined if they’re overdone. Anything past medium is overdone. But it’s also safe.
Ava pauses, her knife and fork still on the plate, looking up at me, catching me in the act. Then turns her cut of lamb toward me. I hardly conceal my recoil; it looks cremated. How hard will I need to chew to get through it? It would have been insensitive to ask for my meat rare when Ava can’t.
“May I?” Ava asks, her fork at her mouth, a piece of burnt lamb on the prongs.
“You may.” No chance of any blood being in that, really, is there? And now I have to lie through my teeth. I take a piece, chew, and swallow. “You can cook, wife,” I say. Shame on me.
“I’ve never said I can’t,” she says, happily chewing her way through her first bite. We might be awhile. “I just don’t like doing it.”
“Not even for me?” Please say no. Maybe I can fly Cathy in.
“I don’t mind.”
“I like you cooking for me.” That’s not a lie. I do. But maybe not lamb in future. “It’s kind of normal.”
“Normal?”
“Yes, normal. Like what normal married people do.”
“Normal, like the wife cooks and the husband eats?” she asks, interested. She’s trying to corner me. Prove something? “That’s a bit chauvinistic.”
There she is, putting words in my mouth. But I won’t bite. Well, I will. Through this lamb with some effort. “Isn’t this normal?” I ask.
“You mean having dinner together?”
“Yes.”
“Yes,” she says, casual. “This is normal.”
And Ava and I aren’t normal. Never will be. Normal people don’t love like we love. Normal people don’t connect like we do. Normal people don’t need each other to survive. Constant contact. Various forms of fucking. I smile to myself, but it falters when I consider the arrival of the babies. Two babies. Not one, but two. A true blessing. But... wherever, whenever will be a struggle. “What about if I spread you on this table during dinner and fuck you?” I ask, nonchalant. “Would that be normal?” No. And there will be no spreading Ava on anything in front of the kids. Which means I’ll have to choose my moments. And then maybe she’ll be exhausted, because... twins. Maybe I’ll be exhausted too. I mean, I have stamina, but... twins. Fuck.
Ava’s chews falter, as does her cutlery on the plate, and her lip definitely twitches a fraction, evidence the lust has been stimulated. I shift in my seat, making room for my own stimulation. But can I control it? No. And that may be a major fucking issue when the babies are around.
“Our normal is you taking what you want, when you want,” she says, composed, accepting. Correct. “You can chuck in a meal cooked by your wife, if you like.”
No, thanks.“Good.” I smile to myself and return to my dinner, avoiding the lamb. I’ll always take what I want, when I want.
You deluded idiot.
Twins.
“I like our normal,” I mutter.
“Is something worrying you?” she asks, studying me.
“No.”
“Yes, there is. Are you suddenly considering the possibility of no wherever and whenever with two babies around?”
Fuck, how did she know? “Not at all.”
“Look at me,” she orders shortly, pulling my surprised eyes her way. “You are, aren’t you?”
“Wherever, whenever,” I growl like a chump, my grip of the cutlery firming, my dick dying down. This is terrible. The dynamics of our relationship will change completely.
“Not with two babies around.”
Is she holding back a laugh? This is funny? Need I remind my wife that the physical side of our marriage is as essential for her as it is for me?
“They’ll need a lot of my attention,” she goes on, casual, munching her way through her dinner.
Funnily enough, my appetite has run for the hills, and it’s nothing to do with the cremated lamb. It pisses me off that she’s taking such delight in this realization. “Yes, your primary role will be the care of our children,” I say, stern. She should punch me. I deserve it. “But a close second, and I mean a very close second, will be for my indulgence.” And yours, lady. “Wherever, whenever, Ava. I might need to control my craving for you to a certain extent”—Christ, Lord, and all that’s holy, help me—“but don’t think I’m going to sacrifice devoting my life to consuming you. Constant contact. Wherever, whenever. That’s not going to change, just because we have babies.” You see it all the time in couples. Normal couples. The babies arrive, the sex leaves. That will not happen to us, because we’re not normal. I fill my mouth with food before I add to my rant and get myself a slap.
