Not like with Jasmine. That was lust worth pursuing. Right now. He had to pursue it right now, before his dick went nuts.
“I don’t care about any woman but you.” His erection strained against his jeans, but that didn’t prevent him from speaking sweetly to his wife. Ethan knew that was the ticket to making Jasmine happily open up to him and the quickie he offered. “You, you, you. You and me on this couch thinking only about each other. Or not thinking at all. That’s cool too.”
“Tell you what, husband.” Jasmine put two firm hands on his chest. A motion that was both inviting and kept him at a protective distance. “You turn off that music and we’ll have all the sex you want for the next fifteen minutes.”
As much as Ethan enjoyed the greatest album of 2016, he enjoyed sex with his wife even more. Carly Rae Jepson had come to save pop music, but the Canadian chanteuse could not save his marriage if Ethan refused to make love to his wife to any sound but the grunts and hurried moans they made. No other woman entered their minds. Not even Cassandra, who could not have possibly ran away from Ethan as the father of this supposed child of hers.
For that was not the only thing playing at the couple’s collective consciousness. Their big year of entering the union of husband and wife was coming to a close, but 2017 was sure to see them making a decision bigger than themselves. Not even Ethan’s pesky vasectomy was going to get in the way of that.
Scene 5
The Warrens
To assume that Monica Warren had not yet heard about Cassandra’s reappearance is to greatly underestimate the influence she commanded in the region. She was not only the wife of a multibillionaire and heir to an even greater fortune, but she ran a business that invited the other bigshots of the world to open up to the latest gossip over bottles of Cristal and Cuban cigarettes. She had heard more about Cassandra in the past year than anyone in the Welsh family. But, in truth, the only things she heard were from the past. Cassandra’s ex-lovers had a tendency to bond over her when the alcohol flowed and scantily clad women promised them rebound sex. For the right price, of course.
But Monica was a busy woman, especially at that time of year, and she had no desire to engage in any talk that had nothing to do with her personally. In the course of 2016 she had married and become a mother. As this would be her first Christmas commanding both important titles, she was determined to get at least something right.
Like capturing every moment of her daughter’s first Christmas with a professional photographer. Because what else did one use a professional photographer for?
“What are you doing?” she asked her husband when he held up his cell phone to snap a picture of their daughter in her brand-new elf costume. “We have a photographer here for a reason.”
Henry regarded the middle-aged woman carting around a large camera with only passing interest. “And they’ll be swell pictures, I’m sure. But maybe Daddy wants some fuzzy pictures on his phone to peruse at his leisure?”
As much as Monica did not want to stoop to his pedestrian level, she was immediately compelled to pull out her own cell phone and snap a shot of daughter Abigail the moment she pumped her stubby legs into the air and giggled at all the attention she constantly received as the prized heiress of the Warren Estate. One day Monica would have to curtail this attention to ensure her daughter didn’t grow up too spoiled and entitled (for it was impossible to avoid any entitlement at their prestigious level) but for now, she was content to fill her daughter’s baby days with nothing but endless love and adoration.
If taking pictures with both a cell phone and a professional photographer meant it was so, then so be it.
“When this fuss is over with,” Henry said, having pocketed his phone in favor of wrapping a doting arm around his wife’s midsection, “I’d like to see you in my office.” He winked at her before strolling away. “If it pleases my Princess.”
Regardless of how stressed out Monica had just been, having her husband act so flirtatious in her direction always managed to calm her down. As it turned out, it often made his day as well – he was simply better at hiding his stress behind a carefully crafted façade. “It always pleases me, sir,” she said, just loud enough for him to hear above the rabble.
On top of the spoiling, Monica would also have to one day figure out how to tell Abigail about her parents’ unique marriage. For not only were they one of the wealthiest families in America, but Henry and Monica shared one of the staunchest Dom/sub relationships around. Not exactly the easiest thing to explain to a child.
Monica allowed herself a few more moments of fantasy before launching herself back into the fuss that was arranging baby’s first Christmas photoshoot.
