“Me too,” I pant.
He grinds against my ass, that hard cock driving against my cheek. “So fucking soft.”
“I hope not. I’ve worked hard to have a firm ass.”
He laughs once, then turns me onto my stomach. “I spoke of your skin, not your musculature, smart-ass.” Then, he swats me there.
Which I like, and we haven’t really gotten back to since the airplane. I moan for it and wiggle to encourage him.
He takes the invitation. “Is that what you want, love? A touch of pain with your pleasure?”
“If you like.”
“I like seeing you like this.” He rearranges himself until he’s on his knees between my legs. “Wanting and needing and yearning for whatever I choose to give you. My plaything.”
I look over my shoulder back at him. “I am more than a plaything, sir.”
“You are many, many things.” He grabs my hips and guides his cock into me. “You are my plaything, as established.” Thrust.“My wicked brat.” Another thrust. “The woman who drives me occasionally mad with jealousy.” Harder thrust.
“Unwarranted jealousy,” I weakly argue.
“Yes. Unwarranted, but there, all the same.” This time, he doesn’t stop to speak. He slams into me over and over, hitting my G-spot with each pass, vibrating our bodies each time we crash hard enough that it stimulates my clit too. He growls out, “Mine. This body. Your heart. I want it all.”
“I’m yours!”
He hammers into me harder until he’s as deep as he can get. Then he flattens, lying on top of me until I lower to the mattress. “Say it again.”
“I’m yours!”
He digs deeper. “Again!”
I lift my head from the mattress. “You’re mine!”
A primal growl pours from his lips as he takes over, drilling me deeper and deeper until I’m coming and he’s coming and I’m coming again. Can’t breathe, can’t stop. He’s leaking out of me, but his body is possessed by something raw and new. He doesn’t stop until I’m coming one final time, and only then does he slow down enough to let me breathe.
Afterward he lies with his hand in my hair and looks at the ceiling and says, out of nowhere, “Your grandmother’s name was Pearl.”
“How do you know that?”
“You told me. The first week. You said she made eggs in top hats.”
I look at him. He has remembered, without effort, a detail from a conversation we had when I was three days postpartum and running on hospital food and adrenaline. This is who he is. The person who was actually listening when I spoke, who filed it, who still has it. How many guys in the world would remember this kind of thing, months after? None I’ve ever been with.
He continues, “I’ve always been fond of that name. What would you think of it with Morrigan, as in Morrigan Pearl Henley?”
“I like it, but for Baldy or Bossy?”
“Baldy. I think it rather suits her demeanor.”
“And Fiona Rose for Bossy,” I say, because it has been sitting with me since I was looking at Irish baby names on a random website.
He chuckles. “Yes.”
“And Liam Cedric. Liam for your brother. Cedric for my grandfather, who I never met but whose name my mother said with love even when she said very little else with love.”
He is quiet for a moment. “Yes. All of that, yes.”
I lie back against him, satisfied, with the names settled in me the way right things settle, without effort, without the need for further examination.