Chapter 97: Dawn's First Light
The first sensation was not the light, nor the deep, unfamiliar quiet of a city not yet awake. It was fullness. A deep, stretching, internal pressure that bloomed slowly from her core into her consciousness. Olivia swam up from the warm, dark waters of sleep, sensation lapping at her like a rising tide.
She was on her side, curled loosely, the immense duvet a cloud over her. The pillow cradled her cheek, scented with hotel linen and, faintly, with him. And there was that fullness. Persistent. Insistent. Warm.
A slow smile spread across her face even before she opened her eyes. She shifted her hips, a tiny, testing undulation, and felt him. Felt it. Solid. Sheathed deep within her. Her backdoor, as he so crudely and affectionately called it, was occupied. Thoroughly, tenderly claimed.
She opened her eyes. The room was bathed in the pearlescent, directionless light of a city dawn. The sky beyond the windows was a wash of lavender and bruised rose, the skyscrapers dark silhouettes against the glowing expanse. In the soft gloom, she could make out the lines of his arm draped over her waist, his hand splayed possessively across her lower belly. His chest was a solid, warm wall against her back, his breath a soft, rhythmic whisper against the nape of her neck.
He was inside her ass. He must have moved them to the bed in the deep night, arranged her, prepared her with the same meticulous care he’d shown earlier. The thought made her heart swell, a lump forming in her throat. Even in his own sleep, he sought connection. He’d lubed her, positioned himself, and pushed in, slow and careful, until he was fully seated. And then, he’d slept. And she’d slept around him.
“You’re awake,” his voice rumbled, sleep-rough and intimate against her ear. It wasn’t a question. He’d felt the subtle change in her breathing, the slight tensing of her muscles.
“Mmm,” she affirmed, pushing her hips back a fraction, feeling him stir inside her. He was hard. Fully, impressively hard. The stretch was exquisite, a familiar and welcome burn. “I am now. Because some cheeky bastard used my ass as a nightcap.”
His chuckle vibrated through both of them. He didn’t move, didn’t thrust. Just held himself there, buried to the hilt, a part of her anatomy. “It was cold,” he murmured, nuzzling her hair. “Needed a warm place to sleep.”
“It’s a parking garage, not a bed and breakfast.”
“Best garage in the city.” He flexed his hips infinitesimally, a shift of internal pressure that made her gasp. “Always has a spot for me.”
She giggled, the sound low and sleepy. The sheer, absurd normalcy of it, the comfortable filth of their morning banter, was as intimate as the act itself. “You must have parallel parked. I feel… comprehensively occupied.”
“Good.” His hand on her belly slid lower, his fingertips brushing the neatly trimmed thatch of her pubis before settling over the mound. He pressed down gently, and the internal pressure doubled, a delicious, full feeling that made her toes curl. “How’s the fit?”
“Snug,” she breathed, arching her back just a little, pressing her ass more firmly against his pelvis. “Always so snug, son. Like you were designed for it.”
“I was.” He said it with a simple, undeniable certainty that was neither arrogant nor playful. It was a statement of fact. In their world, it was true. He began to move then, but not with any driving rhythm. It was a lazy, almost absent-minded motion. A slow retreat, an even slower return. A rocking, rather than a fucking. The slick, tight sound of it was obscenely loud in the hushed room.
“God,” she sighed, letting her head fall back against his shoulder. Her eyes drifted shut. This was her favorite, perhaps. This sleepy, tender claiming. No frenzy, no performance. Just connection. A continued conversation from the night before, but with a different vocabulary.
“You were talking in your sleep,” he whispered, his lips grazing her ear. His pace remained a languid tide.
“Was I?” Her voice was dreamy, distracted by the slow, deep friction.
“Mmm. Something about a dress. And a balcony.” He withdrew almost completely, until just the thick head of his cock remained lodged inside her, stretching her rim, then pushed back in with that same inexorable slowness.
“Paris,” she recalled, the memory from last night surfacing. “The green dress. And the Eiffel Tower.”
“We’ll go.” He rocked into her again, a little deeper this time. “I’ll fuck you on the balcony. You in that dress, hiked up around your waist. Me behind you. Watching the lights glitter in your eyes.”
The image, painted in his low, sleep-rough voice, sent a jolt of heat through her that had nothing to do with the physical sensation. “Yes,” she breathed. “Yes, please.”
“You’ll be so loud. They’ll hear us in the Champs-Élysées.”
