Page 107 of Matteo

I sigh as the wind tugs at my hair. Beneath the large umbrella, Ben kicks out as though he wants the sun shining on him, too. He’s sucking on his fingers, and I’m wondering if he’s hungry already. I just fed him less than an hour ago.

Layla is laughing as Matteo chases her and Walter. Matteo catches her and swings her up into the air, tickling her while Walter barks at them both. Her shrieks of happiness bring a smile to my lips.

This is the dream I had long ago. Layla running, and playing, joyful and loud in green grass. That dream didn’t have Matteo in it or her baby brother watching them. Sometimes dreams don’t come true. And sometimes the real thing is better than a dream.

Eight years later

Amy

“Please, Matteo?” I plead with big eyes. “You said I could have anything I wanted for my anniversary present.”

He sighs. “I thought you would say a week in Chicago or the Sargent that’s up for auction next week.”

“I know you’ve already put in a bid at Christie’s for the Sargent. And you’re not as sneaky as you think you are. Mom told me about the condo you bought for us in Chicago. Thank you. I’m glad we won’t have to stay at a hotel anymore when we go.”

We both have fallen in love with Chicago, not only for the art museum but also for all the things we can do and see in the city without it being as frantic as New York. The kids love the city, too. “But I don’t want things. I just want you.”

I run my hand down his chest. Ten years of marriage, and he’s as gorgeous now as he was the day I met him. He’s finally no longer one percent body fat. He doesn’t have a soft middle or spare tire yet. He simply has an all-over softness over the hard muscle he hasn’t lost.

Groaning, he catches my wrist. “You should be napping. Think of the baby.”

Sensing his slowly crumbling resolve, I push off the robe I put on after my shower. I love the way his eyes go gold at me naked. I’m seven months pregnant and feel like a small whale most days—except when Matteo is looking at me.

A large hand goes over my stomach. Our son kicks in response. “You should definitely be sleeping.”

I shake my head as I press into his touch. “I want five minutes to taste you with my tongue. Please, my gorgeous, generous husband.”

He swears. “Fine. Five minutes.” Throwing himself on the bed. He closes his eyes. “Your time starts now.”

“Matteo, that’s not fair. It shouldn’t start until you’re as naked as I am.”

“Four minutes and fifty-two seconds remaining.”

Crap, this man. I have to use the step stool to climb onto the bed. Normally, he would help me, but I know he’s trying to lessen the time I have. Jerk.

I’m beside him on the bed, and to get back at him, both hands are at the bottom of the polo he’s wearing, and push it up—followed by my tongue. I giggle as he mutters a curse word.

“When your time is up, I’m going to remember you laughing at my pain.” Is gritted out.

“Ah, poor baby.” I giggle as I find a flat male nipple and explore it with my tongue. How have we gone all these years, and I’ve only managed to do this once or twice? Those few times, I was sneaky, waking up before him. Except I only ever got a few licks and touches in before he was awake and taking over.

He’s so dang bossy. The evil man plays my body with his tongue and his fingers, yet I’m only allowed his cock and his mouth.

I kiss my way down to his stomach, running my tongue over his appendectomy scar and hating the sight of him ever being cut open. I finally understand why he got so upset over seeing my cesarian scar. Ben’s delivery wasn’t any easier than Layla’s. When I had Alyssa four years ago, my obstetrician planned a cesarian with the thought a delivery via cesarian was safer than a possible rupture of the scar if I attempted a regular delivery.

It’s part of the reason why there’s so much time between Alyssa and this pregnancy. Matteo hated the idea of another pregnancy resulting in a cesarian. I had to do a lot of begging before he gave in. Being loved by Matteo is a gift, I know, but there are times it can be maddening.

Running my face over his stomach, he swears, and I’m flipped on my back. “That wasn’t five minutes,” I whine.

“Let’s try it again in another ten years.” He breathes into my mouth.

“I’m holding you to it next time,” I warn him.

Ten years later

Matteo

“You lied to me.” Layla’s eyes are knives cutting into me.

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