Two Purple Gloves (A Pear Street Christmas #2)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“Don’t want you passing out.”

LISA

W e do leave early in the end, but with a snivelling Lucas in the back seat. Seems as though the cocktail of festive excitement and mob culture when mixing with the neighbourhood kids was enough to have poor Lucas running around in a stupor and too distracted to notice the door someone opened right in front on him. He ran headfirst into the offending door and now has a bump on his head the size of half a ping-pong ball.

“You doing alright, bud?” Harry calls from the driver’s seat.

“Yeah,” is the warbly response.

I turn to see Lucas, mouth turned down as far as it’ll go, tear tracks wetting his red cheeks, blond hair in a ruffled mess. “Nearly home, baby.”

He nods, blinking out more tears. Jake and Nel said they’d bring everyone else home—because Jake being the exemplary friend he is, has car seats in his car for Mary and Oscar and can remove them to bring the adults back on a second trip. When we pull up on our drive, Harry helps our eldest out of the car as I open the front door, relishing the quiet in our home. Without discussion, Harry and I parent as one. He takes Lucas to the bathroom to check the cut on his forehead, rummaging in the first aid kit while I start calling the out-of-hours doctor and retrieve an icepack from the freezer.

The doctor answers as I wrap a clean tea towel around the pack. By the time I meet Harry and Lucas in the lounge, I have the answers I need .

“We don’t need to go to A&E,” I say coming to sit next to them on the sofa.

“Thank fuuu…dge for that,” Harry groans.

“Daddy was going to say a bad word,” Lucas mumbles without lifting his head from where it rests on Harry’s shoulder.

“I guess your perceptiveness hasn’t been affected,” Harry deadpans, looking down at Lucas with an accusing stare but he winks and kisses an uninjured section of his head. “What did the doctor say?”

“We need to keep him up and keep an eye out for signs of a concussion but if we’re happy he can sleep in a couple of hours. Calpol and Nurofen for the swelling.”

“I get to stay up late?” Lucas perks up.

“Yes, but only a little bit,” I tell him.

“How about we watch a movie?” Harry says, grabbing the remote and pointing at the TV.

“Really?” Lucas asks excitedly.

“Sure, bud. Have you ever watched A Muppet’s Christmas Carol?” Harry flicks through the menu to find what he’s looking for.

“No.” Lucas frowns.

“Such a deprived childhood.” Harry shakes his head sadly and I laugh. “This was Auntie Nel’s favourite Christmas film when we were kids, and she made us all watch it every year. I kind of complained and moaned every time, but I’m not gonna lie, it’s pretty good.”

We settle in to watch the film, Lucas rolling over to snuggle into my side and I hold him close to me. Having two boys who love sport and games and play rambunctiously, minor injuries are a regular occurrence in our house. Doesn’t mean it gets easier to see your baby hurt and in tears. Lucas is at the age where he pushes back on so much, digs his heels in just to test our resistance, and wants to distance himself from us a little. It’s natural but I hate it. As much as it’s horrible seeing him upset, I love this little bubble the three of us are now in, watching a cosy movie, huddled under a blanket, and cuddling like we did when he was little.

“Don’t fall asleep, will you?” I mumble against flaxen hair.

“I won’t,” he yawns.

“Every time you blink too long, I’m going to sing really loudly,” Harry whispers, getting in Lucas’s face, making him giggle and push him away. “You want some medicine?”

I get up before Harry can and fetch the syrups, grabbing my phone on the way, shooting off a quick message to Rhiannon to check on everything at the hall. An instant reply tells me that Oscar and Mary are fine, Dad and Uncle Gordan are merry on sherry, and Mum and Auntie Hen are social butterflies, flitting amongst the crowds and making everyone fall in love with them. That’s a load off.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” I hear Lucas say as I approach the lounge.

“Why are you sorry, mate?”

“You and Mum had to leave early because of me.”

“Oh, that’s okay. I was getting bored talking to Mr Price from number eighty-three anyway.”

“Is Mum mad at me?” His little voice breaks slightly as he looks up at Harry and I place my palm over my chest as I watch them from the doorway.

“Oh, bud,” Harry sighs, bringing our boy tight to his chest. “Mum’s not mad at you. No one’s mad at you, we’re all just happy you’re okay.”

“Apart from the bump and the cut on my head,” Lucas gripes.

“Hey, that cut might scar. Chicks love scars.” I roll my eyes at Harry’s complete inappropriateness.

“Ew, gross, Dad.” That’s my boy.

Harry guffaws. “I’m just teasing. Everyone knows scars are cool, not just girls.”

