Every Bookshop Needs a Cat (Fleckney Fields Series, Book 2)

And Rise Again

2 out of 2 for today <3

***

"I'm sorry I called our lovemaking a pity shag," he murmured when they were cooling down after the second round.

Anya snorted and rubbed her nose to his chest. He was a bit sticky from sweat - and the smells of his soap and cologne were stronger. She didn't have much base for comparison, but sex with Klaus seemed more 'athletic' than with her other men, who'd just do what they needed to get their end off, with minimal participation from her required. Klaus let her explore, and try things, and learn what she liked. He was in no way passive either; he never stopped moving, touching, greedy and demanding and giving, watching her reactions, seeking more ways to give her pleasure. She was exhausted now, in the best possible way.

"Ok," she answered, and he chortled.

"Ok," he repeated. "Is this now going to be your go-to response?"

Anya nuzzled him some more. "Uh-huh."

"That's convenient," he joked. His fingers were lazily playing with her hair. "But I'm serious, darling, I was out of line; and I apologise." He kissed the top of her head. "I don't like leaving these things unsaid."

Anya remembered Amira calling him 'anal retentive.' In a way, there was something pure and idealistic about how he was going about their relationship. Anya reminded herself to appreciate it, especially considering that she's been trained to expect and accept abuse and lack of any sort of communication.

"Klaus?" She lifted her face to look at him. "About the wedding–"

"Yes?" he encouraged.

"Do you want a wedding, or do you want to get married?"

"Both," he answered confidently.

"But you see, these two things–"

"I know," he interrupted her. "Anna, I want both. But only if you do." He tucked a stray strand of her hair behind her ear. "I want to be your husband. I want to have a larger role in Varya's life. And as antiquated as it sounds, I want to pass my title to my children. Our children." He smiled at her warmly. "And I'm from Fleckney. We're brainwashed into wanting an outrageously large wedding. But I'll sign a boring piece of paperwork and celebrate it with sex later, if that's all you want to do."

"I've already had this," Anya muttered. "Dom and I signed papers in the Register Office."

They also hadn't celebrated it with sex, since Dom had gotten bladdered and had to be carried to the flat they'd been lodging in, by his bandmates.

"In my case there will be solicitors involved, but we can do just that," he said evenly - and she could clearly see how much effort it took him to hold back.

Anya wiggled from under his arm he'd wrapped around her, and climbed off the bed. His eyebrows jumped up in surprise. Anya rummaged in their clothes on the floor, looking for her clutch.

She returned on the bed and sat down next to him, cross-legged, her phone in her hand.

"Anna?"

"Just a mo," she muttered, typing and scrolling. She finally found the picture she was looking for and turned the screen towards him. "This is the kind of a dress I've always dreamt of wearing on my wedding day. Since I was ten maybe. See how long the train is? And the veil? It's 'flower vine lace,' I googled it. It's produced by one of the oldest lace artisans in France, in the region of Chantilly. Normal, real-life brides don't wear something like that at their wedding. I could never afford even one button on it." She swiped and showed him a photograph of the back of the dress, with a row of tiny pearly buttons. "It's for those women who get a photoshoot in their boudoir before the wedding. Their grooms wear that 'morning suit,' or whatever it's called, like the Royals. And the flowers are flown from Ethiopia... or North Pole, for all I know."