In the later pictures, she was never alone.
Then came the final section of photos. A few months after Maria’s arrival, Filip had fastened Stina’s camera to a tripod, set a timer, and raced back for their first official Ivarsson family portrait. A year later, he did the same thing. And now the albumcontained over twenty of those group photos, taken whenever all of them found themselves in one place.
For a long time, looking at those photos had made Maria cry. Now it only made her smile.
When Peter reached the final page, he closed the album very carefully and set it on the little table beside the chaise. “Next time, I’ll ask for the stories behind each picture. Tonight, though, I have something else I need to do.”
“Oh?” Maybe he wanted to sleep now?
When she twisted her neck to see his expression, it told her nothing. But his jaw still ticked with whatever emotion had brought high color to his face. The long muscles of his legs remained knotted with tension.
He was holding her very, very tightly.
Even though he’d seen the final family portraits, seen how happy she became and how happy she’d remained, his distress hadn’t eased. It had only... shifted, in a way she didn’t understand.
Until his hold around her shoulders loosened, but not to let her go.
Instead, he slid those big hands up her belly and cupped her breasts, unhurriedly thumbing her nipples to aching hardness. With his chin, he shifted her hair away from her right ear. The prickle of his beard, the heat of his breath, sent fire between her legs.
“The guest shower is pretty generous,” he murmured, and licked the rim of her ear.
Resting her hands atop his, she let out a shaky breath. “Not generous enough for two people of our size to fuck.”
“Hmmm.” His teeth closed around her lobe, and she shuddered. “Just generous enough for me to make you come with that detachable showerhead.”
Hand jobs didn’t require much space either, despite the impressive size of his growing erection against her lower back. Clearly she hadn’t given the matter of rabbitlike-fucking sufficient consideration, and Peter had. That kind of initiative and creativity deserved a reward, did it not?
When he lightly pinched her nipples between his knuckles, she pressed her leggings-clad thighs together. “We’ll have to be quiet.”
Because the water would drown out some noise, but not the volume of sounds the two of them usually made.
“I’ll put a hand over your mouth,” he told her.
Gods above, why did the thought of that only turn her on more?
As if in demonstration, he slid one hand upward until it covered her parted lips, and stroked the other lower, over her stomach and down farther. Wedging a hand between her legs, he palmed her pussy. Squeezed. And as promised, her breathy moan emerged faint and muffled, made private, offered to him alone.
“Up.” After a final, firm stroke of his thumb over the fabric covering her clit, he let go and started maneuvering them both off the chaise.
As soon as they managed to wiggle themselves free, he snatched her hand and propelled her forward, up the stairs and into the guest bathroom.
Turned out, there was plenty of room for a detachable showerhead aimed at her clit and deployed at various intensities, because Peter was a fucking tease. Only...
He didn’t seem playful. His intensity didn’t diminish, even for a moment.
Not when he let the water drift away from where she needed it every time she got close to orgasm, or twisted the showerhead until the spray became too diffuse and gentle to do anything but provoke her further. Not when a relentless, targeted stream ofwater hit her at just the right spot, and he finally—finally—let it remain there until she arched and came and cried out against his hard palm, nearly collapsing against the thick arm bracing her back. Not when she shoved him against the wall, covered his own mouth, and gripped his dick exactly how he liked it, pumping him to a fast, hard orgasm.
Not even when they held each other afterward, limp and spent and waterlogged, or when he went to his knees by the sink to dry her with his own towel.
His lips remained pressed in a grim line. His intent focus on her never wavered. He kept at least one hand on her at all times until the moment they said good night. His mouth devoured hers outside her bedroom doorway, his fists buried deep in her hair, before he abruptly let her go and stalked away.
He was trying to prove something. She could recognize that much.
She wished she had the slightest idea what it was.
18
The Ivarssons were a hard fucking act to follow.