Damien, of course, is happy to oblige.
He takes both my hands and tugs me toward him. He catches me, then falls onto the bed in one motion, my body held tight against his. I laugh and protest, though it’s really only for show. But he shuts me up—first with a kiss, and then by literally rolling us over to the far side of the bed.
“Damien!” I squeal when he pins me beneath him. But my squeal quickly turns into a moan as he slides my T-shirt up over my head, then twines it around my wrists, holding them together.
“I like that,” he says, eyeing me hungrily. He unbuttons his shirt and pulls it off, giving me a lovely view of the tight muscles of his athlete’s body. Then he runs his hands down my arms and cups my now-bare, very sensitive breasts. I rarely go braless these days, what with breastfeeding the little one. But I’d been planning to relax in the bath once Lara was down and had changed into nothing more than a shirt and loose yoga pants.
“And I like this, too.” He kisses the swell of my right breast, and a hot, tight cord of need extends like a fuse from my nipple all the way to my core, making me ache with an insatiable hunger. I writhe beneath him, overwhelmed by the flood of desire that’s racing through me.
I grab one of the vertical iron posts that make up the headboard of our old-fashioned iron bed frame. At the same time, I arch up, silently demanding more of his mouth, his touch.
He doesn’t disappoint, and as his mouth closes over my nipple and his tongue teases me mercilessly, his free hand slides down my belly, lower and lower until he reaches the waistband of my yoga pants. He tugs the cord to untie them, then slips his fingers inside, moving down until he strokes my clit with a feather-soft motion that acts like a flame, igniting a wild passion that rips through me, from my clit to my breasts to every cell in my body.
I gasp and squirm, but I don’t let go of my grip on the bed. On the contrary, I hold on tighter, fighting an explosion that I know is coming as Damien’s fingers so expertly play me.
Except the explosion never comes. Just as I’m on the verge, Damien pulls his hand away, leaving me teetering on the edge, frustrated and needy. “Damien,” I beg. “Please.”
He raises his head so that our eyes meet, and his lips brush my nipple as he speaks. “Hush, baby. Let me take care of you.”
I whimper, knowing that begging will do me no good whatsoever—and also knowing that even though he’s left me hanging, the ultimate explosion will be that much more intense. After all, he knows my body intimately, and he knows how to play me to perfection.
Slowly, he starts to kiss his way down, his tongue tracing the curve of my breast, his lips brushing my ribs.
He trails delicate kisses down my midline. And with each touch of his lips against my overheated skin, I feel a corresponding ache in my core, my body clenching with an urgent desire to have my husband inside me.
As his mouth moves lower, so do his hands, until he’s peeled my pants down below my knees, leaving me bare. Slowly, he eases his hand up, his fingers moving slowly over the most violent of the scars that mar my inner thighs even as his lips trace the surgical scar from Anne’s birth.
I’m a cutter. It started when I was a teen, trying to escape from a life that had me trapped, the blade acting as an outlet, the pain centering me. I don’t cut anymore—not now that I have Damien. But I know that it’s still inside me and that it will always be a part of me.
Now, I bite my lower lip, feeling strangely self-conscious as he traces those two very different scars. Damien knows I used to cut, of course. But my self-inflicted scars feel shamefully shallow and weak compared to the one that brought our daughter into this world. “It’s nice to finally have a scar that’s a reminder of joy,” I say softly. “Not pain.”
Damien tilts his head up, and I see nothing but fervent support and love. “You know how I feel, baby. Every one of your scars reflects strength. But yes,” he adds, brushing his lips over the C-section scar. “This one is definitely my favorite.”
I smile, his heartfelt answer erasing my lingering discomfort. “That’s because you claim part ownership.”
“Do I?” He chuckles, his mouth dipping lower until his tongue flicks over my clit and a flurry of sparks ripple through me, a promise of fireworks to come. “Of what? The scar? The baby?”
“All of that,” I say. “And all of me.” I shift my hips in a silent demand. “Damien, please.”
He brushes his lips lightly over my pubic bone as his hands move to my inner thighs, stroking up—but not far enough. I’m burning with anticipation. Craving his hands, his mouth, his cock. I want all of him. I want everything. I want—
“Mama? Baba?”
The little voice makes me yelp, and Damien slides down the bed as I draw the covers up over me. He’s shirtless but still wearing his jeans, and now he fastens the top button before holding out his hand to call her over. “Hey, Snuggles. You can’t sleep?”
We have the third floor thoroughly baby-proofed, which is a good thing as Lara has taken to wandering now that she’s in her toddler bed instead of a crib. Usually we hear her through the baby monitor. Tonight, she was apparently using stealth tactics.
“Come on, then,” Damien says, lifting her up. “Let’s get you tucked back in.”
He glances at me and I grin, loving the way he looks holding his little girl in his arms. “Back soon,” he whispers. “Don’t go away.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, then stretch out as soon as they’ve left the room, imagining he’s still beside me. The brush of his breath. The heat of his touch.
A moment later, I hear them through the monitor. Soft footsteps. The low timbre of Damien’s voice as he urges Lara back to bed. Then gentle, rhythmic words as he reads her a Sandra Boynton bedtime story.
I close my eyes, letting the words drift over me, the sweet sound of Damien reading to our daughter. The soothing tone of his voice.
And the last thing I remember thinking is how much I love that man, and what an incredible father he’s proven to be.
The next time I open my eyes, the room is bright with sunshine. For a moment, I’m confused. Then I get it, and I sit bolt upright.
It’s tomorrow.
And although I feel pretty damn well-rested, I don’t feel well-fucked. And since I know that Damien is in his home office this morning on an international video conference, that situation isn’t going to be remedied anytime soon.
I sigh.
Because right then, I really, really want a do-over.