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lifts (with your sweet kiss)

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For all the times he refused to desire it, refused to entertain a conversation about it, or even have his thoughts simply allude to it, Simon cannot stop thinking about it now.

 

It started after Daphne gave birth to their first child; a screaming, raging little ball of fire with delightfully fat cheeks, his mother's bright wise eyes and smooth brown skin a shade paler than his own complexion. Alexander was everything he never knew he needed, never allowed himself to want for, retrospectively speaking, completely childish and utterly trivial reasons, borne out of nothing more than spite and the fear he'd end up like his own father. Yet the thought of the child being part him and part his wife drove him exceptionally crazy.

 

The thought hadn't occured to him at first, through all the long nights of crying and the spit-covered clothing, the days of feeling like a shell of a person roaming the earth solely to decipher the difference between a sob and a wail, between hunger and a change of undergarments. Simon and Daphne had slowly found that sometimes Alexander just liked being fussy for the attention, and he had already often lovingly joked he was much like his mother in that aspect.

 

Simon refused to be like his own father, refused to have his children raised by strangers, no matter how much time and energy it cost him. The second he held Alexander in his arms for the first time and realized it might as well be the whole damned world, he decided he was going to do -- be better than that.

 

The first few months he was too tired to think, too tired to even dream at night. Sleep overcame him soon after his body lowered itself to the bed, and anything but an affectionate caress of his wife's cheek or a goodnight peck on the forehead was out of the question.

 

It occured to him later though. Violently so.

 

The dreams came first. Of Daphne, cradling her swollen belly with a delicate hand, her cheeks round and a shade darker than the rose-petal pink he'd grown accustomed to before. Of his spent, dripping from in between the apex of his wife's thighs, might as well his whole damned world, in the soft late night candle light covering their master bedroom in hues of warm orange. Of their estate filled with the idyllic, youthful giggles of children with his wife's eyes and charming little curls falling across their foreheads and a stubborness deep in their bones as bothersome as it is endearing.

 

"You are the most excellent father, Simon," Daphne tells him one night, softly, just for them, her hand in between his shoulder blades as she peers down at their child, safely tucked away in his crib and for once peacefully still, her chin propped on top of his shoulder. "I would know, because I was fortunate enough to have one."

 

Simon swallows tightly, ignoring the warmth blooming in his chest at his wife's kind words. He knows these are things she must say, being the good dutiful wife she is, but there is a sincerity to them that makes him burn for her in an entirely new way. With one last longing look at his son, he tugs the embroided blanket up Alexander's chest just a little more, just to be sure before nodding at the nursemaid waiting by the door, allowing her to dim the candle by the bed. 

 

His hand interwines with Daphne's as she leads them back to their sleeping quarters. After producing an heir they were expected to go back to seperate bedrooms, as is custom with most marriages, but they are not most people and Simon cannot bear the thought of being away from his wife, in whatever capacity.

 

Now that him and Daphne have decided to name their children alphabetically, Simon could not even believe himself when he realized how furiously fast and all-consumingly he wanted to get from A to Z. Quicker than he ought to be possible, he's grown obsessed with the idea, grown the dearest kind of attachements to it even, of making a home out of this house and filling it with the byproducts of their love, plural.

 

Simon is perched on the edge of the bed, watching his wife as she kindly dismisses the helper by the door, having long undressed out of her pretty silk dress and into her sleeping garments. It's a flimsy little white thing; covering less off her creamy skin than it should, easily spiking his desire for her.

 

"Daphne," he croaks out before he can think better of it, his throat dry. "Come here."

 

She comes to stand in between his knees, his hands coming up on the back of her thighs as his eyes slowly trail up her body. Over the still soft curve of her belly, the more than generous swell of her milk-swollen breasts, her long strawberry-blonde locks falling down her shoulders in waves, the perfect pink puzzled pout on her mouth, the little teasing beauty mark just above her upperlip, before finally meeting the deep ocean blue of her eyes. The material of her sleeping garment bunches up more and more the higher his fingers move, until his hot palms rest flatly just below her buttocks.

 

There is the slight almost imperceptible shift of his wife's feet as her own hands come up to fold around the hard muscles of his broad shoulders, telling him that even through the haze of her confusion, her body still reacts to him and his touch. "What is it, my love?" She would probably sound confident to anyone else, his dearest wife, but he is more than aware of the slight shake in her voice.

 

Simon noses at the material of her thin night gown, the ghost of touch below her breast before he presses a featherlight kiss to middle of her waist. It's not hard to long for her to grow fat there with his baby, not when it almost feels like second-nature now, a craving uncovered and unwilling to hide in secret any longer. He rests his chin there, looking up at his wife as nonchalantly as possible. From this position he can see the fast flutter of her pulse in her neck, and smell the enticing scent of the arousal surely pooling between her thighs in a way he can just as nearly taste it on his tongue. "I want you with child again."

