Continues....

flufff warning 

Later that night, the kids were sleeping in the middle. Conrad was sprawled backwards over his father's lap—mouth open, arms and legs splayed against the low couch like he'd fallen asleep mid-run.

Dev was dozing in Siya's arms—one ear against her heart—as she swayed him back and forth, humming an old song she'd learned as a girl.

The clock in the corner ticked loudly. The fire flickered. And he leaned back, closing his eyes... feeling a slow, steady smile spread across his face.

Home. The room was warm—firelight dancing on skin, children breathing soft between them.

And then...

His fingers slipped beneath the thin cotton of her saree—slow, quiet—just above the curve of her hip.

A familiar touch.

Not urgent.

Not demanding.

Just his.

She didn't flinch. Didn't stop humming.

But her breath caught—just slightly—as his palm slid further, warm and sure against the bare warmth of her waist.

"Theodore..." she whispered—not protest, but recognition. Like a secret only they knew in this life built from fire and flight.

He leaned close behind her—the boys still between them like sacred ground—and brushed his lips along the nape of her neck.

"No words tonight," he murmured, "just... you."

For tomorrow? Trains. Goodbyes. England's cold halls.

But now?

Now was hers.

And he'd take what little silence they had—one stolen touch at a time.

"You know they are in the middle of us; we can't."

He knew it.

Of course he did.

But she was there.

Bare skin beneath his touch... the soft, slow rhythm of her breaths as he inhaled the smell of jasmine in her hair—the same they used for garlands under mango trees.

"I know..." he whispered, thumb tracing idle, soothing circles against her hip. Not urgent. Not demanding. Just close.

His lips grazed the back of her neck again.

"...I know."

A small tremor, almost involuntary.

She still hummed. Still rocked the child in her arms.

But she went still.

No more motion. No more song.

Just her, trembling faintly under his touch—lips parted—breath almost catching in her throat.

And he... pressing closer against her. Skin to skin. Warmth to warmth.

He felt the shiver through them both...

And knew she was holding back. He didn't pull away.

Instead, he shifted slowly. Carefully. One arm sliding under Conrad, lifting him just enough to place the boy gently on the other side of the mattress, wrapped in a thin cotton sheet.

She followed—silent—laying Dev down beside his brother, tucking the blanket around their tiny feet.

Then.

Without a word, he reached for her hand. Pulled her softly to his side of the low bed.

Not far.

Just close enough that she was tucked against him—the warmth of their children still near, but now... they were theirs alone.

The fire dimmed.

And he turned her—just slightly—until she faced him, one leg slipping over his hip as he pulled her closer... careful not to wake what they loved most.

"Still shivering?" he murmured, lips brushing her ear.

"Let me warm you."

"You are being too bold tonight." She whispered

He chuckled softly. "I haven't even started."

His fingers traced an idle trail across her collarbone—gentle, soft as rain.

He didn't touch her anywhere dangerous.

Not between her thighs. Not along her breast. Not where her heart beat fast.

Just the bare skin above her sari. The curve of her hip. The warmth of her waist.

He was taking his time with her.

And she was letting him.

A soft sigh escaped her—almost silent.

"Theo, don't torture me, please".

He smiled—slow and lazy—and brushed his lips feather-light along her jawline. Across her cheek. Down the pulse at her throat.

"Torture?" he murmured against her skin. "Never."

He shifted closer—one leg sliding between hers, pinning her body gently between his and the sheets.

"But I will drive you wild."

He kissed the space between her collarbones.

"Is that a crime?"

"With two kids sleeping beside, I don't think it's time for wild things." She exclaimed.

He lifted his head.

Their children were still asleep—small, wrapped up tight in their blankets. Peaceful. Safe.

He looked back to her... and his fingers traced a line from her hip... down her thighs... until they reached the edge of her sari.

"And yet," he whispered, "you're still shaking."

His thumb brushed along the soft fabric.

"From cold... or want?"

He pulled her saree from her shoulder. The fabric fell easily—cotton against her honey brown skin—and he traced a path along her shoulder, following silk to bare skin.

His breath caught in his throat.

She was a goddess.

A flame.

And in the warm, firelight of their home... she was his.

He kissed her shoulder softly.

Then down.

A line of slow, languid kisses down her skin—her collarbone... her shoulder... the slope of her breast.

"Still shaking?" he murmured.

"You are teasing the hell outa of me"

He smiled again—teeth grazing her throat—and felt her pulse jump beneath his lips.

"I haven't even started, love... you're just getting impatient."

He could feel the way her body moved with him.

Not away.

She wanted him, and there was no escape from it now.

His hand slid up her thigh. Slow. Soft.

Her breath caught.

He heard it.

"Say the word. Say you want this."

"Of course, I wanted Lord Norman."

She teased. He chuckled, low and hoarse.

"I think you want to scream it in half a dozen languages, love," he murmured, fingers tracing circles on her thigh.

"Let's make you shiver in just one."

He didn't wait for a reply.

He was done waiting.

His hand slid up, over her hip... her stomach... her breast.

He found her heart beating fast under his touch.

"Breathe..." he whispered into her ear. He unhooked her blouse. His fingers found the first clasp—slow. Deliberate.

One tug.

Then another.

The blouse slipped open, just enough to reveal the curve of her breast—soft, warm in the firelight.

He didn't rush.

Instead, he leaned down—lips brushing the hollow of her throat... then lower... trailing heat across her skin until his mouth hovered just above her nipple.

"Still think I'm teasing?" he breathed—warm against her flesh.

Yes, you are, please."

He smiled against her skin, teeth grazing the soft curve of her breast.

"Impatient, my dear..." he murmured, "We have all night."

His tongue brushed her nipple-hardening—just slowly, just enough—and she gasped.

He was warm.

Soft.

Careful.

And yet...

Her hands were fists against the sheets to keep from reaching for him. Her body was tense... trembling... wanting—but not yet taking.

He wanted her to want it. He needed her to. Just then, the little toddler stirred in sleep, wanting his mother's warmth.

They froze. Her hand was halfway to tangling in his hair. His mouth—against the breast he'd been so close to tasting.

Dev whimpered again—soft, fussy little sounds that echoed through the room—and she reached down to soothe him, tucking the blanket around him.

"He glares dramatically at his son*You are your mother's guards, aren't you?*"

Would you survive parenthood with two tiny chaos machines? 👶🔥