Dinner, sit and read through Ree’s latest chapters while the kids play. Get the boys to bed.
Get the boys to bed. Five words that make it seem a shitload easier than it really is. Tommy wants to finish watching his show, and Hank is just…Hank. Quirky and difficult. Sleepy, but refuses to sleep. And when he does, he wakes up as soon as I leave the room. Which leads to finding Reagan asleep in her chair, Nineteen Kids and Counting repeats playing on TLC.
I shake her gently. “Babe. Wake up, Ree.”
“Mmm.”
“Come on, babe. Wake up.” I kiss the corner of her mouth, shake her thigh. “Time for bed.”
“Sleeping.”
“Yeah, but not in bed.”
“Nite-nite.”
“Come on, sexy. Time for bed.”
“Sex?” She perks up at that. “You get Hank asleep?”
“Sure did.”
“Then what are we still doing here?” She holds her hands out, and I help her to her feet.
We head upstairs, and I “help” her up them by way of groping her ass. The thing I like most about Reagan pregnant is that her tits and ass get bigger and squishier, and if you’re me, that’s a damn good thing. So I take every opportunity to “grope and molest” her, as she puts it. Whatever. She loves it. She knocks my hands away and says, “Not in front of the kids, you horny caveman,” but when the kids are down and we’re alone in bed, she sings a different tune.
Loudly.
Tonight she’s sleepy. Dragging. She barely makes it up the stairs, fumbling at her shirt and bra on the way. I help. Hehe, help. Getting her naked is my favorite kind of helping. She pees, steps out of her pants and panties, crawls into bed. I shed my own clothes, resigned to a nookie-free night. It’s fine, though. Cuddling up to her is almost as nice and, in some ways, even better.
And then, when I’m almost asleep, she angles a bit, turns her head to talk to me. “Well, Caveman? What are you waiting for?”
So I push up against her. She moans. I nudge some more. And then suddenly she’s on her hands and knees, her favorite position, especially when she’s pregnant. She stuffs a pillow beneath her face and reaches back for me. Guides me in. God, she’s tight. I don’t know how she manages it, but she’s so tight, even after two natural births. She squeezes me as I slide in, clamping down so hard I can barely move inside her, but it feels so, so good.
We find a rhythm; we move together in a familiar bliss that never, ever gets old.
Except this time, I falter and slip out, accidentally poke a little too high.
Reagan gasps and bolts forward, and then, when I start to pull back, calls out. “Wait. Oh god….hold on. Just wait.” She hangs her head between her shoulders, arches her back, and pushes back against me. “Try it. Slow.”
“You sure?”
So I nudge, ever so gently, and she moans. She pushes back, gasps. Pauses. I hold still, and she arches her spine and pushes back again, and I’m in, just a hint. Just the tip, but fuck, so tight.
“You write about this?” I ask, breathless, groaning.
“Oh, god…holy shit, Derek. Yeah….”
“I’m not hurting you, am I?” I can’t help flexing my hips, just slightly.
“Oh…oh…. No.” She pauses, stills, and then moves so I slide in a bit deeper.
This time, her moan is the breathless whimper that tells me how close she is. I lean over her back, reach down between her thighs, and find her core, find the touch she likes best. Barely touching, feather light. Slow circles around her clit, never quite touching. And then, when she’s writhing and shrieking, I press down in quick movements. She comes, screaming, and I sink in deeper, and she bites the pillow, muffling a loud wail of ecstasy.
And that’s when I explode, groaning, gasping, cursing, praying her name.
Moments of silence pass between us as we both fall back to earth from the dizzy heights. Finally, when I’m starting to wonder if she fell asleep like that, on her stomach, knees under her, fine ass up in the air, she stirs.
She flops to her side, pushing at me. “Cuddle me.”
I cuddle. “I love you. So much.”
“That’s ’cuz I’m awesome.”
“Yes, you are.”
“So are you.”
“Yes, I am.”
A few moments of silence, and I think she’s asleep. I almost am. “Derek?”
“Mmm?”
“If it’s a girl, can we name her Ida?”
“Of course, love.”
“Ida…what’s her middle name?”
I take a long time to respond, fighting sleep. “Dunno.”
“Derek.”
“Babe. We got five months.”
“Derek.”
“Jesus. Fine. Elizabeth.”
“Why?”
I groan. “Dunno, babe. I just like that name.” I yawn. “Ida Elizabeth West.”
“’Kay.”
* * *
REAGAN
OhmyholyshittingJesus. Giving birth never hurts any less. All of me is being ripped apart. I think I broke two of Derek’s fingers. Not the bad one, fortunately. He doesn’t complain, wonderful man that he is. Just holds on, kisses my sweaty forehead, and does the count for each push.
“One…two…three…four…five…six…seven…eight…nine…ten. Good, babe. Almost there.” His voice is low and soothing, right in my ear.
“Can you see her? Is she coming?” I’m frantic. Nine hours of labor, and I’m ready for this little girl to be out.
