Royal Match by Parker Swift (5)

By noon the next day, I’d already been at the office for four hours, huddled over the laptop with Fiona. We’d been exchanging notes, updating accounts, and finalizing our company road map all morning, and I could sense our energy waning. She had just interrupted me for the third time in twenty minutes with some tabloid gossip tidbit she’d read over the weekend, a classic sign she was fatiguing. I was a minute away from suggesting we break for coffee when I heard our assistant through my half-open office door.

“Hi, Mr. Hale.” She used a singsongy voice she reserved only for Dylan and the UPS man, whom I knew for a fact she had a crush on, because I’d caught her drawing hearts around his name once.

Fiona looked at me, and without saying a word rose from her seat. How was it that Dylan issued orders silently, from another room, without evening seeing someone?

“I have no idea why he’s here,” I said to her, slowing standing up myself. “Shall we break and get back to it after lunch?” Dylan pushed the door open as I spoke, and even though I was looking at Fiona, I could feel his smile on me.

“Um, sure, but—”

Dylan seemed to finish Fiona’s thought. “You have something on your calendar at two, damsel.”

I looked from Fiona to him. “I do?”

“It says ‘shoe consultation: two,’” he replied, consulting the calendar on his phone. Why was it that everyone else seemed to be more on top of my calendar than I was?

I sighed in resignation. “Fine. So after that.”

Fiona slipped through the door and replied from the hall, “Just ring me—I’ll be here.”

Dylan shut the door behind her and flipped the lock.

Oh.

That’s why he was here.

“Darling,” he said in that tone that had my skin pebbling, the room becoming blurry even as he came into focus. “Close your laptop.”

I gulped and gently pushed down the shiny silver lid of my computer. Dylan loosened his tie as he stalked towards me, and I found myself bracing myself on my desk, palms down, catching my breath. Everything inside me was clenching, waiting. It had been over a week since we’d been back from Canada, and we hadn’t managed to have sex once—even the previous night, Dylan had accidentally fallen asleep in Aiden’s bed with him after reading him another book, effectively thwarting our first opportunity in days.

“I’ve been patient, damsel. But now I need you to be a good girl for me.” He came up to my side and placed his left hand over my own, interlacing our fingers, stroking my thumb with his. He was being deliberately slow. Steady. Patient. He knew this drove me crazy, made me wet. He was counting on it. I closed my eyes, waiting for the next sensation, and he rewarded my stillness. I felt his right hand lift the back of my dress and, tantalizing slowly, he drew featherlight circles on my bare ass.

“That’s my girl,” he whispered as my breathing picked up. He slid his fingers beneath the elastic of my thong, brushing my hip, running his fingers across my skin. “Enjoy these, babe. Before you know it, the no-knickers rule will be in full effect,” he added with a chuckle.

I fully intended to reply with a witty dismissive retort—something about how birthing three of his children automatically revoked his right to dictate my undergarments, but the truth was, the entire idea of it turned me on too much to protest. Instead, I ended up moaning the needy pathetic moan of a woman shamelessly hungry for her husband’s touch.

“I’m so fucking hard for you, Lydia. I’ve been desperate for days.”

“I know. Me too,” I whispered back. Clearly. The man walked into my office, locked the door, and I just bent over the desk like some kind of concubine. Apparently I was as needy as he was. “Dylan,” I chanted under my breath.

“Shh, baby. I’ve got you.” Dylan knew what his words did, how they made every cell inside me pulse. He pushed the thong down over my ass, and I felt the cool air rush over the wetness between my legs, and the weight of my dress as he pushed it higher onto my back.

He lifted my hands and turned me towards him. When my ass was against the edge of my desk, he gripped my sides and lifted me to sit on top of it. “My beautiful girl.” He said it so softly, holding my face. He kissed me with so much control, using his tongue to trace my lips as his hand lifted the front of my skirt and found me wet to his touch. “You’re going to sit here, darling, and I’m going to lick this pussy and make you come. Okay?” I nodded vigorously. His hands drifted over my belly, and he looked down between us. “I love this. Your body,” he said, and all I could focus on was how good I was about to feel, how needy I was in that moment, when suddenly I felt my belly tighten, shift, and harden beneath his touch.

Oh fuck.

“Dylan,” I said. Not in a whisper.

“What the fuck is happening?” he asked, looking down at my stomach, his hands still on my rock-hard belly.