“Let them.” She pushed back against him, meeting his next slow thrust. The stretch burned so good. “Let all of Paris know my son fills my ass better than any man alive.”
He groaned, a raw, hungry sound that contrasted with his gentle motion. His hand left her mound and traveled up, finding her breast. He cupped it, his palm warm and heavy, his thumb stroking her nipple into a tight, aching peak. “They’ll know anyway. It’ll be obvious. The way you walk after. That satisfied, well-used waddle.”
She laughed, the vibration clenching around him, making him hiss. “Waddle? Charming.”
“It’s my favorite walk. Because I caused it.” He squeezed her breast, a possessive, loving pressure. “I caused that deep, happy ache right here.” He pressed his fingers into the soft flesh of her lower belly, implying the internal ache. “I rearranged you. Made you mine all over again.”
“Always yours,” she whispered, all levity gone, replaced by a thick, emotional sincerity. “This is always yours.”
He picked up his pace, just a fraction. The slow rocks became defined strokes, a smooth, gliding penetration. He was so deep, each inward motion feeling like it reached a place nothing else could. The head of his cock rubbed a spot inside her that sent curling wires of pleasure straight to her core, making her clit throb in empty, eager anticipation.
“Remember that first time?” he asked, his voice a husky whisper. “For real. Not in the grief. The first time you let me… here.”
How could she forget? It had been in her bed, in their London flat. A rainy afternoon. She’d been so nervous, so convinced it would be terrible, painful, wrong. He’d been so patient. So reverent. He’d spent what felt like hours just… preparing her. With his mouth, with his fingers, with more lube than she thought possible. And when he’d finally pressed in, it had been a revelation. Not wrong. Right. Terribly, perfectly right.
“You cried,” he murmured, answering his own question. He was moving with a steady, deep rhythm now, each stroke a deliberate claim.
“So did you,” she countered, her voice hitching as he angled his hips, hitting that spot with devastating accuracy. “After. When you held me.”
“I was happy.” He breathed the word into her hair. “Happier than I’d ever been. I’d found my home. Right here.” He thrust deep and held it, grinding slightly. “In my mother’s ass.”
The crudeness, juxtaposed with the profound emotion, made her clench around him hard. A broken moan escaped her lips. “Yes. Your home. Your perfect, tight, little home.”
He began to fuck her then, in earnest. But it wasn’t the frantic, poundi He established a slow, deep, rolling rhythm. Each withdrawal was agonizingly deliberate, each thrust a measured, complete re-conquest. The sound was wet, intimate, a slick, rhythmic squelch that spoke of plenty of lube and thorough, welcoming use. The bed began a corresponding creak, a slow, groaning timber that kept time with their joining.
“You take it so well, mum,” he panted, his breath coming faster now. His hand groped her breast with more urgency, pinching and rolling her nipple. “Always so ready for me. Always so hungry for this.”
“I dream about it,” she confessed, her own voice trembling with the pace of his movements. “Sometimes… ordinary dreams. And then you’re there. And you’re turning me over. And it’s always this. Never the other. Always this deep, full feeling.”
“Because you’re my good girl,” he grunted, delivering a particularly deep stroke that made her cry out. “My good mother. You give your son what he needs.”
“I do,” she whimpered, her mind beginning to blur at the edges, pleasure spreading through her like warm honey. “I give you everything. Every hole. Every part of me.”
“And I take it,” he growled, the possessiveness in his voice sending a fresh thrill through her. “I take it all. I own it.”
The vulgarity was a sacrament. The ownership a mutual vow. She felt her orgasm building, not as a sharp peak, but as a deep, rolling wave starting in her gut, fueled by the relentless, profound stimulation inside her and the rough, perfect treatment of her breast. She was panting now, her fingernails digging into the arm he had wrapped around her.
“Don’t stop, baby… please, don’t stop… it’s so deep…”
“Gonna come, ma?” His voice was strained, tight. He was close too. She could feel it in the thickening of his cock, the slight loss of rhythm in his thrusts.
“Yes… oh God, yes… but I want you to… inside… I want to feel you… fill my ass…”
He swore, a guttural, beautiful word that was pure need. His thrusts became faster, harder, but still maintained that deep, penetrating quality. The bedframe protested louder. Her cries were muffled against his arm, desperate little pleas and affirmations.
“That’s it… take it… take your son… take all of me…”
“Ethan… baby… I’m… I’m coming!”
