Preston's Honor(96)

“My goodness, if I’d have seen these things the first time, I’d have known to expect a pregnancy. They’re . . . impressive,” I teased, though only partially.

Preston laughed on a groan, throwing one arm over his eyes, his mouth twisted in an expression of both mirth and pain.

I explored for a few minutes longer and then suddenly found myself flipped over onto my back as I let out a startled gasp. Preston came over me, his eyes intense, his jaw rigid. “You’re driving me out of my mind, Lia,” he rasped. My gaze moved over his expression, the way every muscle in his body seemed to be straining. I knew what he meant as I was so turned on myself. I opened my thighs beneath him, and he let out a shuddery breath, guiding himself to my opening and pressing inside inch by inch, his muscles bunching and straining with the apparent effort of moving so slowly. “I love you.”

His mouth returned to mine, and he pressed completely inside, our bodies meeting. I moaned into his mouth, bringing my legs around his hips as he began to move slowly, so slowly, so deliciously. I could feel his heartbeat against my chest and between my legs where we were joined, and it seemed to fill me until my own heart beat in sync with his and we were as one.

Preston rocked into me, moving in small thrusts, and I moved with him, shivers of pleasure bursting through me each time our pelvises touched. We moved together this way for what seemed like a long while, glorying in the connection, in our mingled gasps of delight, in the way our scents merged and became something deeper and sexier, something that was only us.

The bliss swirled through me, reaching higher, but not quite high enough. I broke from his mouth. “Faster, Preston, I need . . .”

He let out a loud breath. “Yes, Annalia, tell me what you need. Oh God.” I heard the excitement in his voice and it added to my own soaring arousal. He picked up the pace, moaning as he brought his mouth to mine again, the movement of his tongue in my mouth mimicking the thrusting movement of his body into mine.

I ran my hands over the damp skin of his back, the pleasure in my core pulsing and climbing. I met his thrusts, gripping the straining muscles of his biceps, loving the hard feel of his male body above me. Pleasure rushed through me in a starburst of bliss as I arched and cried out his name, barely conscious of his own cry of pleasure—a garbled rush of words—as he buried his face in my neck and shuddered with his climax.

My thighs felt like jelly as they slid down his hips. He pulled out of me and I groaned but he brought his mouth to mine and kissed me leisurely for several minutes, finally rolling to the side and bringing me with him, holding me in the warm grasp of his arms as our breathing slowed. My muscles felt languid and I smiled, stretching like a satisfied cat in his arms.

I felt his smile against the side of my neck as he pulled me closer, spooning me tightly. He whispered words of love and devotion, and I whispered them back. We made plans and I shared all the dreams in my heart, for myself, for us, for Hudson and the other children we might have—babies I was no longer afraid to wish for.

I’d always been a dreamer, but now, now I was sharing those dreams with the man I loved, and suddenly the whole world felt so big—big and bright and endlessly glorious.





EPILOGUE


Seven Years Later

Preston



I put my arms slowly around my wife, as she tilted her head to the side, exposing the tender side of her neck so I could nuzzle my lips there. The familiar gesture filled my heart, and I breathed in her scent. Annalia.

I spread my palms over her belly, feeling the small swell of her pregnancy, smiling against her skin with the male pride that moved through me at the proof of my latest efforts.

“This is the last one,” she said.

“That’s what you said last time.”

“I mean it this time, though.”

“Hmm,” I hummed. “We’ll see.”

She laughed a small sound and focused back on the wall of photographs she’d been studying when I came up behind her.

Years ago, she’d written to her aunt and requested any photographs she might be willing to lend so she could have copies made and her aunt had sent back the few she had. Lia had made copies and framed them and now they hung on our gallery wall so our children could see both sides of their heritage represented.

“What do you like so much about looking at this wall?” I asked.

“Hmm, I like to imagine what was in their hearts, what dreams they had,” she said.

I lifted my hand and pointed at one of my grimacing relatives. “This guy here looks like he’s dreaming about racing to a toilet.”

She laughed, slapping lightly at the hand that was still over her belly. “Stop it. Maybe that was just a bad year.”

Ah, a bad year. Yes, we knew about those. But we also knew about seven joy-filled years that could follow one bad one if you were willing to start over, to try harder, to talk more, and to occasionally dance to eighties love songs in the kitchen because you couldn’t come up with any other answers. It turned out that was an answer in itself. Yes, we knew about that, too.

My eyes moved to the small shadowbox on the wall where Lia had glued the two pieces of sea glass together into the original heart shape. I could still see the seam where the crack had been, but it was mended now and the two pieces were together, complete. A lot like us really. Together. Mended. Complete.

I nuzzled the sweet warmth of her neck again. “You make me weak in the knees,” I murmured.