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He stopped her before he could come. Before he ended things.
Then he picked her up and moved her to the bed, depositing her on her knees and pressing his hand firmly between her shoulder blades, so that her breasts were against the mattress. And her ass was up in the air. She was lovely like this. And he did not think he would ever get enough.
‘Is this what you want?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘You want me,’ he said. ‘You want me, and all that I am?’ He brought his palm down hard on the plump global flesh, leaving a bright red mark behind.
She squirmed against him, the yelp that she made more one of pleasure than pain. ‘Yes,’ she said.
‘For the rest of your life. You want me?’
‘Yes,’ she said in time with another strike of his hand.
‘He was right. I am depraved. And you know that makes you depraved right along with me.’
‘Yes,’ she said. He timed it with another firm smack. Over and over until her every breath was in affirmation. Until she was marked by him.
Until she was shaking. And so was he.
‘Philip,’ she said. ‘Please, Philip.’
And it was balm for his soul that she used his name. Because right in this moment he did not feel confused. Whether he was Philip or Briggs.
He was hers.
He pressed himself up against the wet entrance of her body and thrust hard. Claiming her over and over again, the only sound in the room flesh striking against flesh. And when her pleasure exploded around him, he could not keep himself back any longer. He released hold of his control. And he let himself spill inside her.
‘Philip,’ she whispered. ‘Philip, I love you.’
Chapter Seventeen
Beatrice was rocked. Utterly shaken.
In the space of just a few hours she had found out that she could have a baby, had seduced her husband, and had told him that she loved him.
She was laying there in the aftermath of their desire, shattered and terrified. For she had not meant to say aloud that she loved him. Not yet.
But she could not keep it in. Not any more.
She was not... She was not sorry. She was not sad. It felt right. This. No matter what happened.
‘I love you.’
‘Love,’ he said. ‘I do not... I do not even understand what that means.’
‘You do not understand what love means?’
‘I do not understand what it has to do with this.’
‘It has everything to do with this. You are my husband. My lover. My friend. I love you.’
‘You love me,’ he said, his tone sardonic. ‘I do not think you do. Moreover, I do not wish to have this conversation. It is... It is foolish.’
‘What is foolish about it?’
‘No one has ever loved me. No one. No one has ever said those words to me.’
