“I am ungrateful,” she whispered as she traced a finger along Harry’s bicep. “What does it matter if he doesn’t think I’m as good a mother as his first wife? Del is right, mothering isn’t everything. I have other qualities, other talents. My whole life does not revolve around being a mother. I am a person unto myself, and do not need to be judged either by my ability to bear children, or my ability to raise them. I am me, Plum. That should be good enough for anyone.”
Brave words, her inner Plum said in an annoyingly mocking tone. The truth is, being a mother is what you want, it’s what you’ve always wanted, all you’ve wanted. A family — that’s what you’ve craved your whole adult life, and now you have one and you’re not happy.
Plum told her inner voice to go take a long walk along a short cliff, and turned her attention from self-pity to proving her excellence as mother to both Harry’s existing children, and the ones she hoped to bear.
One thought leading to another, Plum’s fingers found themselves stroking a path from Harry’s arm, down his side, over his hip, to that part of him that lay nestled in quiescence along her thigh. She knew full well why he had spilled his seed outside of her body the previous night, but she had been too caught up in the moment of passion, in the knowledge of her love for him to beg him to give her a child. Instead she said nothing while he gently cleaned her off, reluctant to ruin the warm feeling that came when he settled back into bed, pulling her up against him, their arms and legs entangled as if their bodies could not be separated.
Plum tipped her head and glared down at the part of him that was the cause of all her woes. “You’re not even handsome like the rest of Harry. To be truthful, you’re a bit funny looking.”
He stirred (all of him), his arousal stiffening and growing before her eyes.
“Funny looking?” Harry sounded annoyed. Plum smiled at his cute little belly. “What sort of comment is that for a wife to make the morning after a wedding night?”
She kissed his chest, then tipped her head up to smile into his disgruntled face. “I didn’t mean it as an insult, husband, but you have to admit that part of the male anatomy is rather…comical.”
His eyes widened. His nostrils flared. His arousal hardened. “My rod is not comical! It’s an extremely fine specimen of its kind.”
“Harry, I’m sorry if you’re offended by my opinion, but I can’t help it — it looks…funny. Look at it!” They both looked. It waved at them. “You see? It’s all red and purple, and has that silly little bit of skin that slides back and forth like a purple visor on a helmet.”
“Plum,” Harry said, breathing loudly through his mouth, “you will cease deriding my rod. It is not comical or funny looking. It is manly. It all but throbs with virility. Vigor is its byword. I’ll have you know that women the world over have been known to swoon before it. I have had nothing but praise and gratitude from all of the women it has pleasured.”
Plum’s giggle died a cruel death as she narrowed her eyes at him. “Oh, really? Women the world over?”
“There are legions of women out there who would be happy to write up affidavits attesting to the completely un-funny nature of my rod,” Harry continued, waving his hand at his crotch. “It is a majestic thing, a masculine testament to the act of love, a warrior, if you will—”
“A purple-helmeted warrior of love,” Plum snorted as she wished all of those women who had shared Harry’s body to the devil. “You sound like the very worst sort of prose, husband. I didn’t say it was not a thing of great enjoyment—”
“You mocked it! You derided it!”
“I did not mock—”
“It’s a wonder you haven’t shredded my confidence in my use of it,” Harry said as he rolled her over onto her back. “In fact, I believe you owe proof to my rod and me that you still believe in it. Me. Us.”
“Women the world over?” Plum asked, her body melting wherever Harry touched. “Affidavits, Harry?”
He nipped her nose. “Perhaps that was an exaggeration.”
“I fervently hope so,” she answered, wrapping her legs around his hips, moaning softly as he claimed her mouth. His breath was hot and quick on her lips, but not nearly as rapid as the wild beating of her heart. He sucked her lower lip into his mouth, and Plum thought she was going to cry with the pleasure of it. He nipped the corners of her mouth, wordlessly demanding she part her lips to him, and she thought she would faint. His tongue plunged into her mouth, sweeping all objections before it, tasting her, teasing her, stroking her own tongue, and she thought she would die. But when he began to suckle her tongue, when he coaxed her tongue into exploring his mouth, when she tasted his groan of sheer delight, she knew she was in heaven. She pulled him down onto her body, pulled his head closer, trying to taste him, feel him, join with him all at the same time. Her senses swam with the contact, too much too quickly, too much stimulation, too little control, but none of that mattered as she arched up against him when he plunged his tongue into her mouth, little whimpers of pleasure gathering at the back of her throat.
Harry heard those whimpers and lost the thin shred of control that had kept him from plunging himself into her body. “St. Peter’s cods, woman! I’m just a man! I can’t stand such temptation.”
She blinked at him, her eyes misty with desire, her skin heated with passion. She knew he was speaking, but she didn’t understand the words. “Why are you talking? Now is not the time for talk, Harry. Now is the time for making love.”
“Stop that,” he ordered as her legs moved restlessly beneath him, rubbing against him in a provocative movement. “Don’t move, don’t kiss me, don’t breathe. Just lay there, and perhaps I’ll be able to get through this without shaming myself a second time.” He bent to caress her breast with his lips. She slid one leg out from beneath him and wrapped it around his calf.
Harry reared backward like he had been shot in the behind, his eyes positively feasting on her flesh, his look so heated she swore she could feel its touch. “So soft,” he said hoarsely as he looked at her. “Everywhere I look, creamy white skin, glistening, a veritable playing ground of delectable flesh, and it’s mine, all mine.”
Plum couldn’t stop the laughter from burbling out. Harry looked like he was about to rub his hands with glee. “Yes, I’m yours, all yours. The question is, what are you going to do about it?”
“I want to touch you everywhere, I want to taste you, I want to plunge deep into your silken folds and lose myself in your heat.”
She ran both hands up his arms. “And what’s stopping you?”
He made a noise deep in his chest. “I’m a gentleman. You must have the choice of what you want first. Touching, tasting, or plunging?” His voice was rough, graveledged, and it thrummed deep within Plum.
Harry kissed her again, a deep kiss, a demanding kiss, a kiss that gave no quarter. “Make up your mind. Quickly. I don’t have much time before I…er…I don’t have much time.”
“Mmm. Perhaps I can do something to help.” Plum squirmed out from beneath him, pushing him over onto his back. “What a perfect opportunity for the Steeplechase.”
Harry stared at her in delighted surprise as she straddled his thighs.
She smiled. “You’re absolutely right, Harry.”
“Yes, of course I am. Er. About what?”
She put out a hand to touch him, and he groaned deep in his throat. “You’re hot and hard and velvety smooth, but not funny looking. Not any more.”
He grabbed her wrist and stopped her exploration. “For the love of God, woman, not now. Not unless you want it all to be over.” His voice sounded like it was made up of gravel, all hard corners and grit. Plum smiled, and slid herself forward on his lap until the tip of him teased her heated core.