Page 93 of The Lyon's Pretty Pugilist

He climbed on top of her, his hips fitting perfectly in the cradle she’d created. She lifted her hips as she simultaneously pushed on his buttocks. His heart hammering, he easily slid into her heat.

Ensconced in sheer bliss, he froze in place, absorbing her pulsing walls until his heartbeat matched hers. Then, he slowly pumped into her. She met his every thrust with a throaty gasp and an equal force.

The tension within him built as the steady beat of their crashing hips and the morphing of their heavy breaths created a sensual symphony. The head of his cock tickled until imaginary butterfly wings traveled his length and spread outward to his lower stomach and groin. The pleasurable sensation filled him, eventually shooting up his spine.

He became a weightless ephemeral orb seated on a swing. He swung higher and higher as every tingling nerve spiraled back to a single point in his groin. His body tensed and tightened to delicious pain. He held onto the sensation, becoming one with it. The longer he clung to his existence on the Earthly plane, the more pleasure Josie would experience.

Luckily, his sensual wife leaped before him. Her walls quivered, her body shook, and she howled his name.

Since there was nothing left to hold on to, he also let go. He shuddered as his toes curled and his neck arched. Exploding into dreamy ecstasy, he levitated.

Lightheaded and featherlight, he fluttered back to Josie’s arms. His limbs may have been numb, but his soul felt overwhelming sentiment. He rolled off her, tossed his arm over his forehead, and steadied his breath.

She removed the sheath and tossed it onto the floor. Laying her head on his chest, she peered up at him. He expected her to say something like,That was delightful, because if he could form words, that is what he would say.

But no, not his unpredictable wife; she was thinking about other things. “I cannot be a prizefighter forever,” she said as she scraped her nails through his chest hair.

He blinked himself to a state of coherence. “What?” he asked.

“I cannot be a prizefighter forever. I’ve always known that, which is why I ultimately want to train women to defend themselves. Of course, I also want to train other prize fighters. These are the reasons I want to open The Silk Knuckles Saloon.”

He knew all of this, although he hadn’t thought much beyond her upcoming fight. All he could think to say was, “As much fun as the sweet science is, ’tis hard on your body.”

“Precisely, so after I win the Duke’s and Dame’s Mill, I want to spend my time teaching and coaching.”

“I will support you in whatever you want.” It wasn’t just the post-sexual intercourse euphoria talking; he meant it with his entire heart.

“Coaches can have children,” she said.

What in the devil was she getting at? Was she insinuating that she wanted children with him? Because he most definitely, one hundred percent, wanted children with her. “Are you saying you want to have a baby?” he asked.

She worried her kiss-swollen lip. “Do you?”

“I do. But I know ’tis not a possibility while you are fighting, and I have no intention of ever asking you to give up something that is important to you.”

“I want to win this one last fight,” she said. “Then I would like to try to conceive a baby.”

Although the prospect excited him, his mind and body were much too relaxed to show how utterly enthusiastic he felt. He wanted a boyand a girl. Or two girls. Or two boys. Or a half dozen little Nicolas’s and Josephine’s running amok.

“My darling, I want nothing more than to have a family with you if that is what you desire,” he said.

“When I am ready, we won’t have to use sheaths anymore, will we?” She grinned at him.

Holy bollocks. He was one lucky chap.

She snuggled into him. “In case I have never said it, you are a skilled opponent. Quite impressive, actually. Will you help me prepare for the fight?”

Pride puffed his chest. “Of course,” he said. “Whatever you need, my darling. Forever and ever, and ever after that. Whatever you need.”

And he meant it with all of his heart.

Epilogue

The fourteenth of June 1818 The Duke’s and Damsels Mill, Greyson Mill, Buckinghamshire

The puffy cloudsmorphed from one shape into another as the sun cast gentle rays across the raised ring. From shopkeepers to sheepherders, thousands of spectators showed up at the old mill. Carriages continued to trickle in as last-minute preparations were made.

A few feet from the ring, a dais had been constructed from sturdy planks. Jonathon, Agatha, and Tristan sat front and center, the elite members of the Fancy surrounding them. Agatha waved and smiled. Josie’s quivering lips refused to turn upward. However, she managed a subdued wave.