by Parker Swift
He lifted my leg off the table. “And look how convenient this table is, how easily I can sort you out.”
Oh my god. He was going to try to put my legs back in the stirrups, expose me completely. That was totally hot, but so wrong.
“Dylan!” I desperately half whispered, scrambling to get my hand free. My brain—and every logical sane part of me—wanted him to stop immediately. But my treacherous body needed him to continue. We hadn’t had sex once since Canada—I was hormonal and needy and I was at war with myself. “We can’t do this here, Dylan. I can’t have the medical staff hearing me come. I—”
I was interrupted by a knock and a voice from behind the closed door. “Ahem. Everything well in there, Your Grace?” It was the doctor.
We froze. Dylan’s hand was right by my naked sex, and my hand was gripping his forearm. We looked at each other and burst into silent laughter. The kind that hurt to keep inside. And the more I laughed, the more he laughed. We dropped our hands, and he brought his face close to mine and kissed me between laughing breaths. He shook his head in disbelief.
“Just fine, thank you! Just getting dressed!” I cleared my throat, tried to stop laughing, and let Dylan help me up to sitting. I exhaled through my lips, demonstrating my own disappointment. The truth was, even if I had been going to stop him, I needed to be touched by him as much as he wanted to touch me. But it would have to wait.
Dylan reluctantly slipped my dress over my head as I held my arms up. Then he lovingly knelt down and held out each flat as I slipped my foot in.
“I’m dying for you, damsel,” he said so only I’d hear. He stood and kissed my cheek.
“Me too, knighty. Tonight,” I replied, promising. “But now, unfortunately, I have to go to the office.”
“I’ll take you. I can work from your office,” he said, taking my hand, squeezing it.
“For a little while maybe, but you have a dentist appointment,” I said. “At two.” I looked into my bag, making sure I had my phone and wallet.
“I do?” he asked. I nodded.
“Bloody hell,” he said, and I could see by his expression that he was thinking of a way to get out of it.
I smiled. “I can either make a joke here about British people and their teeth or about stubborn men not wanting to go to the doctor. You choose.”
“Cheeky girl,” he replied, smacking me firmly on the ass before pulling me close against his side and opening the door into the hallway.
“You’re going,” I said, and he just grumbled in acquiescence.
* * *
Dylan could only stay at my office for an hour, during which time he had commandeered my assistant’s desk and barked orders at his assistant, the poor Thomas, over the phone. Every so often I’d catch him looking through my office door at me, but otherwise the man was focused on whatever work it was he was doing out there. He left for the dentist just as Fiona, the brash, buxom redhead I’d claimed as my best friend in London, was arriving.
Fiona and I had met as assistants for Hannah Rogan when I first arrived in London six years earlier, but it turned out that my life as Dylan’s girlfriend, and now wife, was somewhat inconsistent with a nine-to-five, and I left my job shortly before we got married. After my wedding, Fiona also left Hannah’s, and we started our own business. We provided technology and social media consulting for fashion designers and brands. We were the only fashion-focused technology firm in existence, and in a few short years we’d found ourselves in the position of being able to pick and choose the clients and projects we wanted to take on. I loved nurturing emerging talent, helping artists find their footing in the commercial space. It was the perfect job for me. And perfect for the life I led—there were often times I needed to pause for a few weeks while Dylan and I attended to matters at Humboldt Park, to other ducal business, or to our children. I could mete out work at my own pace.
And Fiona was the perfect partner—she kept us going, was fantastic at her job, and provided the stability our business needed, but that I couldn’t always offer. Plus she had a side hustle designing lines of jewelry in collaboration with some of our clients.
“For fuck’s sake, Lydia.” Fiona’s northern accent always had a way of snapping me to attention. “That man of yours is on pins and needles, isn’t he? I haven’t seen him so James Bond–ish since you two started dating.” Fiona stood up straight and put an exaggerated stern look on her face, doing what I guessed was her Dylan–James Bond impression—stern jaw, scrunched forehead, and a stare directed at me.
