She had killed herself to save my wildcat. Because she cared for me.
And there was no way to repay her.
We’d decided to elope, out of England, somewhere far away from the painful memories that hung over us. But even though I’d told nobody where we were going, when we stepped into the small Breton chapel, I was still greeted by Silas’s grinning face, by the Baron’s serious but approving eyes. In the end, all of our friends—and Ivy’s aunt—had joined us, even Molly, who actually seemed happy for us. And then we’d taken the train to Paris, to spend our wedding night there. Despite the tragedy of this month, I was starving for Ivy’s body. Through all the arrangements and the sorrow, there’d been no chance for us to reconnect physically, and I had to admit, there was something prosaic about waiting until our wedding night.
But I’d done enough waiting.
Ivy stepped out from behind the screen, her wedding dress abandoned. She was completely naked, her breasts full and round, tipped with hard pink buds, her slender waist flaring into perfect hips and a taut ass. My cock, already half-hard with anticipation, surged at the sight. God, I wanted her. I wanted to be inside her. I wanted to be biting her, sucking her, pounding into her…
I stood, but as I approached, I slowed down.
It had been a couple weeks since I’d seen her naked, but even at the Baron’s, there’d been only candlelight and my mind had been…occupied with other things. But now, alone, in the light of late afternoon, I could see something was different about her body.
“Turn around,” I ordered.
She flushed with pleasure and complied, spinning in a slow circle. I walked up to her as she stopped and took her breasts in my hands, examining how ripe and heavy they were. Her breasts had always been perfect to me, but they were normally a little more than a handful. Tonight, they seemed much bigger.
I ran my hand down her stomach, normally so flat and smooth, and felt where it swelled ever so slightly, just above her pelvis.
“When was the last time you cycled, Ivy?”
She looked up at me, confused, her flush now one of embarrassment. Such things were hardly ever spoken of, even between man and wife, but I didn’t care.
“I’m your husband,” I said, letting a little sternness creep into my voice. “Your body belongs to me. I will know everything about it, no matter how shameful you think it is. Now answer my question.”
“It comes and goes…it’s never been regular, ever since I started,” she said, her cheeks burning now.
“Of course not, because you are terrible at taking care of yourself,” I murmured, circling her body again. She hardly ever ate, she spent hours exerting herself, all things that women who wanted to conceive were counseled against.
Yes, from this angle I could easily see the small, firm curve of her lower abdomen.
“I suppose…this summer, maybe? I remember cycling before we had the visitors.”
I was behind her now, and I slid my arms around her, letting my hands meet over that curve, my heart beginning to stutter with excitement. An excitement I never thought I would be able to have for my own. “I think we should send for a physician tomorrow.”
“No,” Ivy said disbelievingly, finally realizing which way my thoughts tended. “No, it can’t be. I would have known, wouldn’t I?”
I shrugged, moving around her again. I was only familiar with the barest parts of pregnancy, mostly from Silas’s sister-in-law, who was constantly pregnant.
“Although…” she hesitated. “I have been feeling tired. And sick. Since I arrived in London, but I thought it was simply heart-sickness. Oh, God, Julian, a child…”
I stopped in front of her and then dropped to my knees. My face was level with her belly button, and I touched my forehead against her belly, breathing in and out as something so foreign I couldn’t name it soared inside me, expanded until I thought my chest would crack open with it.
Happiness. It was happiness.
Unadulterated, untainted. Pure, blissful happiness.
I pressed my lips against her stomach, and she laced her hands through my hair, holding me there, and I suddenly felt like a penitent knight kneeling before a saint. My saint—my salvation—my perfect wildcat who now carried the most precious and tiny thing imaginable. In just a short month or two, I would be able to feel the child. I would be able to feel the kicks and the flutters.
“Julian,” Ivy said, and I realized I was crying. No, weeping, my shoulders shaking, my breath hitching, completely undone by the most basic and elemental fact of life.
I kissed her belly, trailing my kisses down, suddenly desperate to show her exactly what it meant to me to have my child growing inside her. She had to know—had to feel—how happy and raw and grateful beyond words it made me…
I reached her bare cunt, pausing for a moment to breathe over the sensitive flesh. Tears still fell from my face, and when I looked up at her, she was crying too, but crying and smiling, and then I lowered my head and pressed my lips to her soft skin.
She shivered and I increased the pressure, parting my lips to fl
ick my tongue across her clit, exposed and swollen. She sighed, and I nudged her legs apart, suddenly greedy for more. I smelled soap and a delicate smell that was all her own, and then I buried my face between her legs, sucking and kissing and laving her until I could feel her legs shaking around me.