It crashed over her, a different kind of climax. Without direct clitoral stimulation, it was a deep, internal quake. It radiated from her center, a detonation of pure, mindless pleasure that clenched her around him in rhythmic, vice-like pulses. She saw white behind her eyelids, her mouth open in a silent scream.
Her convulsions triggered his own. With a raw, ragged shout against her shoulder, he plunged as deep as he could possibly go and held there. She felt him swell even more, a pulsing, thickening bulge, and then the hot, torrential flood began.
It was, as always, astonishing. The volume. The force. She could feel each thick, viscous rope hitting deep inside her, a scalding, intimate claim. It went on and on, jet after jet, until she felt impossibly full, her lower belly distending slightly with the sheer volume of it. It was a sensation of being stuffed, overfilled, marked in the most primal way. A little moan of pure satisfaction escaped her lips.
He collapsed against her, spent, his body a heavy, delicious weight. He was still inside her, still pulsing weakly, still connected. They lay like that for long minutes, panting in unison, slick with sweat, bound together in the most intimate way possible.
The room slowly came back into focus. The lavender dawn was shifting to a pale gold. The city’s sounds were starting—a distant siren, the groan of a bus.
He shifted eventually, pulling out of her slowly, with a soft, wet sound. She whimpered at the loss, the sudden, empty feeling. But it was quickly replaced by a deep, satiated ache, a lingering fullness.
He rolled onto his back beside her, throwing an arm over his eyes. She rolled onto her stomach, then pushed herself up to look at him. He was glorious like this—spent, covered in a fine sheen of sweat, his cock, still half-hard and slick with lube and his own release, lying against his thigh.
She leaned over and kissed his shoulder, a soft, lingering press of her lips. “Good morning,” she whispered.
He moved his arm, looking at her with eyes full of a sleepy, sated adoration. “The best.”
She nodded towards his cock. “Looks like he’s still got opinions.”
Ethan glanced down and gave a tired laugh. “He’s greedy. And he’s heard a certain someone might be up for a round two.”
“Is that so?” Olivia pushed herself up, swinging her legs over his body, guiding his cock back in her ass, then lowering so she lay atop him, ass full of a cock hard again.
Olivia sank down onto him with a sigh that was part pleasure, part profound relief. The fullness returned, instant and absolute, a delicious, stretching reclamation of her body by his. He was already rigid again, a testament to his youth and the seemingly endless, focused desire he had for her. She settled her weight atop him, her back to his chest, his hips cradling her ass as she leaned back against him. The early morning light was stronger now, painting the room in long, pale gold stripes.
“See?” she murmured, rolling her hips in a slow, circular grind. “Told you he was greedy.”
“He takes after his keeper,” Ethan breathed into her hair, his hands coming to rest on her thighs, his fingers digging into the soft flesh there. His voice was a low rasp, still thick from sleep and recent release. “Insatiable.”
She laughed, a light, breathy sound that made her body clench around him. He groaned in response, his hands tightening. For a long moment, they simply stayed like that, joined, breathing, watching the city wake through the wall of glass. The silence was comfortable, punctuated only by their shared breath and the distant hum of London below.
Then he shifted underneath her, just a subtle tensing of his abdomen. A different kind of pressure began to build at the root of him, deep inside where he was nestled within her. It was a distinct, internal swelling, not the rhythmic pulse of orgasm, but a steady, expanding fullness.
“Oh,” Olivia said, her eyes fluttering closed. She knew this feeling. They had explored this particular intimacy only a handful of times, always in moments of total trust and lazy vulnerability. “Baby…”
“Shhh,” he whispered, nuzzling her neck. One hand slid up to cup her breast, idly thumbing her nipple. The other pressed firmly on her lower belly. “Just relax, mum. Let me.”
The pressure intensified. It was a hot, liquid ballooning feeling, deep in her core. It wasn't painful. It was… profoundly intimate. A deep, internal warmth spreading, filling spaces she hadn't known were empty. It was the antithesis of possession; it was a shared vulnerability, a letting go inside the sanctuary of her body.
A giggle bubbled up in her throat, born of the sheer, absurd intimacy of it. “You have to go,” she whispered, stating the obvious.
“I do,” he agreed, his voice strained with gentle effort. The hot expansion continued, a slow, inexorable flood. The sensation was impossible to ignore, a visceral, warming rush that made her feel utterly, deeply occupied in a new way.