Laughing, I replied, “Oh, yeah, well, he’s not exactly thrilled about this wedding business.”
She looked at me oddly. “He does know you two are actually already married, right? Is he worried about the children being born out of wedlock?” She fake gasped, enjoying making fun of Dylan. Frankly, I enjoyed it too. Running a business with Fiona was like running a business with tawdry stand-up comedian some days. “But, no, really. What wedding business?”
“You haven’t heard?”
She shook her head in reply.
“You’re looking at Princess Caroline’s new matron of honor.”
Fiona smiled as her gaze drifted down to my stomach, at which point her eyes went wide with something that looked a little too much like horror.
“Fucking hell,” she said in a tone that almost sounded like reverence for the whole situation.
We spent the next two hours doing far less work than I’d anticipated and far more gossiping about royal weddings. Caroline’s in particular, the queen’s, and remembering my own royal-ish wedding.
“Yours was splendid, you know. Just the right amount of fanfare, but not so much as to be too outrageous,” Fiona said. “Plus, you know, I was a bridesmaid—bound to make any nuptials more festive. Caroline should have asked me.”
“Well presumably, unlike me, Caroline doesn’t need you to quiz her on the names of all the British aristocrats in preparation for her wedding.” I could easily remember the hours Fiona and I had spent on my couch. She had made at least fifty flashcards that had a picture of each aristocrat on one side and their name and one random fact on the other, like Duke of Tabor, known for riding a motorcycle that has a sidecar for his golden retriever or Duke of Wayland, once photographed wearing nothing but women’s underwear on his balcony. I’d have been truly lost without her.
“True. True,” Fiona said, tapping the pen in her hand to her chin. “But maybe, like you, she needs help disguising the fact she’s pregnant. I could swap out her champagne for ginger ale and stand by with a pail in case she, you know.” She paused to mime vomiting. “You think?”
I nearly spit out my tea I was laughing so hard. “Fiona! No. I don’t think Caroline is pregnant.”
To this, Fiona exhaled loudly through her lips. “Ah well, that would have been exciting. Can’t win ’em all then, can we?”
* * *
When I got home, I opened the door to two little people barreling towards me. Dylan and I took turns leaving the office early, making sure at least one of us was always home for dinner. That night, I knew that Dylan would be working late, so it would just be me and the kids.
“Mummy, can we please have macaroni and cheese for dinner, Mummy? Please. Please. Please!” Eleanor was full on jumping up and down, and Aiden was just running around me in circles, driving a fire truck in the air that had earsplitting sirens wailing. Even in their excitement, their pronounced British accents shined through. No matter how hard I tried to get even one of them to pick up my American accent, it didn’t work. Maybe I’d have better luck with the next one.
“Um, sweetheart, I don’t know,” I said, putting my bag down by the door and looking down through the hall where I saw Molly, our housekeeper, in the kitchen. She looked to me with a wave followed by a thumbs-up. That was the affirmative on the mac and cheese. “Sure, Ellie, you can have mac and cheese. But you also must eat the rest of your dinner.”
“I promise, Mummy!” I couldn’t help but laugh at her pl
eas. I could only pray her major wants in life always remained this easy to fulfill.
At seven forty-five, after dinner, a game of Candy Land, and a twenty-five-minute debate about pajamas, I was in prime fighting position with Aiden, doing everything I could to get him to brush his teeth without literally forcing him.
“Aiden William Richard Hale, you will brush your teeth,” I said, doing my best to show him I meant business. There were moments when it was just the futility of these arguments that drove me crazy. Like, dude, you’re getting your teeth brushed. We can do this the hard way or the easy way.
“No,” he replied, looking entirely too serious in his footie pajamas and holding his stuffed doggie.
“Aiden,” I said with a healthy dose of warning, which I prayed he’d heed, because the truth was I had no plan for what the consequences would be if he didn’t. I needed to be better prepared for these situations.