 

One of her eyebrows quirks up in that endearing way that has him bite back a smile. She picks up a hand off his shoulder, gingerly running the tip of her forefinger down his nose. There is a cavalier tone to her voice, laced with amusement. "Is that so?"

 

For now, he can let her have the upperhand. "I cannot stop thinking about it, Daphne. It consumes me. I lay awake at night deliberating it, I can hardly function during the day dreaming about it. It is going to run our family business to the ground."

 

"Hmm," she hums thoughtfully, the corners of her mouth turned up as she regards him with the utmost consideration. "And what seems to be the only cure to these maddening compulsions according to you, dear?"

 

A small groan of protest escapes his lips, one of his hands cupping the front of her under her night gown in the hope of distracting her, the thin material covering her centre damp to the touch. "Do I have to say it?"

 

She rolls her hips over him, torturously, knowing exactly what she is doing as it is doing the same to her, a hitch in the back of her throat as the roughness of his palm hits her just right. "Yes, very much so."

 

"I want -- I need to get you pregnant again. I need to be inside of you. Fill you up in every way possible," Simon confesses readily, watching her face carefully, from the way her pupils fatten to the way her full lips part slightly. He can't help the nervous shake of his voice when he speaks next, "Do you reckon you'd be ready?" 

 

It's been mostly fleeting hands and eager mouths since Alexander's birth, quick moments of pleasure here and there whenever they could manage, their family doctor telling them to heed the risks of getting pregnant again so soon after their first child. Simon could never bear losing her, especially not at his own hand, so they have been careful, but it's been months by now, and his dreams of things he desperately longs for are quickly starting to feel like night terrors of all the things he doesn't have. 

 

"I do reckon I'd find myself ready," she says, putting him at ease as the sharp edge of her thumbnail scratches along the side of his throat from where her hand is still on his shoulder, now closer to the junction of his neck. His cock throbs longingly, unbearably. "How badly do you want --" Her eyebrows raise as she catches herself, an infuriatingly smug look in her eye, "--need it?"

 

His hands rub up and down at the back of her thighs. "More than you could ever know."

 

Her steely gaze remains on his, and he finds himself pleading, quickly folding to the game she is playing because of the fear he might come in his pants from being so worked up over the mere thought of getting her pregnant with their child again. "Please, sweetheart," he rasps, softly, dangerously close to losing his mind. "I know you want it too." 

 

Daphne has always wanted to be a mother, and Simon is more than happy to know he has made her one, but he would also be more than happy to make her one again, and again, and being her best friend, her confidante, her husband, he knows it is something she deeply desires as well.

 

"It is quite funny, isn't it?" Daphne teases, pulling up the night gown in between her legs to gather herself some more lenience from the fabric before lowering one knee onto the bed just beside his thigh. He can already feel the heat of her everywhere, spreading through him like wildfire. "Now it is you who is begging, Duke."

 

He pinches one of her buttocks, earning himself a yelp that quickly turns into a joyous giggle and disappears just as promptly once her other knee comes up on the bed, her centre resting atop of his rapidly hardened groin. She lets out a little moan that drives him absolutely crazy, his fingers dipping in between their bodies to slip into her undergarments, finding her warm and willing.

 

"You're drenched already," he notes, pride dripping from his voice. He knows her too well.

 

"I am," she confesses, a little breathlessly as his free hand expertly unravels the string holding the top of her night gown together, revealing the swell of her chest to the crisp night air. Her nipples peak immediately, small goosebumps forming all over her smooth flesh of her breasts. "Watching you with him... I thought you were perfect before, personally plucked from the Heavens by God himself and put down on earth to bless me beyond my wildest imagination, but instead it has made me realize all the ways I can still be so very wrong."

 

"You, being wrong?" He muses, smirking up at her with a dark gleam in his eye as he pushes one finger inside of her. She gasps, fingernails digging into the back of his shoulders meanly. "I didn't think that ought to be possible."

 

"I have trained you well," Daphne teases, her voice squeaking on the last word as he takes the sensitive peak of her breast into his mouth. She arches into him, creating a delicious movement of friction over where he's painfully hard. "Oh, Simon. Please."

 

"Please what?" He prompts, lifting his mouth off her as his finger stills inside of her wet heat, curled over that special spot that often gets her to keen like a woman driven absolutely mad. 

