Free Anew: The Epilogue by Josie Litton Page B

so far from the house?
    Ian gets out first and immediately reaches back in. Before I
can move, he puts both hands on my waist and easily lifts me down. His strength
and the care with which he uses it where I’m concerned have the predictable
effect. I can’t be alone with him quickly enough.
    We move a safe distance away before the chopper takes off
again, disappearing into the sky. The sun has just dipped below the horizon to
the west. A soft, shimmering dusk is settling over us. With the chopper gone, the
only sounds are the whisper of the wind and the evening song of birds. The air
carries the tang of the fir and pine trees that grow in profusion beyond the
cultivated portion of the estate. The woodland extends in all directions,
enclosing us in our own world.
    Before we go any farther, Ian stops. His arm is around my
waist. With his other hand, he tips my head back. His fingers curl around the
nape of my neck as he takes my mouth with his. His kiss is hard, fierce, his
tongue spearing deep, tasting, claiming. He gives no quarter nor do I want any.
    When he finally breaks off, his breathing is ragged and I
can feel the pounding of his heart under my hand. I’m trembling with need for
him, vividly aware of the wetness between my thighs and the pebble hardness of
my nipples. I’m empty, bereft, only he can complete me.
     “We aren’t going to make it to the house,” my husband says.
His teasing manner in the helicopter has vanished. In its place is a fierce,
raging hunger that matches my own.
    It’s just as well that no staff is on hand and that the
estate’s security measures include screening from any obtrusive drones. We
truly are alone. But I have to admit, I don’t relish the thought of our first
time together as husband and wife being on the hard ground next to the chopper
pad. Fortunately, a far better alternative occurs to me.
    “I’ve got an idea,” I say and grab his hand.
    A hundred meters away is a low hill. We climb it to a garden
divided by gravel paths and the long sweep of a manicured lawn. Flowers in a
riot of white, pink, and blue fill the formal beds on either side. A tardy
chickadee flits by, bound for the fountain at the center where sprays of water
sparkle in the fragrant air.
    At the far end of the garden opposite us is our ultimate
destination, an Italianate-style palazzo. The fading light falls over white
stone walls under a sloping, red-tiled roof. Twin, one-story wings extend
perpendicular to the two-story main part of the house.
    At the near edge of the garden closest to us is a small,
white-columned pavilion. A round, floating bed hangs within it, suspended from
the domed, wrought iron roof. We scarcely reach that bed before we tumble onto
it in a tangle of limbs, all greedy hands and mouths.
    My husband groans when he discovers the buttons down my back.
He doesn’t even try to undo them but instead just tugs the fabric up over my
thighs and hips. The dress is snug enough that I have to help him, arching my
back and wiggling until, at last, the fabric is bunched around my waist. Underneath,
I’m wearing lace-topped ecru thigh-highs and a ridiculous excuse for panties
that I chose when I was feeling particularly daring. They, too, are made of
ecru lace and silk but the slit down the center makes them little more than a
frame for my bare sex.
    Ian inhales sharply. Without taking his eyes from me, he
strips off his jacket, yanks his tie loose, and reaches for the buttons of his
trousers. His tongue moistens his lips as he gives me a smile of such pure
carnality that it takes my breath away.
    “I’m going to die a happy man,” he says.
    A shadow moves across the blazing landscape of my need for
him. “Don’t,” I murmur.
    The memory of how close he came to being killed recently is
burned into my mind. He may be over that but I’m not. Far from it. Everything
in me is driven to celebrate his life.
    “Let me,” I say and push his hands away. My smaller fingers
make short work of