Then the realization struck her, vivid and sudden. He wasn’t just hard. He was filling her with something else. The warmth wasn’t just abstract fullness—it was a stream. The giggle escaped, a snort of pure, startled hilarity mixed with blinding intimacy.“Oh! Oh, you’re… you’re peeing in my ass!”
Her words dissolved into helpless, breathless laughter. It was so crude, so ridiculous, so unbelievably trusting. He laughed with her, a low, shuddering chuckle that vibrated through both of their bodies. The flow didn’t stop. It was a long, steady, hot release that went on and on, transforming the sensation from a trickle to a deep, spreading lake of heat inside her.
“Is it okay?” he murmured, though he didn’t cease. His hand on her belly pressed slightly, as if to make room.
“It’s… it’s so warm!” she squealed between giggles, her body shaking with mirth and the bizarre, overwhelming feeling. She felt impossibly full, a vessel being gently, purposefully filled. The sound of it was a faint, internal gurgle, audible only to them in the quiet room. “Oh my God, Ethan! You’re really going for it!”
“Told you I had to go,” he grunted, but he was laughing too, his forehead pressed against her shoulder blade. The stream seemed endless, a profound, private relief that he was sharing with her in the most direct way possible. The heat was becoming a pervasive, comforting weight low in her pelvis.
“You’re flooding me!” she gasped, tears of laughter prickling her eyes. She arched her back, pushing her ass down against him, feeling the liquid warmth slosh and shift inside her with the movement. It was the strangest, most personal sensation. “It’s like a hot water bottle… but from the inside!”
“You feel incredible,” he breathed, the flow finally beginning to taper off into a last few hot spurts. His body relaxed against the mattress, spent in this new, quiet way. “So soft and warm and… accepting.”
The giggles subsided into soft, incredulous sighs. She felt bloated, heavy, wonderfully used. A distinct, warm bulge had formed in her lower abdomen, visible when she looked down. She placed her hand over it, over his hand, feeling the firm, liquid-filled swell. “Look at me,” she whispered, wonder in her voice. “Look what you did.”
He lifted his head to look, his eyes dark with affection and a hint of awe. He shifted his hand, splaying his fingers over the slight distension. “Mine,” he said simply, not as a boast, but as a fact of nature. The sun had cleared the neighboring building, and a beam of light cut across the bed, illuminating the faint outline of their joined form under the sheet, the curve of her filled belly.
“All yours,” she agreed, her voice soft. She wiggled her hips experimentally. The liquid inside her shifted with a warm, sloshing sensation that made them both gasp and then giggle again. “Oh, that’s… that’s weird.”
“Good weird?” He began to move, a minute, tentative rocking of his hips. His cock, still hard within her, slid through the warm, liquid barrier. The sound was muffled, wet, profoundly intimate.
“The best weird,” she confirmed, her laughter fading into a sigh of pure, decadent pleasure. She pushed back, meeting his movement. The slosh was more pronounced this time, a hot, internal tide following the motion of his penetration. “Fuck me,” she whispered, dropping her head back against his shoulder. “Fuck your piss right into me, son. Let me feel it.”
He moaned, a raw, open sound. His hands gripped her hips, guiding her. He set a pace that was pure, unadulterated slowness. Each withdrawal was a gradual, deliberate slide, pulling the warm liquid with it, creating a subtle suction. Each thrust was a slow, re-plunging into that heated, secret pool. It was a lazy, liquid rocking. There was no friction, only a slick, warm, gliding fullness.
“Can you feel it?” he rasped, his lips against her ear. His thrusts were measured, deep, each one a careful exploration of this new, shared space. “All that warmth… wrapped around my cock?”
“Yes,” she breathed, her eyes closed, a smile playing on her lips. The sensations were surreal, overwhelming. The stretch of him, the moving heat of his release inside her, the complete, messy intimacy of it. “It’s like you’re fucking me in a bath. A very private, very naughty bath.”
He laughed, the sound rich and full. “A golden bath.”
She snorted, her body shaking with silent mirth. “That’s terrible. Don’t make me laugh, I’ll squeeze it out!”
“Do it,” he challenged, his voice warm with amusement. He thrust up into her, a little deeper, making the liquid slosh audibly. “Let’s make a mess. Who cares? It’s just us.”