 

Nothing used to run him more hot than a woman in bed telling him exactly what she wants, in his former days as a rake. It's taken him a while to get Daphne to be more vocal in their bedroom (or their library with the book she was previously reading discarded haphazardly at their feet, the shed in the back of the garden on a warm summer's day, their bathing room still foggy from the hot water, their abandonded carriage before a visit to their town, her childhood room on the bed where she touched herself for the first time after he told her to, and many more other, equivalenty exciting places), but now he's finally got her confident enough to, he cannot possibly get enough of it. His proudest achievement to this date, apart from marrying Daphne and the birth of their first son, is still that one faithful evening he got her to touch herself on the opposite end of the dining room table, open thighs slick with her own arousal and her cheeks a rosy red, talk him to completion in the process. He was never more proud of her as in the moment afterwards, when she faced their housemaid waiting on them on the other side of the door and looked her straight in the eye as Daphne asked her to prepare her nightly tea, her face as cold as steel. Unashamed about her own pleasure. That, indeed, was by far the the hottest he's ever ran.

 

"Please put another baby in me," she breathes, struggling not to buck up against his hand, and he eagerly rewards her with another finger, curling them in the way she likes as he sucks on her nipple, the vague but rich taste of creamy milk sending another pulse of heat towards his straining cock. 

 

"Simon," she moans, small delicate fingers reaching for him beyond the confines of his sleeping pants, wrapping around his hard length as she frees him. Her thumb runs over the leaking tip, making him shudder. "Simon, come on," Daphne pleads, rolling her hips into his palm wantonly. "Please, please, please."

 

He retracts his hand so he can offer it to her for purchase -- her arousal staining her fingers in the process -- as she lifts onto her shakey knees. His other hand folds around where she is gripping his length tightly in between the two of them, completely engulfing her small fingers, holding himself in place as she lines up her entrance with the tip of his cock.

 

As soon as she sinks down on top of him and he slides right home, a breath of relief passes his lips. He's missed this; the warm, slick heat of her, where he belongs. She feels even tighter than before, which he didn't dare to think possible. With the encouragement of his hands gripping her hip tightly she starts moving, first just rocking back and forth as she gets reaccustomed to the feel of him before starting to lift herself up and down in earnest -- her mouth open in a silent 'o', her eyes screwed shut the entire time as he is once again reminded how truly beautiful his wife is.

 

It's only a minute or so before her movements get sloppy, her thighs trembling with the effort as sweat coats her bangs to her forehead. Daphne might merely be a Duchess, but she might as well be a Princess, not used to any hard work. He hides a smile by kissing her fondly, mouth a hard press against hers.

 

Simon doesn't particulary mind, likes the idea of gravity working in their favour after he comes much more anyway, flipping them over easily. His wife lands on top of the matress with a thud, her small but heavy breasts bouncing obscenely and nearly making him come right on the spot.

 

His mouth crashes back on top of hers as he starts pounding his hips into her, deep enough for his pubic bone to brush into where she's most sensitive and for his balls to slap against her buttocks with every thrust, hard enough to chase little squeaks and gasps and moans of pleasure from her red kiss-bitten lips, too much sensations overtaking Daphne for her to actually kiss him back. "This is what you want, right?" He groans, a special brand of elation coursing through his veins. "Another baby."

 

"Your baby," she corrects him breathily, teeth sinking into her bottom lip as his hands lift her knees higher, the new angle doing amazing things for the both of them.

 

"My baby," he repeats desperately, nearly starting to see black from the heady combination of physical exertion and unimaginable pleasure, a bead of sweat trailing down his temple. "My baby inside of you. My perfect wife. Carrying our child."

 

"Simon," Daphne pleads, strained, that needy little edge to her tone that tells him sometimes the old fear of him pulling out still creeps back into her mind, perhaps even lingers their in the dark at all times. "Come inside of me."

 

Simon ducks his head to take another nipple into his mouth, a final nip at the hardened bud making her fall apart around him. She flutters and clenches around him unrhythmically, drawing his own orgasm from him promptly, his hips stuttering on the final few pumps before he spills inside of her tight heat, eyes screwing shut as insurmountable pleasure overtakes all of his senses. He still tastes the sweetness of the milk she uses to feed their son on his lips.

 

With heavy-lidded eyes, she watches him push his spent back inside of her entrance with two fingers as soon as he pulls out of her, the rest of her completely boneless against the matress. A faint smile curls up the corners of her mouth, maybe even reminiscent. "I have ruined you."

 

He collapses beside her, tugging her into his side before wiping her damp bangs away from her eyes, fondness flickering deep within him like a low flame. Simon finds himself already childishly fantasizing about names that start with a B. "That you have, my love."