Page 126 of Hell Hath No Fury
“Were you dreaming of me?”
“I don’t know.” God, she’s sweet. Another woman might have lied. Charlotte Hill? Never. “It got cold. I knew you were gone, and I wanted you. I was probably dreaming about—”
“What I did to you on the ottoman?” Her ass was the most exquisite red color after I was finished. Charlotte cried harder when I refused to touch her for a good, long minute. She was wet then, and she’s wetter now.
She writhes underneath me, searching.
I hook my fingers again.
Charlotte’s orgasm teases, but I slide my fingers out before it can peak. I push down my pajama bottoms and replace those fingers with my cock.
She’s warm and wet and mine. Part of me wants to lose myself in her. Close my eyes and let sensation take over. But I can’t stop watching her face as I fuck her. She’s the lost one, eyelids fluttering, lips parted. And her body. Fuck, her body. I didn’t think I could love her more, but I do.
Charlotte is the mother of my child, and I’ve never felt more honored about anything in my life. I wanted children with her. Of course I did. But I’ve always believed that it’s a woman’s choice to carry a child or not. Charlottesavedme. And even if she hadn’t, it would still have been her choice and her choice alone.
What she’s doing—giving over her body to bring our child into the world—is an incredible gift.
I want to fuck her harder. Deeper strokes. Rougher ones. I split the difference, because she’s pregnant. I’ve been assured by multiple doctors that sex is safe for the baby, but I’m helpless. Charlotte is precious to me. The baby is precious to both of us. Taking special care with her is a biological imperative. And the imperative of the man who loves her. Who swore to protect her. Who promised in front of a full church that he’d be there with her until his dying day.
I try to focus on the hot squeeze of her, but some of my thoughts split off.
My dying day could come sooner than either of us want. The papers I’ve started to draw up for the baby don’t go far enough. I might not be here long enough to make sure everything is being done the way it needs to be. I can’t just outline accounts on a sheet of paper. I need to see them opened and secure. I need all the necessary paperwork done now, not later.
And the money—the money has to be tied up in places so secure, so protected, that it can’t be taken from Charlotte and the baby no matter what happens to me.
Even if I were to be murdered in a conspiracy, for example. Even if I were to be burned to death in a building. Even if all my assets were stolen. Even then, nothing can touch the money for the child.
Just hypothetically speaking, I mean. I don’t actually think I’m going to be murdered.
God, I hope that I’m not going to be murdered.
Charlotte clenches around me, her scent clearing my thoughts. I feel her pleasure crest. The pulses draw me into her, and I let it happen. I let myself sink into my wife.
A little of my control snaps, and I’m lost to the feeling of her hips against mine. Of her pussy, gripping me. Of her pleasure. My own pleasure trips across the line into release and all my muscles work with it.
Heat.
There’s so much heat.
The sex itself is hot, but so are the feelings I have for her. The desire. The need.
And a new urgency.
I pump into her, but something else beats in my heart.It could end at any time.It’s a rhythm inside my veins. It’s part of me. I can’t forget it, or let it go.At any moment, it could end.
Death comes when you least expect it.
CHAPTER THREE
Charlotte
A lazy Sunday afternoon.
Mason sprawls on the sofa, stretching out his knee, his legs over mine. My feet rest on the ottoman. The showDownton Abbeyplays softly on the TV. We’re halfheartedly watching it. Mostly just spending time together.
I love lazy Sundays.
Today, Mason doesn’t seem lazy.
