Chapter 10 The Nursery #2
"Every day. I didn't know how to mention it. The last time was so hard. I didn't want to ask you to go through that again."
"I didn't want to ask you."
"We're idiots."
"We're married. It comes with the territory."
He turned from the window. His face was open and warm. He gave her his real smile, the one she collected like rare coins.
"I want another baby," he said. "With you.
This desire is not influenced by a will, a clause, or Eleanor's plan.
I want one because I love you. Because I love our daughter.
I want to watch your belly grow with my child again.
I want to hear another heartbeat on a monitor.
I want to hold another baby in the NICU and tell it about its mother. "
"Hopefully not in the NICU."
"Hopefully not. But wherever, however, I want another child with you."
She stood, crossed the room, and took his face in her hands. His jaw was strong, familiar, and hers.
"Then let's make one," she said.
"Right now?"
"Right now, Lark's asleep, the fish is eaten, and the dishes can wait."
He laughed, the rough sound she loved. "You're insatiable."
"You married me. You signed up for this."
"I signed up for everything. Including this. Especially this."
He lifted her and carried her to the bedroom. The same bedroom, the same bed, and yet it's different. It was their bed, their room, their home.
He laid her down gently. His body moved over hers, and his mouth found hers. Soft, slow, married.
His hands moved over her, tracing the scar on her abdomen, the fullness of her breasts, and the curve of her hips. He touched each part as if rediscovering it, as if saying hello.
She reached for him, unbuttoned his shirt, and pressed her palms against his chest. She felt the scar, the tattoo, and the strong, steady heartbeat beneath. It was hers.
He undressed her slowly, removing her shirt, bra, and pants with reverence. His mouth followed his hands, kissing her neck, her collarbone, the swell of her breasts, and the scar on her belly.
"You're beautiful," he said, his voice breaking as it always did.
"You always say that."
"Because it's always true."
She pulled him down against her. His weight felt warm, solid, and safe. She wrapped her arms around him, holding him, feeling his heart against hers. Two beats, synced.
"I love you," she said.
"I love you more than contracts, clauses, or wills. More than anything Eleanor could have planned."
"Eleanor didn't plan this."
"No. She planned the meeting, the wedding, and the isolation. She didn't plan the storm, the kiss, or the way I feel when you walk into a room."
"How do you feel?"
"Like the world makes sense. Like everything I did before was practice for you."
She kissed him deeply and slowly. Her tongue touched his lips. He opened, tasting her. She tasted like wine, fish, and home.
His hand moved down between her thighs. His fingers found her, wet and ready. She was always ready for him. Her body knew his, responded to him, and opened for him.
He pressed a finger inside, stroking slowly. She gasped, and her hips rose. He added a second finger, pressing deeper, finding the spot. She trembled.
"I want you inside me," she said.
"Not yet. I want to take my time."
"We have time."
"All night. All the time in the world."
He moved down her body. His mouth found her stomach and kissed the scar softly, gently. Then he moved lower, his mouth between her thighs, his tongue on her clit. Licking, swirling, sucking. She cried out, her hands gripping the sheets.
He worked her with his mouth, slow and deliberate. His tongue circled, pressing. His fingers moved inside her, stroking. The pressure built, hot and tight. She arched off the bed.
"Come for me," he whispered against her. "First one. Then I'll be inside you."
She broke. The climax hit her like a wave. Her body shuddered, and her walls clutched around his fingers. She cried out, a trembling cry. Her body shook.
He didn't stop. His tongue kept moving, drawing it out, extending the waves until she was gasping and begging.
"Inside me. Now. Please."
He moved up her body, his cock pressing against her opening. Thick and hard, the head is slick. He pressed inside, slow inch by inch, filling her and stretching her. She gasped. He was thick. Her body opened, taking him in. When he was fully inside, he stilled.
His forehead pressed against hers. His breath came in ragged gasps. She felt him throbbing inside her—hot, hard, ready.
"Mine," he said, low and rough. The same word from the breeding month, but different now. Not possessive, but devoted.
"Yours," she said. "Always."
He moved, slow and deep. Each thrust pressed him to the hilt. Each stroke dragged against the places that made her gasp. She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him closer, deeper.
His mouth found her neck, biting softly, not marking, but loving it. His hands gripped her hips, holding her still as he drove into her. The pace quickened. His hips snapped forward, hard, claiming. Not with force, but with need.
"You feel that?" he said. "Feel me inside you? Feel me filling you?"
"Yes," she gasped. "God, yes."
"I want my seed inside you. I want it to take. I want to watch your belly grow again. I want to make another life with you."
The words pushed her over. The climax hit hard. Her body shuddered. Her walls clutched around him. She cried out, a broken gasp. Her body gripped him, pulling him deeper.
He followed. His rhythm broke. His hips drove forward, one final thrust, deep. She felt him thicken, then the hot spurt of his release, filling her and spilling out. He groaned, a broken sound. His body shuddered. His arms shook.
He stayed inside her, pressed deep, his cock pulsing. She felt every hot, thick spurt. Not a breeding. A making. A love.
His mouth found her ear. "I love you. I love you. I love you."
"I know. I feel it."
She held him, his body heavy on hers. His breath warmed her skin. His heart beat against her chest. Two hearts. One rhythm.
"Again," she said.
He lifted his head. "Again?"
"The proper way. With love. As many times as it takes."
He smiled, the real one, the one she collected. "You're going to kill me."
"What a way to go."
He laughed, the rough sound, the one she loved. He kissed her, deep and slow. She felt him start to harden again inside her, still there, still filling her.
"Stay," she said.
"I'm not going anywhere. Not ever. Not again."
She rolled her hips. He groaned against her mouth. She wrapped her legs tighter around him, pulling him deeper.
"Show me," she said. "Show me the proper way."
He did. Slow. Deep. Loving. Not a contract. Not a clause. Not a breeding. A making. A marriage. A family.
Later. Much later. They lay tangled in the sheets. The moon through the window. The ocean outside. The cottage was quiet around them.
Lark cried, a soft, hungry sound. Vesper started to move, but Cillian's hand touched her arm.
"I'll get her," he said.
He pulled on sweatpants and padded barefoot to the nursery. Vesper heard his voice, low and soft. The soldier spoke to his daughter with the same tenderness he used when telling Ellie about her mother in the NICU.
He brought Lark to her. The baby's face was scrunched and hungry, her green eyes blinking in the dim light. He placed her in Vesper's arms, careful and gentle, as if she were made of glass.
Lark nursed. Vesper felt the pull, the connection, her body feeding her daughter. The doctors said she would never do this. Yet, she did it every day now, naturally and easily. It was as if her body had waited for this all along.
Cillian sat beside her, his hand on Lark's head. He traced the baby's soft, dark hair, her ear, her cheek, and her tiny eyebrow.
"She's hungry tonight," he said.
"She's always hungry. She's a Thorne."
"She's a Wren-Thorne. We eat more."
Vesper looked at him—this man, her husband, this father. He'd been a stranger in a hallway, a stepbrother at a wedding, a breeding partner in a storm, a father in a NICU, and now a husband in a cottage.