The utter liberating truth of that statement washed over her. There were no rules here, no judgments, no shoulds or shouldn’ts. There was only this room, this connection, this bizarre and beautiful act of trust. She relaxed completely, letting the laughter flow out of her, her internal muscles fluttering around him in rhythm with her giggles.
He groaned, picking up the pace infinitesimally. The sloshing became a rhythmic, wet accompaniment to their joined movements. Slosh-thrust. Slosh-thrust. It was absurd. It was profoundly erotic.
“You’re my perfect girl,” he mumbled, his words starting to lose coherence as sensation took over. He was fucking her now, in earnest, but the pace remained slow, deep, and deliberate. The liquid heat inside her was churning, warming them both from the inside out. “My perfect, filthy, beautiful mother. Taking everything I give you.”
“Everything,” she chanted, her own voice dreamy, lost in the rhythm and the warmth.“Every drop. Every inch. It’s all mine.” She reached one hand behind her, tangling her fingers in his hair, pulling his face closer to her neck. “Kiss me,” she demanded.
He did, turning his head to capture her lips in a deep, messy kiss. It tasted of sleep and each other. They kissed as he moved inside her, a slow, rocking undulation that pushed the liquid warmth into every corner. She could feel it leaking out around the seal of their joining, a hot trickle down her perineum, onto his balls, onto the sheets below. The knowledge of the mess only heightened the sense of abandon.
He broke the kiss, panting. “I love you,” he gasped, the words punched out of him with a particularly deep thrust. “I love you so much it makes me stupid. It makes me do things like this.”
“I love your stupid,” she whispered back, turning her head to nuzzle his cheek. “I love your crazy, beautiful love. I love that you pee in my ass and then tell me I’m perfect.”
“You are.” His thrusts were gaining a slight urgency, but he held the deep, slow rhythm. The sloshing inside her was a constant, hot reminder. “You’re perfect for me. Built for me. This,” he rocked into her, “was made for this.”
She came then, without warning. It wasn’t a screaming, body-shaking climax, but a deep, rolling wave of pleasure that originated in the core of her, in that warm, liquid-filled center. It radiated outwards, a slow-motion detonation of contentment and possession. She cried out, a long, low moan, her body convulsing around him in slow, gripping pulses.
“Oh, ma… oh, fuck, I can feel that…” he grunted, his control fraying. Her internal contractions were milking him, pulling at him within that warm, wet haven. He drove into her, his pace finally breaking into something harder, faster, though still deeply rooted.
“Come in it,” she begged, her voice slurred with pleasure. “Come in your piss, baby. Fill me up even more. Mix it all together inside me.”
That shattered him. With a guttural roar that was part laugh, part sob, he slammed up into her, burying himself to the hilt, and held there. The liquid around him churned with the force of his thrust. Then she felt the familiar, pulsing swell, the hot, thick jets of his release joining what was already there. It was a second filling, a hotter, denser fluid mixing with the first, a claim layered upon a claim.
The volume was, as always, staggering. She felt her belly distend further, a tight, full ache that was immensely satisfying. It went on for a long time, his body shuddering through the release, his arms locking around her like vise.
When he was finally spent, they both collapsed back, a tangled, sticky, dripping heap of limbs and satiation. He was still inside her, soft now, but present. The warmth between them was pervasive. The smell, sharp and musky and intimately organic, filled the air around them.
For a long time, they just breathed. The sun climbed higher, flooding the room with confident light, exposing the rumpled, damp sheets, the clothes discarded from the night before, the reality of their union.
Olivia finally stirred, a contented hum in her throat. She felt like a vessel, beautifully used, profoundly loved. Carefully, she lifted herself off him, a slow, slippery separation. A gush of warm fluid followed, soaking the sheets beneath them. She didn’t even flinch. She turned around, facing him now, and looked down at his spent, messy body, and then at her own, glistening in the morning light.
He was watching her, his eyes soft, a lazy smile on his face. “You’re a mess, mother.”
“You’re one to talk,” she countered, reaching down to where they were connected. She traced the wet, spent length of him, then brought her fingers to her own swollen entrance, feeling the evidence of their shared act. She brought her fingers to her nose, then, deliberately, to her lips, tasting them.
His eyes darkened, the smile turning wicked. “Still hungry?”
“Always.” She leaned down, kissing him deeply, letting him taste their shared moment. Then she straightened, looking at the chaotic, sun-drenched room. “But first, a shower. A very long, very hot shower. And then I believe you promised me breakfast.”
