Page 203 of Sublime Trust

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I snorted. “He wouldn’t have smelt much,” I said, deflecting his comment. “His nose is stuffed up, and he didn’t eat his tea. So it was probably for the best.”

He took my wrists and pinned them behind my back, crossing them together and holding them in place with his lengthy span. I winced, not from pain, but the realisation he was ramping things up a level. “Gemma. What do you think it means to me when I have to put up with your silly texts in the middle of my working day. Time-wasting, stroppy words from my wife who should know better. Think a little clearer next time.”

He pulled my arms back away from me, causing a sharp, stabbing pain in my shoulders, and I grimaced. Pain was a good way of catching anyone’s attention.

“I apologise. Sir.”

“Hopefully by the time I finished fucking your sorry arse, you will be in a better frame of mind.” I noted the lack of menace in his voice. Something else lurked behind his words. The Dominant who had come home from work was in need of my compliant nature and good behaviour.

A better frame of mind—guaranteed. I rarely ended up feeling worse after his fucks, even if he dressed them up as a disciplinary matter, but his frame of mind needed to revert from executive mode into relaxed husband. I needed it to be a mutually beneficial fuck.

He let go of my wrists and returned to exploring. I shivered, tilting my head back and preparing myself for letting go. Then the front doorbell rang.

Jason’s protection team maintained a list of names, people given access to our properties without an interrogation at the gate: family members and close friends of Jason or mine. Others had to explain to the on-call security officer why they wanted to bother the personages of Mr or Mrs Lucas.

Jason scowled, sprang me free of his roving hands, and went to open the door. I could hear voices in the hallway and recognised the sound of my father-in-law’s droning baritone. Jason’s father was one of those who’d instant access to the property, enabling him to walk through the outer security gate, up the path to the front door, and ring the bell. Clive Lucas must be calling in on the way back from the law courts where he worked as barrister. Rearranging my dishevelled top, I went to switch the kettle on.

Jason came back to the kitchen with an order for two coffees. “We’re in the drawing room. You don’t need to join us. Go back to your plans.”

The way he spoke felt more like a dismissal than a suggestion. I tensed up, unhappy at my banishment. However, I delivered the cups of coffee to the drawing room and took the opportunity to exchange greetings with Clive before retreating to the paper pile on the kitchen table.

Half an hour later, Clive left, his fly-by visit complete without even a good-bye to his daughter-in-law. Jason put the empty cups in the dishwasher. Then he seized my documents and dumped them in a stack, and I took his actions to be a signal to return to what we had been doing before interrupted.

“Your father, what did he want?” I ventured, stuffing a letter back in its envelope. The paper tore, and I cursed.

Jason grabbed the envelope from my hand and added it to the pile. “Family matter. It need not concern you.”

I opened my mouth then snapped it shut with an audible clash of teeth. I fumed, annoyed at being shut out of his family issues. I came close to venting, but being in a bad mood wasn’t going to help me reach an appropriate state of sexiness for his interrupted scene. Instead of grumbling, I focused my efforts on demonstrating my acceptance of his decision. I clasped my hands behind my back and bowed my head.

Without speaking a word, he returned to his groping and progressed to removing my top and bra, sucking on a nipple while holding it between his teeth. I moaned, unable to stop the rising arousal in my loins. How quickly I shifted from futile irritation to lusty bliss. Such wicked hands he had when he conjured up my passions. His tongue circled my nipple, and I twisted in his arms, sensing my wetness below.

Joshua bawled, his cries emanating from the baby monitor.

Jason and I both paused and stared at the flashing lights. I silently hoped he was resettling; however, it became apparent our son was distressed. Jason disengaged for a second time with a gritted-teeth smile.

I shrugged. “Perils of parenthood. I’ll try to settle him.”

I slipped the top back on and went to investigate. As soon as I adjusted the light dimmer, I could tell it was going to be a long night. Joshua was red faced, and when I picked him up, heat radiated from his little body. I rocked him in my arms. I pressed a cup to his lips, and he took a few sips of water before coughing and spluttering. With a sudden hiccup, he vomited the liquid over his clothes.

My stomach churned. “Oh, Joshie! You are a poorly boy.”

Jason appeared and helped me strip the soiled clothes from our son. I took Joshua’s temperature.

“It’s nearly 40 degrees, Jason. He’s burning up.”

“Keep him in nothing but a nappy; bring him to our room. I’ll put a towel down on our bed,” instructed Jason.

Rope lay coiled on the bed. Jason’s planned scene was abandoned by the necessity of caring for a sickly child. He moved the rope out of my sight. With us lying on either side of Joshua, we tried to placate and soothe him. It cut through me, seeing him stare at me with a fix-me-Mum expression. Tears seemed to dry instantly on his hot skin, and he didn’t want to be held or touched.

Jason picked up the phone. “I’ll ring the doctor.”

Within an hour, a doctor was at our door. She set her bag down on the bed and smiled at our little boy. Her calm voice and gentle hands alleviated his fractious distress.

She examined his ears, throat, and lungs as he lay slumped in my arms. When she had finished, Joshua crawled over to his father, who’d remained perched on the bed throughout. The child snuggled against his dad as if women were nasty people armed with cold instruments.

The doctor gave her verdict. “Tonsillitis.”

“Oh my poor little man,” I said with a mock frown. “Mummy knows all about tonsillitis. Why wonder he threw his tea on the floor. That’s what Mummy feels like doing, too, when her throat is sore.”


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