The Wedding of Molly O'Flaherty (13 page)

“I only care to remember one part,” he said, a little wary now.

“I’m talking about that part.”

His mouth relaxed, even as he started thrusting up as much as his seated position would allow.

“There is something I’ve taken, since I was a girl. To prevent pregnancy.” I watched his face for any sign of judgment or disapproval, but there was none. Relieved, I went on. “Well, I forgot to take it that morning. And every morning since I went to France.”

His body stilled under mine, though those hands clung on to me even tighter.

“I…I wasn’t certain last month. So I saw a physician last week, and he confirmed it for me. We think the probable conception date was that night.” Another deep breath. “In eight months, we should have a child of our own.”

The biggest smile I’d ever seen split his face, a wide and astonished grin, and then he was kissing me hard, his hands moving and finding my waist and then my hair and then my face, which he cradled in his hands as he broke our kiss.

His eyes searched mine. “Truly?”

“Truly.” I brushed the back of my hand against his face, loving the faint rasp of the stubble against my glove, loving the sharp excesses of his features. With a finger, I traced a spiral around the dimple that drove me crazy. “We are going to have a child.”

“God, I want to get you pregnant again just for saying that.”

I giggled, which made me tighten around him, and he groaned, his smile shifting into something more feral, more determined.

“Why don’t we give it a try anyway?” he said in my ear, and within moments, we were both gasping through our first orgasms as man and wife.

I do rather think I could get used to being married.

Ten Months Later

County Clare, Ireland

“I’m not an invalid, you know,” Molly said snappishly, refusing my hand as we picked our way down the jagged path to the seashore.

I grinned up at her, loving her like this, fiery and unbound, her hair blowing free around her face, her eyes squinting ahead toward the sea. Surrounded by the rolling green above and the slate gray rocks below, she seemed so at home here, so natural. So content.

Except of course, when she didn’t want me to help her.

“It’s only been six weeks since the baby,” I said. And then she stopped walking and planted her hands on her hips, looking dangerously close to launching into one of her rages, and I grinned even more because,
fuck
, she was so beautiful like this. Her hair more copper than scarlet in the bright sunlight, her eyes more summer sky than deep blue sea. Her Molly-ness wrapped around her like a selkie skin.

I put my own hands on my hips, pretending to toss my hair and glare just like her, and despite herself, she smiled.

“Fine. You can help me. But I’m not happy about it.”

“I’ll make it up to you later,” I told her in
that
voice and she shivered.

When we got to the beach, we found a flat section of rock that was sun-warmed and more or less secluded from view and spread out our blankets. This was meant to be a picnic, but it was also a bit more—the doctor had cleared Molly for
resumption of marital affection
and I planned on taking my sweet time with that resumption and rewarding my brave woman for every minute of agony she’d endured to bring forth little Tamsin Charlotte into the world.

After our honeymoon, I’d surprised Molly with a trip to County Clare, where we’d purchased a cozy but comfortable house along the coast. Unfortunately, my duties with Coke Manor—which was now officially Albert’s and that I ran as his manager until he came of age—and Molly’s business kept us permanently anchored in England. But every chance we got, we made the trip to County Clare, and Molly had known the instant we’d purchased the house that she wanted to give birth here in Ireland. So we’d installed ourselves here a few months before Molly’s expected due date, the children and Bertha and now a tutor and a governess.

Her pregnancy had gone smoothly, and though I would never say that the birth had also gone smoothly, knowing how much suffering went into it, both my wife and my daughter were healthy and alive at the end, a fact I thanked God for every day.

I loved my magical little Tamsin, her deep blue eyes and bright red hair, her little face, her little chirps and sighs at night as she laid in her cradle next to our bed. I loved my strong, intelligent wife. Together, with my nieces and nephews, we made the best family a person could hope for.

I was the luckiest man alive.

“Lay back,” I told Molly, and she wriggled back onto her elbows, regarding me with interest and a little trepidation.

That was okay. I was going to ease her back into things at her pace. If she wanted slow, I’d give her slow. If she wanted rough, well then, I’d be more than happy to give her rough. Honestly, after six weeks, I would be happy just to last longer than a few minutes.

But first…

I settled myself between her legs, dragging the hem of her skirt up past her knees, past the line of her stockings, and up to her waist. I sucked in a breath when I saw that she had nothing else on—no drawers—and so her cunt was on full display for me.

“Fuck,” I groaned, my cock already throbbing for her.
Start slow, start slow
my mind chanted. My cock had other ideas.

Ignoring it, I lowered my face and began kissing the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. I could smell her, and unable to resist, I dragged the tip of my tongue through her folds. “God, you taste so good,” I mumbled into her thigh. “Want to fuck you so bad.”

“I want you to fuck me too,” she said. “But first I want you to lick me again. Please—
oh
. Yes. Like that.”

I looked up at her as I swirled my tongue around her entrance and then sucked her clit into my mouth. Her eyes locked on to my own as her lips parted and she started panting fevered pleas
more
and
faster
and
make me come, please make me come
. And then she fell onto her back, squirming so hard that I had to clamp a forearm around her hips to hold her still.

It didn’t take long, which I suppose is what you get after six weeks of enforced celibacy. Within a few moments, her back was arching off the blanket and her cries were echoing throughout the cove and I was so hard that I couldn’t think about anything else, except maybe also my wife’s wet pussy in front of my face.

She pulled me up and over her, snaking a hand around my neck and moving my face down to hers, not so much kissing me as licking her taste from my mouth, and it took all of my self-control not to shove into her right then and there.

“Pull it out,” she told me. “Put it inside me.”

Well, I always aim to please.

I unbuttoned my pants and slowly fed inch after inch into her tender cunt, as she wrapped her legs around my waist and dug her heels into my back, pulling me closer, until I was completely sunk and our pelvises were flush together.

And together we rocked, slowly, gently, until she was urging me faster, urging me harder, and then her back arched underneath me again and I finally let go, pumping six weeks worth of denial into her, pumping my cum deep and hot into her, and before I’d even completely finished, she was rolling us over so that she was sitting on top of me, holding up her skirt to expose the erotic sight of my cock buried inside of her.

“Make me come again,” she begged, and the sea breeze played with her hair, sending long crimson strands blowing out behind her as she rode me. “Fuck, Silas, I love you so much.”

“I love you so much, Mary Margaret. Now ride me harder. Make
me
come again.”

She bit her lip, my words arousing her, and then she complied, my good girl. And both of us came, twice more, before I finally carried my bride back to our home and our family, where Tamsin greeted us by demanding to nurse for two hours and the children insisted I read
The History of Tom Thumb
in its entirety.

And the rest of the night passed with Molly by my side, a content Tamsin snuggled in her arms, and my nieces and nephews laying on the large rug by the fireplace while I read, all the while dazed by the fact that this was my life.
My life.

My home.

My family.

My wife.

See? I told you I was the luckiest man alive.

I hope you enjoyed the conclusion to

The London Lovers duet

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Other books by Sierra Simone:

The Markham Hall Series:

The Awakening of Ivy Leavold

The Education of Ivy Leavold

The Punishment of Ivy Leavold

The Reclaiming of Ivy Leavold

Priest

Midnight Mass (a Priest novella coming this Christmas)

Sierra Simone is a librarian who writes unabashedly sexy books with brains, beauty and big words. She lives with her hot cop husband and family in Kansas City. You can stalk her on
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