“Even if I’m knackered from night feeds?”
What? I recoil. See, I knew it. “Too tired for me to take you?” We will never be too tired for each other.
“Yes.”
“We’ll get a nanny.” Twins, for Christ’s sake. A nanny would be reasonable.
“But I’ve got you.”
Fucking hell, I’m getting a bit sweaty. We’re going to have our hands full. “You do,” I say on a sigh, setting down my knife and fork and applying a bit of pressure on my temples, pushing the headache back. “You do have me, and you always will.” We’ll be knackered together. Taking her hand on the table, I squeeze, smiling softly. Is this how it’s going to be for the next seven months? Both of us seesawing between highs and complete meltdowns? “Promise me you’ll never say I’m too tired or I’m not in the mood.”
“You’re the one who tells me I’m too tired.” She laughs, but the outrage is there. “It’s okay for you to knock me back.”
“That’s because I have the power.” And it might be okay, but it’s never easy. “Promise me,” I order, squeezing her hand more.
“You want me to promise you that I’m here for you to take as and when you please?”
Hmm, well, I suppose that’s the long and the short of it. Here’s me praying that desire wins over exhaustion. I mean, it has in the past. There have been times when she’s utterly beat and has insisted she’s capable when she clearly isn’t. The point is, I’m in control. Always will be in that department. “Yes.” Listen to me. Just fucking listen to me.
She’s frowning so hard. “What if I don’t?”
Is she really going to play that game? I chuckle, pulling my T-shirt off and relaxing back, watching in satisfaction as my wife loses all focus, mesmerized by my chest. “You’ll never resist this.”
It’s comical watching her gather herself. “I’m used to it,” she says, going back to her dinner. “It kind of gets the same old after a while.”
How she thrills me. Begs for me. Same old? I get up fast, grab her wrist, and take her quickly but gently down to the floor. She gasps, blinking up at me in surprise, her hair a wild mess around her face. “You’re a shit liar, baby.”
“I know,” she breathes, the words wisps of air loaded with lust.
“Let’s see how used to it you are, shall we?” Shifting her arms, I tuck them down by her sides and hold them there with my knees.
“Jesse,” she says, stiff as a board beneath me. “Please don’t.”
“What? You’re used to it.”
I raise my brows as I lift to my knees, tackling the fly of my jeans under her wide-eyed gaze. Her chest is pumping, her cheeks a beautiful shade of lust.
“Jesse, let me up,” she demands through her teeth, frustrated.
“No, Ava,” I whisper, easing my jeans down a teasing fraction. Her eyes are nailed to my groin.
“Please,” she murmurs.
Forgive me, but I need a little confidence boost. A reminder that we’re not normal. As does Ava. I suck in air as I lower my boxers more, brushing across my raging hard-on.
“Oh God,” she cries, slamming her eyes shut as I pull my dick out on a low, suppressed grunt, that one first stroke sending me dizzy. Her mouth is calling for me, her wet lips parted and inviting. I walk on my knees up her body and hold my breath as I guide the swollen head of my arousal to her mouth. Jesus. I wedge a fist into the floor to prop me up, as I guide my cock from side to side across her open mouth, bracing myself to push inside. Her eyes open. They sparkle, her heavy lids darkening her eyes more, as she stares at my cock.
Then she inhales and her eyes climb my body to my face. The look on her right now could be enough to tip me over the edge, have me coming hard.
“Mouth,” she says, virtually licking her lips for me.
“What do I do to you, Ava?” I slip myself across her bottom lip again, pulling away when she opens her mouth to take me.
Rage mixes with the lust. “You fucking cripple me,” she shouts, bucking beneath me.
As soon as she’s settled again, accepting she’s going nowhere, I start thrusting my fist up and down my shaft. “Watch your fucking mouth.” Fuck, this feels good.
“Please,” she begs. That turns me on too.
“Are you used to me?” I ask.
“No.”