“Lady Warren,” the head butler greeted with his somber expression. The man, in his coat and tails, stood at the front of the large room with a graceful nod of the head. Monica did not desire to pull herself away from her adorable daughter, nor did she want to be away from the action that was the flashes of lights and curt orders of a staunch photographer, but she knew the butler would not interrupt her unless it was important. So even though Monica would rather drag her knees through razor blades than tend to this matter, she went, head high and posture as impeccable as always.
“What is it?” she asked brusquely.
The butler gracefully lowered his head again. “Mrs. Cole is here to see you. She is waiting in the grand foyer for an audience.”
Monica had lived in the world of billionaires (including ridiculously rich ones, even by billionaire standards) for a good chunk of her life, but she would never get over being spoken to as if she were real royalty. No wonder ninnies like her sister-in-law Eva often had to fuck off to their own private apartments in the city. Not only could they afford them, but it was imperative to not losing one’s mind or laughing so hard one choked to death. The Warrens’ head butler had been trained since his childhood to be the best at his profession. Nothing that came out of his mouth was something he didn’t feel anything but pride for.
Laughing was not the appropriate reaction for Lady Warren to have.
“You may show her in.” That was a concession Monica would only make for one of her dearest friends. Like Jasmine Cole, who was promptly allowed into the brightly lit room wearing a periwinkle winter dress with a plush white coat on top. Her hair was pulled back into a thick, black braid and dusted with diamonds. Not a look Monica had yet to get used to with someone like Jasmine, but it told her one thing: that Jasmine had planned on visiting her friend from the moment she picked out her outfit that day. Jasmine would not dress that splendidly for a foray into the city. The two of them may have been good friends, but even Monica was a level beyond Jasmine’s, in both experience and practicality. Just like Monica would never deign Jasmine with anything less than head-to-toe designer wear, Jasmine would never come directly to the Warren Estate without consulting her personal stylist first.
“Wow.” Jasmine craned her head back. A diamond fell out of her hair, prompting the butler to quickly pick it up and hand it to Lady Warren before taking his leave. Monica had the diamond back where it belonged with one graceful movement of her wrist – before Jasmine stopped taking in the scene unfolding before her. “What’s going on in here? Bit late for a Christmas card photoshoot, isn’t it?”
“We don’t do that, apparently.” Monica had seen old photos from her husband’s childhood, but the practice had been put to bed by the time the youngest Warren was in her teen years. Now the most they would consent to was a private Christmas portrait taken right before they sat down for the family dinner – to avoid the inevitable bloat. Monica often fondly looked at the one from 2015. She was three months pregnant in that photo. This year she would have a baby to hold in her lap. (There would also be Eva’s girlfriend to possibly add to the photo, although it was not custom to include lovers. Monica and Henry had been formally engaged by the time of the last photo.) “This is a little photoshoot I’ve put together for Abigail’s first Christmas. When you get the chance, you must see her in that elf costume. Custom made for her. I was so afraid she would be too big for it by the time the shoot came around. We had to delay it twice because she kept getting the sniffles.”
Jasmine’s gaze was a mix of awe and apprehension, but Monica knew that look well. She would be right, too, to assume that it was born from Jasmine’s curiosity regarding motherhood. But, if she were to ask her friend, Monica would give her the same advice as she had given Ethan: wait at least two years before purposely having a baby after marriage. Seriously. She didn’t care how ready a couple thought they were to start purposely propagating progeny. What was the point if they didn’t take the time to truly enjoy their married life first? Monica Warren did not resent her daughter, but the timing was… unfortunate. She was lucky to have a husband as affable as Henry. Even when he was his strictest in the bedroom, he was still the cuddliest asshole when it came to matters of the heart.
Both women stood off to the side while the photoshoot commenced. Nanny Matilda stayed the closest to baby Abigail to tend to her demands. Although Monica would never completely learn to let go of her mother hen tendencies, by this point she was comfortable with letting Matilda take over during stressful situations.