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“Yes,” I cry out. “I love my husband’s cock.”
“I love you,” he whispers with each one, and I swear I could die of happiness right here.
“I love you,” I whisper in return. “I mean it, Sylvie,” he says, lifting his eyes to my face. “I’m here, and I’m all yours. For as long or as much as you want me.”
“I want you forever, Killian.”
“Then you keep this,” he mumbles before pressing a kiss to my inner thigh. “Forever.”
“You’re still my wife, Sylvie. I’m not just going to get rid of you.” “Technically…” I start, about to point out the fact that we are neither real nor fake married anymore. “Don’t say it,”
“We will be fixing that as soon as I recover from this bloody jet lag.” “What?” I snap, staring at him in shock. “Getting married?” “Yes,”
“You’re not even going to ask...
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“I don’t need to ask you,” he complains. “Why not?” I shriek. “Because I know what you’ll say. What the fuck is the point of asking?”
“To be romantic!”
“Since when are you and I romantic, wench?”
“Fine. I’ll marry you again, but you have to stop calling me names like cow and wench,”
“No deal,” he replies curtly.
“Eventually, I’ll learn to take my time with you again,” he grunts as he slams into me again. “But right now, I need you too much.”
“You see,” he says. “We’ve already been married, for almost a year. Far more than twenty-four hours, and I came a very long way to make her my wife again. You wouldn’t make a desperate, lovesick Scotsman wait, would you?”
“I’ve got my mouth just inches away from my wife’s pussy, so you better make this good.”
“Aye. I know she’s dead. Good riddance.”
“She what?”
“She left it to me?” “Left what?” I ask.
“All right,” he says with resignation. “I’ll think about it. Thanks for the call.”
“The bitch left me the fucking house.”