“Room service,” he declared, flopping an arm over his eyes. “Anything you want. Caviar.Champagne. The full English. You name it.”
She climbed off the bed, her legs a little shaky. The feeling of release, of internal emptiness now, was its own strange sensation. She stood for a moment, letting the sun warm her skin, feeling the dried and drying evidence on her thighs. She felt powerful.Loved. Utterly free.
She looked back at him, at her beautiful, depraved, perfect son splayed across the ruined sheets. “I want waffles,” she announced. “With a truly irresponsible amount of whipped cream. And you’re going to wear that ridiculous robe and feed them to me.”
He peeked out from under his arm, his grin bright and boyish. “Yes, ma’am.”
The shower was a ritual. They stood under the scalding spray, washing not just the physical evidence away, but the last lingering ghosts of the outside world. He soaped her body with a tenderness that bordered on worship, paying special attention to the places he had so thoroughly used. She returned the favor, washing his hair, kneading his shoulders, tracing the lines of his back. They kissed under the water, slow, sweet kisses that tasted of soap and steam.
They didn’t speak much. Words were unnecessary. The silence was filled with the hiss of water, the slide of hands on skin, the soft sounds of contentment. When they stepped out, steaming and pink, the world seemed clearer, sharper.
He wrapped her in a large, fluffy towel, drying her with the same care he’d used in the shower. He patted her dry, then wrapped the towel around himself and tied it with a comical flourish.
“Your chariot awaits, milady,” he said, gesturing to the bed, which he had hastily stripped of its wet top sheet, leaving a cleaner-looking underlayer.
She laughed, padding back into the room and collapsing onto the bed. He called room service, ordering a ludicrous spread with the easy confidence of someone for whom money was no longer a pressing concern. Waffles with whipped cream and berries, scrambled eggs with smoked salmon, pastries, coffee, orange juice, and a bottle of champagne “just because.”
While they waited, she curled into his side, her head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. He played with her hair, twisting the damp strands around his fingers.
“Paris next, then?” he asked, his voice a rumble under her ear.
“Paris,” she confirmed. “Then maybe… Italy? I’ve always wanted to see the Amalfi Coast.”
“Anywhere,” he said, and she knew he meant it. His life, his work, it was all portable. His anchor was right here in his arms. “We’ll get a villa. With a big, private terrace. And you can be naked all day.”
“And you can fuck me on that terrace,” she finished, tilting her head up to smile at him.
“Obviously.” He leaned down and kissed her nose. “It’s the primary criteria for real estate now. ‘Must have sturdy railings for inappropriate outdoor activities.’”
She giggled, the sound bright and easy in the sunlit room. The previous hour’s intense intimacy had settled into a warm, glowing ember in her chest. This was the aftermath she loved just as much—the easy companionship, the shared jokes, the feeling of being a team of two against the world.
A knock at the door signaled breakfast. He got up, cinching his robe, and wheeled in the large, silver-domed cart himself. The smell of coffee, butter, and sugar filled the room. He unveiled the dishes with a magician’s flair, and she applauded.
He poured champagne into two flutes, handed her one, and climbed back onto the bed, setting the cart within reach. True to her word, she made him feed her the first bite of waffle, piled high with whipped cream and a single, perfect strawberry. He did, his eyes never leaving hers.
It was sweet, decadent, perfect.
They ate in comfortable silence for a while, sharing bites, sipping champagne as the morning solidified outside. The night’s adventures, the dawn’s startling intimacy, felt like a dream already, a secret shared with the fading darkness.
Finally, she set her fork down, a mischievous glint in her eye. She licked a spot of whipped cream from her lip slowly, deliberately.
His gaze tracked the movement, his own eyes darkening.
“You know,” she said, her voice dropping to a purr. “All that sugar has given me a second wind.”
“Oh yeah?” He put his own plate aside, his movements deliberate.
“Mmm-hmm.” She stretched, cat-like, letting the towel she’d been wrapped in gape open. “And I believe there’s a matter of a certain greedy part of you that didn’t get quite enough attention earlier.”
He didn’t need further invitation. He pushed the breakfast cart aside, its wheels squeaking on the hardwood floor. In one smooth motion, he was over her, caging her with his arms, his body a familiar, welcome weight. The scent of champagne and strawberries was on his breath.
“He’s always greedy for you, mum,” he murmured, dipping his head to nip at her neck. “But I think… I think he wants to go slow