Free The Reclaiming of Ivy Leavold (Markham Hall Book 4) by Sierra Simone Page B

And the night I’d taken her ass by the fire—it’d been the night that had driven home for both of us how necessary our dynamic was, how it managed to sate and complete us in a way that was as indescribable as it was vital.
    My dick stirred at all these memories, and part of me debated simply using my hand to relieve this growing ache—it seemed wrong to go wake Ivy when she and George were asleep, just to force her into doing something she’d be reluctant to do. I got as far as unbuttoning my trousers and closing my fist around my cock when I realized exactly how ridiculous I was being right now. Masturbating like a schoolboy when my lovely wife was upstairs, just as unhappy as I was, and rather than face our problem head on, I’d rather skulk down to the library and come into my handkerchief.
    How furtive.
    How pathetic.
    How weak .
    Determination settled itself like a pile of coals in my belly, hot and urgent. Where was the man who’d claimed the wild and untamable Ivy Leavold? Who’d mastered her? Had he died at our son’s birth too?
    No.
    No, he had not.

 

    George was the perfect baby.
    I knew very little about babies, but I was given to understand that they cried often, slept never, and that I would need a nurse to help me with mothering. But I refused to allow Julian to hire a nurse; the moment George had peered up at me with those huge, wise eyes, I knew there was no possible way I could let another woman care for him. He was mine, and like any mammal with her young, I guarded him jealously. Julian was allowed into our little world, of course, but even then, I sometimes felt like he was only a half presence.
    And I hated that. But at the same time, I didn’t know how to invite Julian in. I would think about going to him during the occasional lazy spell in our afternoons, but then George would wake up from his nap. I would want to enjoy dinner with him, but then George would nurse relentlessly the entire evening. And at the end of a long day of changing diapers and swaddling clothes, of nursing and playing, I would sometimes just want to be alone, by myself and without a single soul having any claim on my body or my time…even Julian.
    So the first time we’d made love after George was born had been difficult for me. I was sore, yes, but that wasn’t the problem. It was more like I couldn’t bring myself to be present, like I had already bled all of myself out for George and I had nothing left to bleed for my husband and certainly nothing for myself. But I wasn’t a fool—I knew that Julian needed sex the way most men needed food.
    The way I’d used to need it, before the baby.
    I had never wanted to be one of those meek, frigid women. But I didn’t know how to stop it, and the more gentle and patient Julian became with my reluctance in bed, the more I pulled away, which made no sense, I knew, but it still happened. As if his patience and tenderness exacerbated everything I had come to dread about sex—mostly, that I had to service my husband’s needs along with my baby’s and I couldn’t. I couldn’t be everything for everyone, I couldn’t give and give and give of myself endlessly and not ever be replenished, but when he was so kind and so attentive, it made my selfish needs feel all the more selfish, because what woman wouldn’t want a husband like my Julian?

    When I woke the next morning, George was stirring in my arms, rooting into my chest, and with a yawn, I sat up and nursed him through the vent in my nightgown, running the fingertips of my free hand over the soft crown of his head. He looked up at me, one chubby fist reaching for my face, and I caught his fingers with my lips, nibbling on them until he pulled off and made the squeaky, chuckling sounds that were his laughs.
    I heard a deeper laugh from the corner of the room, and I turned to see Julian observing us from an armchair, his head braced against his hand. “I love his laugh,” Julian said. “Do you remember how at