The Canadian air was different. I hadn’t been imagining it. Or maybe it was because I was now standing in the very spot where Dylan had first kissed me.
It’s not that we hadn’t been back there in the five years we’d been married—we had, but it wasn’t often enough, and we’d always been busy. This time I’d snuck out of the house to find this spot. The place, the slight curve in the narrow dirt path that connected the estate, La Belle Reve, to the main road, was burned in my memory. I stood under the canopy of trees, as I had before, only this time the sun was peeking through instead of the moon. And I was alone.
It was late afternoon, a quiet time of our day, and I’d gone for a walk. I wanted to stand there and see if I could feel it, could smell it, if there really was something special about this place.
There was.
The smell of chamomile drifted from the lawn. The smell of roses and hydrangeas and lavender were carried from the gardens. I stood there, my eyes closed, head back, listening to the trees rustle, feeling the warm breeze meander over my skin.
Then I felt hands on my hips. Dylan’s hands.
“What in heaven’s name are you doing out here?” he asked as I felt his warm tall body press against my back, allowing me to lean against him. My head fell back into his chest, and my whole body relaxed there, eyes still closed.
“I wanted to remember,” I said.
“Our first kiss?” he asked.
“Mmm,” I said, sinking into the moment. Dylan wrapped his arms around my torso, and his hands landed on the light linen sundress covering my swollen belly.
“That kiss has led to a lot. In fact, it changed everything,” he said, stroking my stomach and allowing one hand to cup the bottom of my pregnant bump, the other the top. “Without that kiss, we wouldn’t have Eleanor,” he said, moving his lips to the side of my neck. I tilted my head to accommodate him, to invite him. Our almost four-year-old daughter, named for Dylan’s grandmother, our firstborn, was hopefully still napping safely back at the house, her grandmother nearby if she woke up.
“Without that kiss, we wouldn’t have Aiden,” he said as his hand moved from my belly to my breast. He slid his broad palm into my dress and cupped my sensitive flesh. Our two-year-old son was hopefully napping happily with his sister.
I groaned a little, catching my breath as he enveloped me. We’d discovered that pregnancy made me insatiable. And something about it made me crave him, want to curl up in him.
“Without that kiss, we wouldn’t have our girl here, our Anna,” he said, running his hand over my stomach.
“Chloe,” I said. We still hadn’t agreed on a name for our soon-to-be-arriving daughter. We had three more weeks to decide, plenty of time.
Then I forgot all about baby names. Our children conveniently left my mind completely.
His hand hitched up my dress, and his kisses to my neck, my cheek, my lips as I turned to face him, were paired with his hand slipping into my panties.
“Thank god for that kiss, damsel. Without it, I wouldn’t have you.” I turned to face him completely and stood up on my toes to kiss him. “Fuck, I love you like this,” he breathed quietly. “I love your body, round with our child, so responsive.”
“Well you’d better enjoy it—we only have another few weeks.” I hummed.
“You think I can’t convince you to have a fourth?” he asked, smiling.
I laughed. We’d been over this, and he knew better. I was already stretched thin between the fashion consulting firm I ran with Fiona, being a duchess, and our family. Plus, I knew our family was about to be complete. He murmured agreement and backed me towards the tree behind me, possibly the very same tree I’d leaned against six years earlier, when our lips had touched the first time. As I had then, I stepped onto the roots, bringing our eyes to the same height. Only this time, my belly hung between us.
Dylan leaned over it and kissed me as he had then. His tongue sliding along the seam of my lips, prying them open. One hand against my rib cage, his thumb strumming against the edge of my breast. The other hand cupping my cheek, allowing Dylan full control of this kiss. Until I kissed him back. It was patient—we had nowhere to be. But it was also potent, full of fever, of purpose.
“I love you,” he whispered into my mouth. “I love you so fucking much.”
“I love you too,” I said.
“Let me take you back to the house. Let me show you,” he said.
“Show me here,” I said, and he looked at me, eyebrow raised. “It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve made love to me outside,” I said.
He nodded his head, smiling. “I’ll love you anywhere,” he said, but he didn’t resume his attack. Instead, he paused. He placed his hand at my back, and pulled me towards him.
“Anywhere, always.”