“A contraction,” I said, wincing at the pressure. I stood up and gripped my belly. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I started to pace around the room. I almost tripped on the panties around my legs until I just kicked them to the side, focusing only on my abdomen, on my body. This could not be happening. “Fuuuuck.”

Dylan zipped up his trousers, or at least I think that’s what he was doing—I didn’t even realize he’d unzipped them. All of my focus was on trying to breathe through this contraction.

“Water,” I said. “Can you please get me some water?” Dylan took my arm and tried to lead me to the small couch in my office, but I shook my head. I didn’t want to sit. I just wanted the contraction to stop. So I stood there, holding my belly, and waited. Eventually, the pressure passed, and I looked up at him. He had a slightly stunned look on his face. “Baby? Water?” I asked again.

He spun around at my words. “Of course. Of course.” Within a minute I had a bottle of cold water in my hands, and I was chugging it down.

“Is it labor?” he asked, rubbing my back.

“I don’t know,” I said after a minute. I was about to say I didn’t think so, when another contraction hit, and I gripped my belly again and breathed through my nose. It wasn’t painful exactly, so much as intense. “Maybe?” I squeaked out the word. Okay, that was a little painful.

“Bring the car around.” I looked up at Dylan to see him talking harshly into his phone. “We’re going to hospital.”

“Dylan—”

“Lydia,” Dylan replied, warning.

Two and a half hours later, I was lying on a very nice hospital bed in a private room at St. Mary’s, listening to the doctor on call tell me that I definitely was not in labor.

“Madam, may I ask what you were doing when the contractions began?” The doctor, who was taking notes, honestly looked way too young to be a physician. I mean, this kid looked like he was barely old enough to buy beer.

“Um,” I began, looking at Dylan. “I was, um…we were…well, we were…”

A light seemed to go off in this child-doctor’s brain because he spared me from having to lie to him directly. “Mrs. Hale, I’m sure you’re aware that sexual intercourse can induce labor?”

I felt my face turning bright red. I wasn’t that modest, and I was fine asking my own doctor questions about this in private, but something about this particular situation made me feel like a teenager being caught fooling around in my boyfriend’s rec room. I coughed a little, clearing my throat. “Yes, Doctor.” Of course I knew that. It’s just that I’d been so goddamn horny. No reasonable person should have expected me to refrain from sex when I had this much pent-up sexual energy, when I was facing down months of sleep deprivation and breastfeeding.

Then Dylan, who was normally silent during any exchange with one of my doctors, shocked me by speaking up. “All forms of intercourse?” My gaze snapped to his. He did not just go there.

“Well, Mr. Hale, the research is unclear, but it seems to be any activity that results in, um, well, that results in an orgasm, sir, can induce labor.”

I couldn’t help it. My hands flew to my face. It was possible I’d never been so embarrassed in my life.

“Right,” Dylan replied, as though he had just asked whether it was going to rain that day. Will I need a brolly, Lloyd? Most likely, sir. Jolly good. Right, right.

“Yes, well,” the doctor continued, “next time you get contractions, Mrs. Hale, I recommend you put your feet up, have a glass of water, even take bath, and see if they calm down. If that doesn’t work, give us a call.”

“Of course, Doctor. Thank you for the advice.” I inched towards the end of the table, desperate to run for the exit.

“And, Mrs. Hale,” he said, looking at me expectantly. “If you do not wish to go into labor until after the wedding, I highly suggest you avoid sexual activity.” Then he looked at Dylan to finish his thought “Of any sort.”

Most embarrassing moment of my life.

All I could do was pray to all that was holy that this guy wasn’t the type to go and talk to a reporter about how Dylan Hale, Duke of Abingdon, inquired about kinky sex with his wife, who was a thousand months pregnant.

“I’m going to kill you,” I said quietly as we left the hospital. “I can’t believe you asked that!”

Dylan just chuckled, entirely too pleased with himself for having embarrassed me. “Damsel, I got the information I needed, didn’t I?”

“And what on earth is that? That if we have anal sex, you may or may not put me into labor?” I exclaimed as we moved out the exit of the hospital and towards the car.

“No,” he said as he closed the car door behind him. “Now I know exactly what I need to do if I want to put you into labor and end this business about you being in this wedding at the weekend.” He reached over to kiss me, his hands moving towards my body, but I playfully pushed him away, trying not to laugh.

“Don’t you even think about it, Dylan Hale. There will be no sex for you until we get through this wedding.” I sighed. “And apparently no orgasms for me.” I pouted as I spoke. But when I looked at Dylan, he looked positively mischievous.