In that moment, there was nothing holding her back from advancing into the future. She was no longer weak. She was no longer scared. For the first time in ages, she was hopeful.
Chapter 40
The following Thanksgiving…
Casey woke to the sun creeping through the blinds. She felt completely rested after a night of amazing dreams and amazing sex. As if he knew what she was thinking, Conor pressed his thick erection against her bare ass, and ran his lips along the length of her neck.
“Top o’ the mornin’ to ya, wife,” Conor said, now running the tip of the tongue across her flesh.
“Good morning, husband,” Casey said, giggling. He pulled her body closer to his, his shaft throbbing between them.
“I’ve a Thanksgiving gift for ya,” he said.
“Oh yeah? And what is that?” she said, smiling in anticipation. She already knew that it was going to be something sexual, and she was completely fine with that. She never tired of ravishing his body, or vice versa.
“Let me show ya,” he said as he scooted beneath the sheets and in between her legs. Warmth filled her body, and she grew wet, hungry to feel his tongue against her sex. He was so close to her that she felt his steamy breath against her aching folds. Just when he was about to delve between her slick lips, the baby began to cry from the other room.
“Aww,” she said, laying her head back into the pillow, willing her body to calm down. Conor’s head appeared from underneath the sheets, and he smiled helplessly.
“Shite. I guess we’ll just have to continue this later then, won’t we?” He rose from the bed and pulled on a pair of pajama bottoms. “I’ll get Aislinn.” Casey smiled in response and watched him leave the room.
When he returned, he was gently rocking their infant daughter. Casey had not endured a difficult pregnancy or labor, and Conor had been by her side the entire time. Their daughter was beautiful, with her daddy’s emerald eyes and her mommy’s dark hair. Conor sat down on the bed beside Casey, and they both gazed at the precious child they had created.
In a soft voice, Conor said to Aislinn, “Your ma had better get up and get ready. Aunt Samantha and Uncle Gio will be here soon with Spencer. We have to get supper ready so that ya can meet both of your grandpas today.”
Casey could not believe that they had convinced both her father and Conor’s to come to Thanksgiving dinner. In that moment, she felt that she was the luckiest person in the world. She smiled wide and put her head on her husband’s shoulder. They both peered at their perfect half-Irish, half-Texan daughter as Conor began to sing his favorite Irish lullaby:
Over in Killarney,
Many years ago,
Me mither sang a song to me
In tones so sweet and low,
Just a simple little ditty,
In her good ould Irish way,
And I’d give the world if she could sing
That song to me this day.
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral,
Too-ra-loo-ra-li,
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral,
Hush, now don’t you cry!
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral,
Too-ra-loo-ra-li,
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral,
That’s an Irish lullaby.
Oft, in dreams I wander
To that cot again,
I feel her arms a huggin’ me,
As when she held me then.
And I hear her voice a hummin’
To me as in days or yore,
When she used to rock me fast asleep
Outside the cabin door.
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral,
Too-ra-loo-ra-li,
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral,
Hush, now don’t you cry!
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral,
Too-ra-loo-ra-li,
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral,
That’s an Irish lullaby.
Aislinn began to close her sleepy eyes to the soothing tones of Conor’s voice. Casey thought back to the last couple of years. She had been through hell, but she still managed to find her happiness again. Moving on had not been easy—it was an art that she had to master, but somehow, the darkness was replaced with light. A light that she knew would not burn out anytime soon.
THE END
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sarah Raymond received a Bachelor of Arts at Texas Tech University. She lives with her husband, two amazing sons, and spoiled Boxer in Austin, TX. Originally from West Texas, living in the Hill Country has always been her dream, as well as becoming a published Author. She spends most of her time outdoors, or writing of course.
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The Art of Moving On (Siren Publishing Classic) Page 25