And the sight of her and all that she is to me kicks me right in the gut—every time.
When she senses us, she looks up—smiling stunningly—which sends a surge of hunger straight to my cock.
That happens every time too.
“Hello, my loves,” she says—pressing her mouth softly against mine, then peppering Ollie’s little outstretched hands in devoted kisses. She takes him from my shoulders and holds him close, and he rests his face against her neck with a happy exhale.
“How did it go?” I ask her.
“Splendid—without a hitch.”
I rub her shoulders, because she did a heart transplant today and I know her neck is probably stiff.
“Tired?”
“Not so much.”
Abby’s been hinting she’d like to start trying for a little brother or sister for Oliver, and the hot little grin she sends my way tells me I’ll most definitely be getting lucky tonight. Twice—at least.
When Ollie was on the way, we moved out of Abby’s flat into a rowhouse with more space and a perfect pretty garden. For a long time, I didn’t think a man like me would get off on domestic activities like making dinner and bath times and bedtime stories.
But life is funny like that—how it spins you around and shakes you out into something more beautiful than you ever could’ve imagined.
The thirst for a challenge—for an adrenaline rush—that used to drive me is now quenched by other, infinitely better quests.
Like the joy that punched through me when I slipped a band of gold on Abby’s finger and she whispered “I do” beneath a banner of white roses in front of our friends and families.
Like the thrill of seeing her complete the gauntlet of her last year of residency—watching that dream come true for her.
Like the excitement that spiked in my veins—that felt like I was having a bloody heart attack—when Abby was two days past her due date and her green eyes looked up into mine and she told me it was time to head to the hospital.
And like the indescribable exhilaration that pounded in my chest the very first time I held my son.
When Ollie is down for the night, Abby takes a bath and then slips between the sheets into my arms—bare and beautiful and every inch of her mine.
The only chasing I’m interested in these days is after our rowdy boy—or after my wife when she’s feeling especially frisky.
And it’s all so damn good.
Because I already caught the most precious prize in the world—Abby’s tender heart, her rapturous body, her sweet soul, her love.
And along the way of that mad merry chase . . . she caught mine right back.
The End