“No,” he said again, gripping his stuffed animal even tighter.
“Aiden, you’ll get cavities,” Eleanor helpfully chimed in.
“Just like daddy.” My eyes flew up to see Dylan entering the bathroom. He must have just gotten home.
“You had a cavity?” I asked, smiling, for some reason finding this hilarious. I think it was because I knew just how crazy that would make him—that the Dylan Hale, master of his own ship, would get a cavity. It was too good. I chuckled out loud.
“Don’t enjoy it too much,” he said, shifting out of his jacket. “Go read a book with Ellie, baby. I’ve got this.” He kissed me quickly on the forehead, and I took Eleanor’s hand.
“I’m glad you made it home for bedtime,” I added.
“Me too,” he said before turning back to Aiden. “Okay, little man, what is this about not wanting to brush your teeth?” As I walked towards the children’s room, I could hear him explaining cavities to our two-year-old.
Even though we had plenty of space, our children shared a room and probably would for a few more years. We’d asked them if they wanted their own rooms, but the two remained adamant, for now, that they wanted to stay together. So Eleanor and I snuggled up in one of the twin beds with a book. Within a minute I heard the water running and the sounds of toothbrushing.
After the sorting of stuffed animals and discussions about night-lights and blankets, Dylan turned off the bedside lamp and he and I switched beds, taking our turns with each of our children. We always ended the day the same way—one of us in each of the kids’ beds, the four of us enjoying the quiet.
In the almost darkness, I could see Dylan lying next to Eleanor—his legs hanging off the end of the bed. Aiden’s little form was curled against me.
“Okay, guys, best moment of the day,” I prompted.
“Ice cream,” said Aiden matter-of-factly.
“Aiden, you didn’t have any ice cream,” I replied. Kids were so weird.
“Making cookies in the chicken,” Eleanor piped up.
“It’s pronounced kitchen, poppet,” Dylan said, laughing. I was giggling too.
“How about you, Dylan?” I asked, looking up at the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling.
“Right now,” he said after a minute.
“Yeah, right now is pretty good,” I agreed, and we were both silent.
“Can we listen to our song now?” Eleanor asked, clearly exasperated by us.
Dylan reached over to the speaker setup on the bedside table and turned on Paul Simon’s “St. Judy’s Comet.” We listened to it together every night. My father used to play it for me on his guitar when I was a little girl, and it felt like one little thing I could do, one little piece of him I could bring into my children’s lives.
Aiden was asleep by the end of the first verse. We kissed them both, and I heard Dylan whisper something to Eleanor that made her laugh before we crept out of the room.
I leaned against the wall outside their room and looked at Dylan, feeling like it was the first time I really saw him all day. Had that doctor’s appointment really been today? It felt like a week ago.
“Come to bed early?” I asked hopefully. “You can finish what you started at the doctor’s office,” I added, smiling.
Dylan groaned and tilted his head back in defeat. “Damsel, you have no idea how much I’d like to do that. Give me forty-five minutes—I’ve got to send off some emails—then you’re all mine.”
After making a couple of phone calls, confirming the kids’ plan for the next day, and doing some last-minute online shopping for the baby, I climbed into our king-sized bed with a cup of tea and a book, determined to stay awake for Dylan. Sadly, my determination was no match for being a working pregnant parent.
I wasn’t sure how much time had passed when I woke later as Dylan curled his naked body around mine. I felt him slip his hand inside his old button-down shirt that I’d taken to wearing to bed. I felt his warm hands touch, wander, travel my skin. “Baby,” he’d whispered. “Sorry I took so long.”
“S’okay,” I murmured, just happy to have him in bed with me. I inched my body further back into the curve he’d created for me, found his arm to use as a pillow, and fell back into sleep.
Chapter Three
Eighteen days until the big day
Damsel.” I heard the word break through my consciousness. I cracked my eye open, and just a hint of morning light streamed through the window. Dylan’s hands had resumed their wandering of my limbs and my breasts, and I groaned both for the pleasure of his touch and because I wanted to curl back into sleep.