“Almost, love. Almost. One more push.” He peers down between my legs. “Yep. I can see her head, the top of her head.”
“Then one more isn’t going to do it. Several more,” I pant.
“You’re almost there, babe. Just think about the push.”
“DON’T LIE TO ME!”
“You’re almost done, babe. For real. Couple more pushes, and she’s out.” He pulls his hand from mine, flexes to restore circulation, and then takes my hand again. Starts the count. “One…two…three….”
I stop thinking about the count and focus on pushing. Every single ounce of everything inside me—PUSH. PUSH. PUSH. Don’t breathe, don’t scream, nothing but the push.
Breathe, gasp. Rest. Ignore everything and gather my strength. Once more. I can do it. One more time. One last time.
PUSH.
I feel something give — something inside me breaks and escapes, and the pressure is gone, the cramping searing pain lessens, and there’s a moment of silence, muttering from the doctor and nurses, a call for scissors. The cord? Is the cord?—But then I hear that sound, that sweet sound. A newborn wail, thin and high and angry and delicate.
A weight on my chest, the smell of blood and something else. I open my eyes and there she is, held by the doctor, birth-smeared and beautiful.
Ida Elizabeth West.
Sister to Tommy and Hank.
I’m crying. “Ida. Hi, baby girl. Welcome to the world.”
Derek, blinking hard, voice cracking. “It’s a beautiful place, this world. And there’s some beautiful people waiting to love you.”
Our eyes meet, and a lifetime of love passes between us, transmitted in a single glance.
THE END
Continue reading for a sneak preview of
BETA
Available October 21, 2014
Waking up has turned into one of my favorite games. The first question is always whether I’m up first, or Roth. If I’m up first, it’s my job—self-appointed—to make sure he wakes up in the best possible way. Meaning, with my hands and mouth around his morning wood. And if he’s up first, he pretends to be still asleep, so I can wake him up that way. The second question is where in the world we are, because it’s different every week or two. Last week, I woke up in Vancouver. I still had one of Roth’s neckties knotted around one wrist, remnants of a long and scream-filled night spent tied spread-eagle to the bed. Roth didn’t untie me until I’d come…god, like six times? Seven? And when he did finally untie me,
well, let’s just say I don’t think he’ll play the “torture Kyrie with multiple orgasms without letting her touch Roth back” game again any time soon. I literally attacked him. The claw marks raking down his back are still healing. I fucked him so hard I think I nearly broke his cock, actually. I think that’s possible. Pretty sure it is, and I’m pretty sure I nearly accomplished it.
I woke up and took stock. A little sore between the thighs, but nothing too bad. Roth was snoring, real snores, so I knew I was up first. I breathed in, sighed, stretched. Cracking my eyes open, I caught a whiff of salt sea air, the crash of waves. The bed rocked gently from side to side. We were in a small room, low ceilings, an open window. Just room enough for the bed and a small chest of drawers. But the bed was moving. Why was the bed moving?
Where were we? It took a few minutes for memories of the preceding day to bubble up. A week in Vancouver…a long, long flight to Tokyo. A week in Japan. God, what a week. So many tours, so much hiking, so much sushi and sake. I wasn’t sure I’d ever drink sake again, that was for sure.
Tokyo, Nagoya, Osaka, Kyoto….
Then where?
A seagull cawed, and I heard voices off in the distance, chattering rapidly. Not Japanese. I remembered the flight out of Kyoto, the flight attendants all dressed identically, down to their hairdos and the little scarf-tie thing knotted just so.
“Nhặt nó lên!” The angry voice echoed across the water, faint and distant.
Vietnam. That’s where we were. Hanoi. Roth bought us a houseboat, paid for it in cash, and he piloted it himself up the Red River from a little village on the Gulf of Tonkin to Hanoi. We stopped often, took it slow. Ate, drank, slept, fucked. We parked the houseboat and checked out temples, hiked out into the farmlands, into the hills, and hired an interpreter and guide to show us the best places off the beaten path. That’s the thing about Roth: He never seems like a tourist. He always seems like he belongs wherever we are, and always makes sure we’re safe.
We arrived in Hanoi last night, and Roth found some little old lady to cook us a huge dinner on the houseboat, and he paid her enough in U.S. dollars that she left looking a little faint from shock.
After dinner, he uncorked a bottle of some local wine or liquor — I wasn’t sure what it was, except strong. A couple of small glasses, and I was hammered. Roth took full advantage, laying me on my belly and drilling me until we both came. That was it, because I passed out after that.
Once in a night isn’t anywhere near enough to sate my Valentine, so I owe him.
