Golden Luckenbooth

Forty-Seven

That night, Harry and I build a cocoon for Piper on the floor next to our bed while Shortbread jumps up to lie at our feet. Piper curls up on the pillow we carried upstairs just for her, and she whines before settling her snout on her paws with a giant sigh.

I gather a pillow and blanket and start to rise from the bed.

"No," Harry insists. "You are not sleeping on the floor with her."

"But..." My eyes shimmer with tears. My baby girl is hurting and alone on the floor.

"No," he repeats. "She has a pillow, and if you feel the need to cover her with a blanket, you can do that, but you are sleeping in the bed." When I glare at him, he refuses to relent. "If someone has to sleep on the floor, it will be me," he states, standing to do just that.

It's at that moment that Shortbread rises from her spot and nestles next to Piper, their heads and paws entwined.

"Thank you, Shortbread," I whisper to her, and I swear she winks at me.

Throughout the night, I'm awake at every movement from the dogs on the floor. Usually I sleep deeply no matter how much they shift their positions, even when they're in the bed. Tonight, I toss and turn with the tiniest fluctuation or twitch from them.

Harry throws an arm over me around two in the morning, murmuring, "Babe, she's fine. She's got her bestie with her, and we're right here. She'll let us know if she needs us."

And she does. Her whining starts around five o'clock, and Harry groans. "Guess it's time for me to start early morning jogging again. I'll carry her downstairs and take her outside."

Once he and the dogs have shuffled downstairs with their slow and measured steps, I drift into a restless sleep that is no better than my sleep of the night. When I stare at the ceiling upon awakening 38 minutes later, I find myself abandoned and desolate without them all in the room.

As I stumble into the bathroom to prepare for what is sure to be a long and tiresome day of work, Harry reappears, a cup of tea in hand, and I sip deeply of the elixir before setting it on the counter and staring at my face in the mirror. Behind me, Harry wraps his arms around my waist and rests his precious little quiffed head on my shoulder, swaying with me.

"I missed you," he whispers, kissing my shoulder blade as his hands inch their way under my pyjama top, his fingertips dancing across my belly to whatever tune is in his musician's brain at the moment.

"Same," I respond, allowing my head to fall back at the pleasurable sensations he's creating.

"Did you think of me while you pleasured yourself this week?" He asks, and I nod and moan as those long, luxurious fingers commence dipping into my pyjama bottoms, tracing chaotic patterns on my pubic bone.

"And you?" I ask.

"I thought of myself while I was wanking, too. What a coincidence," he giggles, and I laugh out loud, my joy overflowing at his presence.

"Narcissist," I accuse, twisting our bodies around so that he's against the counter. "I want to try something." Carefully, I remove his joggers which aren't hiding his erection very well, and I nudge his feet apart.

"I already like this," he breathes.

My laugh bubbles up. "I haven't done anything yet."

"You're in control, and that makes me ecstatic."

Stripping my pyjamas bottoms off, I throw them and his joggers over my shoulder into a heap on the bedroom floor before I reach for his shirt, drawing the soft material over his head.