“God, I love your body like this,” he whispered from behind me, and his deep husky voice ignited that familiar tingle on my skin and began to awaken my body. The light duvet was soft against my naked skin, warm, but not as warm as the hand that reached between my knees.
“Mmm,” I replied, my eyes closed. I tilted my head back, offering my neck to his lips.
“Baby,” he hummed, and I could hear the impatience, the insistence in his voice. He smoothed his hand across my upper chest, urging me to shift to his liking. I moaned and moved to my back.
“That’s it. Good girl.” He cupped my breasts and took my nipple between his teeth.
“Dylan,” I said softly, and I looped my arms around his neck and smiled coyly, fully awake now.
“Tsk tsk, damsel,” he said, moving my arms back above my head. “I can’t get enough of you, but I’ll be doing the touching,” he whispered. It was quiet and still almost dark. It felt like the whole world began and ended beneath that duvet.
I gave a throaty groan and disobeyed—I took his face between my hands, searching for his lips with my own. There was electricity humming just under my skin. “The kids?” I asked.
“Asleep. Now be a good girl. Arms up.” I obeyed this time. “Spread those beautiful legs for me.” I followed orders—desperate for him. Desperate for release.
Dylan’s hand reached between my thighs, and his fingers found me wet and wanting. I reached for him again, wanting to feel his thickness in my hand, to anticipate what he would feel like inside me, but within a second he was perched on his knees and had my wrists in his hands.
“Naughty thing. I’m going to have to restrain you, aren’t I?” That voice. That husky dominant voice ignited my body even further.
I bit my lip and nodded, and soon I felt the soft terry cloth of my robe belt being wound around my wrists. The sense of vulnerability that accompanied being restrained, no matter how familiar, made me even wetter.
“Dylan,” I said, practically begging. Our bodies were tented under the crisp white linens, and he was smiling down at me, smiling like we had a secret, like we had all the time in the world. Once upon a time we would have played at this for an hour, would have danced a teasing dance to work each other into a frenzy, but now we had a deadline.
He slipped a finger inside me and I tossed my head back—it wasn’t enough and was too much at the same time. More. I needed more.
“Baby—” he started, and I knew what was coming. He was going
to wreck me. I was so primed, so ready. I wanted to giggle, to squeal, to hum with anticipation. And just as he was about to say something, to tell me exactly how he was going to satisfy the need so alive in my body, I heard the familiar sound of our bedroom door creaking open.
“Daddy?”
Within a second, Dylan yanked the bathrobe tie from my wrists, and was somehow pulling on pajama pants one-handed. And I frantically pulled the duvet up to my neck.
“Hi, sweetie,” I said to my son, wiping the hair from my face and coughing on the words. “Aiden, baby, what do you need?” He stood there in his footie pajamas, with an empty milk cup, and his sister was quick on his heels.
Dylan went to them, knelt down, and began sorting out what they wanted while letting go an exaggerated sigh. I looked at the clock: six thirty in the morning. By the time the kids were taken care of, we’d both need to start getting ready for the day.
“Come back?” I asked anyway, hopeful.
“Frank will be here in an hour,” he replied with a resigned shrug. He adjusted himself through his pajama bottoms, and looked at me, apologetic. Apologetic and frustrated. He closed the door behind him as he walked down the hall with the children.
I groaned and turned my face back into the pillow.
* * *
Fifty minutes later, Dylan opened the door to Frank, who took in the chaotic scene of our house with a chuckle.
“Babycakes!” I shouted, coming from the kitchen in my bathrobe with a cup of coffee, my hair in a messy knot on top of my head. Frank and I had a tradition of fake flirting with each other with no other goal than irritating Dylan. Or I guess it was just me who fake flirted with Frank. Dylan rolled his eyes at me and shook Frank’s hand.
