Lucien
Proserpina had come awake at dawn again and rushed to the bathroom. He came awake at once and hearing her retching violently, he rose, following her to the bathroom. She stood, swaying and then leaning against the wall, ashen-faced, purple bruises under her eyes. Without a word, he helped her wash and brush her teeth for she insisted and then he helped her back to bed. Standing over her, his face tight with concern, he watched as she sipped a cup of weak tea that Beatrice brought up immediately at his summons. She had also slipped in a sedative, again on Lucien’s instructions.
Proserpina fell asleep soon after in his arms, holding his muscular arms to her chest. He had felt his manhood swell and knew he wanted to take her but not like this, not when she was so vulnerable and exhausted, mentally and physically after her ordeal. After a lot of agonizing moments, he had made do with wedging his hard shaft between the cheeks of her rounded a*s. She had murmured in slight protest but he had stroked her, the full breasts with the firm nipples and had made sure she did not come awake. The feel of her soft, warm body cradling his manhood had kept him sated for a while; but he had risen slowly, careful not to disturb her and had gone to the bathroom to fist his thick c*ck, unable to hold himself back. Groaning, he stood for a while as he thought of his woman, gentle, loving and so trusting; Cole, the b*stard in every sense of the word had hurt her, reviving the memories of her trauma at the hands of Dmitri and Oleg. Lucien’s face hardened. Taking another shower, he dressed and went downstairs. He had work to do, and scores to settle.
*
Before he left, he stood, looking at the woman curled on the bed and sleeping. It was daylight now and Proserpina was the one who always woke up at dawn and went about her yoga. But today, she slept deeply, her small plump form exhausted. Her slightly rounded belly made him feel a wave of tenderness wash over him.
Their eighth child, a son who had also been created with love was growing in her womb, his Woman’s womb.
*
His mind drifted as he pulled on his shirt, his eyes on the reflection of the sleeping form of his wife. The days in Portugal had been a continuous stream of bedding her in every possible way. Sometimes he marveled at how her body continued to tantalize him even after all these years.
She was a witch, he thought darkly his lips twisting in derision, a witch who had put a charm on him and brought him under her spell, left him mad with desire for her and her wet pu*sy. He knew that old acquaintances, who had known him for his philandering ways, still marvelled at how totally captivated he was with the Woman in his life. How he could not feel any hunger, any passion even when the likes of Britney spread her thighs for him invitingly; on the contrary, he could only feel a deep disgust.
Yes, his Woman had given him six children in all, and the boy he had adopted as well. They now had four children who were young adults, and another three who had just entered their teens. And yet, he hungered for her body, longed for her as though he had just plundered her body yesterday, for the very first time.. When she smiled at him, that slow, sensual smile, dimpling at him teasingly, promising something with her soft brown eyes, he felt himself harden. When she moved past him, her fragrance wafting as she walked, hips swaying in that slow, rolling movement of hers, he wanted nothing more than to grab her, take her to a dark corner and plunge himself into her wetness till she begged for mercy. The soft swell of her full breasts, still ripe and firm after nursing so many children, made him want to spill his seed on them, coat her body with his cum…
Yes, he thought, aware that he was getting a hard-on just thinking of his woman, yes, he was a pervert who fantasized f*cking his beautiful wife in every which way possible.
And he loved her, achingly. He could not think of a life without her, her purity, her gentleness, the way she threw her head back when she was laughing, the flow of her long brown hair which he gripped in his fist as he rode her…her support, her trust in him.
Life was incomprehensible without the woman he loved and he was scared, nay, terrified of losing her again.
*
One night during their stay in Portugal, he had been more than a little drunk. When she was standing in the balcony, in the darkness, in her nightshirt gazing at the moon, he had been overcome by a desire to f*ck her there, right there, knowing that there were people around, people strolling along the street not too far below…
‘Come in woman,’ he had ordered hoarsely, stroking his c*ck.
But she had been a little annoyed at having had their meal rudely interrupted when he had suddenly made the decision to leave the restaurant.
*
Earlier that evening at the fancy, elite restaurant they had visited, he had watched people as they observed him and his pretty wife; his beautiful, sensual young wife who was unaware of the effect she was having on men in her clinging gown that showed off her large, thrusting breasts, a daring slit revealing her legs…
He had had difficulty in refraining from smashing a man’s nose when one of them came over and asked to be introduced ‘To the lovely Senora and her Senor.’
Proserpina had turned pink in embarrassment and dipped her head but the man had melted away when the Don had gruffly asked him to leave, eyes cold with anger. His men had discreetly appeared behind them and the message had been clear.
But Lucien had had enough of having people ogle his woman. They had left in the middle of the meal and returned to the hotel. Proserpina was not classically beautiful, it was her aura, that potent mixture of sensuality and innocence, that had men running around her, sniffing like dogs, he thought angrily. But he was the leader of the pack and this woman was his, and Only his.