Fuck, I love this game. Love proving she can’t control her want for me. “And you never will be,” I say. “This is our normal, baby. Get used to this.” I give her what she’s begging for, slipping my dick into her waiting, eager mouth, locking down every muscle when she groans around my flesh, sending shots of pleasure racing through me. Her pace increases, her head lifting and retreating, greed and excitement taking over.
“Keep it gentle, Ava,” I warn, forcing her back to steady and slow, deep and firm. “I love your fucking mouth, woman.” My hips start moving, the blood simmering, the throb hard. She bites down lightly. I hiss over a curse, my thighs aching. My heart starts to race in anticipation of my release, my skin burning. It’s coming. It’s coming.
Her mouth becomes more aggressive.
Coming.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I bark, jerking violently, withdrawing from her mouth and circling myself. I start to thrust as Ava pants beneath me, her wild, excited eyes watching me pleasure myself. Sweat drips down my temples, my forehead, forcing me to sweep it away. Ava whimpers. Bites her lips. Licks them. It’s my ruin. I position myself just right, thrust her tank up, yank the cups of her bra down, and rest my throbbing dick between her tits. I come like a freight train. “Jesus,” I spit, watching my cock spurt cum all over her chest, both of us panting violently. My sensitive dick screams its protest when I rub it across Ava’s chest, spreading myself far and wide.
“Wherever, whenever, baby.” I fall to my elbows and catch her mouth, kissing her with purpose and conviction, as my dick throbs. “Fucking perfect.”
She hums, accepting, embracing, and completely unbothered by the animal in me. I think I’ve proved my point. For now. I’ve no doubt I’ll need to prove it again at some point.
“Come here.” Getting us up off the floor, I tuck myself away and sort Ava out, putting her back at the table to finish her dinner.
“I didn’t throw up,” she muses, sounding impressed.
“Well done.”
“Why didn’t you come in my mouth?”
Easy. Because I wanted to come all over her tits and rub it in with my cock. “Might poison the babies,” I say, smiling as I fasten my fly and take my seat.
“What?” She laughs, and then melts in her chair when I tell her I’m joking with a cheeky wink.
“Eat your dinner, lady.”
“What are we doing tomorrow?” she asks.
“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m bingeing.”
“You’re keeping me locked up in Paradise all weekend?”
One hundred percent, yes. “I wasn’t going to, but locks can be arranged.” I try the peppers, apprehensive. Thank God, they’re actually all right. So I’ll eat the peppers, leave the lamb.
Ava grins at me, happy, and that is all I need. My wife’s happiness. Her contentment. Her acceptance of our normal.
“God, I love that fucking grin,” I muse. “Show me.”
Turning her face directly to me, she nearly floors me with the power of her smile. “Happy?” she asks.
“Fucking delirious.” A whole weekend of this? It doesn’t get much better. Except an eternity of this. I’m working on it. “You done?” I ask, nodding at her plate.
“Yes, I’m stuffed.” Hands on her belly, she falls back in her chair.
“I’ll clean up.” I stand, clearing the table and getting everything in the dishwasher before wiping the sides down. “What do you want to do?” I ask, setting the cloth on the sink. She’s still in the chair. Still rubbing her belly.
“Well,” she says, pouting, pondering, thinking. “You owe me.”
My grin in instant. “Thought you were stuffed?”
“I am.” She turns on her chair toward me, spreading her thighs a little. Inviting. Temptress. “But you didn’t eat as much as I did, so maybe you can manage a nibble.”
Fuck. I round the counter, pushing her chair back more, giving me space, and drop to my knees before her. Her hands go into my hair, her eyes bursting with desire. “Lift,” I order, taking the sides of her skirt and pushing it up her thighs. Lace greets me, and I lower my face, slipping a finger into the crotch of her knickers and easing them aside. I stare at her pulsing, wet, begging flesh. Flick my eyes up to her. Wince when she gives my hair a severe tug. I smile, push my mouth between her legs, and lick her from back to front.
Her moan echoes around the villa and beyond.
Paradise.
Fucking paradise.