Roth was on his side, facing away from me. The sheet was low around his hips, showing me his broad, rippling back. His blond hair had grown out over the last few months, enough that it brushed his collar when he had a shirt on and hung down past his cheekbones. He’d grown a bit of a beard, too. Being fair as he was, he didn’t grow a thick beard, just a fine coating of blond hair on his cheeks and jaw. Sexy. Oh, so sexy. I cuddled up against him, pressed my lips to the back of his shoulder and kissed, ran my hand down his thick bicep. I found his hip, pushed the sheet away. Peered over his body to watch myself as I cupped his balls in my hand. That, I’d found, was the best way to get him hard if he was still asleep. Massage slowly, gently, maybe a little pressure to his taint, and the sleeping giant would respond. Sure enough, within a minute or so, his cock was engorged and his breathing was changing. He groaned, his abdominal muscles tensing, arms raising over his head. He rolled to his back, stretched, flexed his hips to drive his dick into my fist.
I glanced up at him, found his eyes on me. “Morning.”
He grinned at me, a slow, sleepy smile. “Good morning, my lovely.”
“I passed out last night, huh?”
“Yes. Snake wine does you in rather quickly, it seems.” He watched as I stroked him slowly, one hand sliding from root to tip and back down in a smooth glide.
“Guess so.”
“You passed out before we got to do the one thing I’d been wanting to do to you on this boat.”
“Which is?”
“Mmmmm.” He closed his eyes and lifted his hips. “Would you like to find out?”
I just gave him my small, secret smile, the one that meant I wasn’t going to argue either way. The do as you wish grin.
Roth growled low his in throat and sat up, pushing me off him. Grabbed the blanket, a big, thin piece of dark green fleece, and draped it from his shoulders, wrapping the ends around both of us as I stood in front of him. He gestured at the door leading from the cabin up to the deck, and I ascended, squeaking as Roth’s fingers traced up my ass-crack. He just chuckled and kept fondling and fingering me, making the trip up the ladder a little difficult, but fun. On the deck, Roth kept the blanket around both of us and guided me to the bow, which curved up elegantly to about waist height. Hanoi was spread out before us, dim in the early-morning haze. There was another houseboat some two hundred feet away, and a third the same distance on the other side, but there was no motion from either. A fishing scow plied the water about a thousand feet up-current, nets spreading and being hauled in, voices echoing now and again.
“Grab the bow,” Roth whispered in my ear. I took hold of the bow with both hands, turned my head to watch him, but he made a negative sound. “Act like you’re just staring out at the city. And try to keep your voice down.”
I took the edges of the blanket and held on to it for him, keeping it pulled around us as Roth’s hands slid around my belly and descended between my thighs.
Oh, shit. Staying quiet is not one of my strong suits, it turns out.
He had me writhing and moaning, pressing into his touch and biting my lip to keep from screaming. It didn’t take long before I was coming for the first time, and then he was bending at the knees, fingers of one hand on my pussy, the other around his cock, feeding it into me. I bent forward over the bow, legs spread wide, and took him.
The fishing scow was getting closer, floating downstream, angled slightly so they’d slide right by us.
“Oh, god, Roth. Hurry. I’m so close.”
“Don’t come yet. Not yet.”
“I can’t help it. I’m about to—”
He slowed his pace immediately. “Not yet, Kyrie. Not yet.”
The scow neared. Faces turned to regard us, eyes narrowed, suspicious. Roth just waved, and I heard the fishermen exchange comments, laughing. At that exact moment, Roth flexed his hips and drove into me. I wasn’t expecting it, and I let out a loud whimper, and all the fishermen guffawed. But at a glare from Roth, the steersman gunned the engine and they were past, and then Roth was moving again and I was coming apart despite his exhortations to wait, wait.
“Come with me, Valentine!”
He came. Oh, dear god, did he come. So, so hard. He filled me with his come, and then kept driving, coming and coming, and I could only clench around him and bend over farther and keep taking him, gasping.
* * *
Two weeks later, we were in a chateau in the hills of southern France. I was waking up, playing my game. Taking stock and guessing at our location.
Only, this time something was wrong.
I sat up suddenly, totally awake. Roth wasn’t in bed. He never, ever left me alone in the mornings. I glanced at the bathroom, but it was dark and silent.
My heart was pounding, sweat beading on my forehead.
“Roth?”
Silence.
The bed beside me was rumpled, still warm from his body heat. The pillow was indented where his head had been.
There was a note. A white scrap of torn paper pinned to the bed with a long, thin knife. The words were written in neat, feminine, looping handwriting, red ink:
He belongs to me.
Preorder Beta now!
Jasinda Wilder
Visit me at my website: www.jasindawilder.com
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Links to my other titles:
The Preacher's Son:
Unbound
Unleashed
Unbroken
Biker Billionaire:
Wild Ride
Delilah's Diary:
A Sexy Journey
La Vita Sexy
A Sexy Surrender
Big Girls Do It:
Boxed Set
Married
On Christmas
Pregnant
Rock Stars Do It:
Harder
Dirty
Forever
Omnibus
Wounded
Stripped
The Falling Trilogy:
Falling Into You
Falling Into Us
Falling Under
The Ever Trilogy:
Forever & Always
After Forever
Saving Forever
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