“For me too.”
“A present for both of us? I don’t understand.” She understands, all right. I love that she’s teasing me, that her voice has gotten a little hoarse.
“Well,” I say, “let me see if I can show you.”
I move again. She makes a soft, sexy sound and her thighs fall open. I rise to my knees.
Her clit is pink and delicate and waiting for my touch, and I oblige. I take my dick in my hand, lean forward and rub the head of it up and down, up and down, slowly, slowly against her.
Her eyes darken; she catches her breath.
“We can do this,” I tell her. “Unless you don’t like it,” I say and I start to pull back.
Bailey wraps her legs around me.
“You’re a cruel man, Matthew O’Malley,” she whispers. “Trying to keep that present all for yourself.”
I laugh.
Then I stop laughing. I bend down and claim her mouth, and I slide into her, into all that welcoming heat and silky dampness, and we don’t do anymore talking for a long, long time.
* * *
The rain is determined to spoil Vigilant Violet’s plans for the day.
She’s had the hours between now and the wedding all worked out. Meals and activities at the country club. Bailey is reading the info to me from what looks like a timetable embossed with the names of the bride and groom as well as that golden dove.
Today, he isn’t winking. He’s smiling. So am I. My woman is sitting cross-legged in the center of our bed, snug within my encircling arms.
“Let’s see,” she says. “It’s, what, ten o’clock?”
“Mmm,” I say, nuzzling a loop of curls away from her throat. Her skin is warm and fragrant from the bath we took a little while ago in that soaking tub. No actual sex that time. My Bailey is a little sore, so I introduced her to what a creative couple can do with hands and fingers, mouths and tongues.
She turns out to be a wonderfully fast learner.
“So we’ve already missed breakfast. Or—” Her tone goes all dramatic and she takes on a French accent. “Or, Monsieur, perhaps I should say we have missed Le Petit Déjeuner.”
“You’re joking.”
She lifts the page and holds it up so I can read it. “Nope. The meals—breakfast, lunch, dinner—are all listed in French.”
“Because?”
“Because Vi wants it that way, I guess.”
“Is she French?”
Bailey laughs.
“Is Chester?”
She laughs again. I laugh too, even as I reach under the shirt she’s wearing—my shirt, unbuttoned—and cup her breasts.
“What about these, mademoiselle? Are these French?”
She leans her head back against my shoulder. “I love when you do that,” she murmurs as I feather my thumbs over her nipples.
“And a very good thing you do,” I say, kissing the side of her throat, “because I love doing it.”