“Eurgh, Dad! ”

Harry laughs and ruffles Lucas’s hair, I head over and perch on the couch, measuring out the correct dosage of Calpol. “I love you, kiddo,” I tell Lucas.

“Love you too, Mum.”

“And I love you, Mr Forest.” I look up at Harry, who stares at me over Lucas’s head with love and adoration.

“I love you, wife.”

“Stop being gross and watch the film,” Lucas grumbles.

Harry has to burst into Jingle Bells at the top of his lungs a total of three times to wake Lucas up during the film. I’m pretty sure his nodding off is down to the excitement of the day and a sugar crash more than a concussion. The bump on his head is already looking better and the cut, once cleaned up, was a lot smaller than we initially thought. The front door opens with a cacophony of chatter and the distinct sound of Mary crying.

Rhiannon rushes past the living room, yelling something about needing to pee and Luke comes in wrangling two overtired and over stimulated toddlers.

“I don’t want to go to bed,” Margot cries while her twin begs to be allowed to go to bed.

“You’re both going to bed, immediately,” Luke says with obvious effort to keep his cool.

“Jake and Nel, didn’t want to come in,” Mum says as she comes in. “They dropped us off and have headed straight back to the hotel. Mandy, Pam, and Glen are all back there too.”

“Okay,” I say with a yawn, feeling grateful that ‘ entertaining ’ is done for the day. Apart for the eight people still staying with us .

“How’s my grandson?” Dad asks, patting Lucas’s knee.

“Fine,” Lucas yawns.

“Aw man, you watched a movie without me?” Oscar whines over the closing credits.

“Sorry, mate,” Harry says, pulling Oscar into his lap. “We’ll all sit and watch a movie together when everyone’s gone after Christmas, okay? ”

“With popcorn?”

“Sweet and salty.”

“Deal.”

It’s late when we get into bed, after putting the boys down, Mary then refused to settle, Harry and I take it in turns walking her around the house. She finally fell asleep in his arms, and he has the magic touch of being able to put her in her cot without waking her, but we’re both extra quiet as we tip toe around each other to use the bathroom to be extra safe.

My muscles ache with relief when I sink into the soft mattress and the duvet cocoons me. Harry pulls me to him immediately and keeps me pressed against his firm chest. I wiggle to get comfortable— definitely not to torture my poor husband—my butt pressing further into his crotch.

“Lisa,” he sighs, pained.

I giggle. “I would have thought you were feeling a little better after earlier.”

“I’m not satisfied until you’re satisfied, wife.” His growl sends white-hot lightning down my spine.

“Well, I have always been very impressed with your customer service.”

I feel his smile against my neck in the pitch black of our room. One hand slowly finds its way under my pyjama shirt until he holds the weight of my breast in his palm. I feel my heartbeat in my stomach, all too aware of Mary sleeping a few feet away. Even if she woke up, she wouldn’t be able to see anything in the darkness, plus we’re both covered by the duvet to our shoulders. But I don’t want her to hear anything either, so I hold my breath to keep any sounds in.

“Breathe, Angel,” Harry whispers in my ear, his hot breath making goosebumps erupt on my skin. “Don’t want you passing out.”

“Maybe you should keep me quiet,” I suggest, barely above a whisper .

“Hmm,” he rumbles behind me. The hand at my breast comes away and clamps over my mouth, holding my head still while his other hand digs into my pyjama pants. Light, teasing strokes of his fingers over my outer lips does nothing but build frustration. He hums darkly when I wriggle my hips to get him touching me where I need him.

“Patience, wife. You had me at your mercy this evening, driving me mad wanting you. Now I get to take my time with you. I get to enjoy your desperation as much as you enjoyed mine.” He cups my pussy with his entire hand and holds it steady. No friction. No relief.

“ Harry ,” I try to complain but it’s muffled beneath his palm.

“Shh,” he hushes me, stroking a single finger along the length of my slit.

It feels so good, the first time my husband has touched me like this in months. Feeling frantic as my most neglected parts finally feel signs of life. He dips inside my entrance, a single digit not enough to sate the growing emptiness but teasing me with what I really want. When the second finger joins the first, scissoring and stretching me out as if preparing me to take him for the first time in months. I whimper, tilting my hips to fuck myself on him and I melt against him further, wanting, needing his cock.

“I’m not fucking you tonight,” he rumbles into my ear, both reading my mind and taking me back to the night we first met.

I huff my frustration from between his knuckles and he plunges a third finger into my pussy. Curling those digits, he starts to stroke over the most sensitive spot, the place only Harry knows, even when I’m on my own I just stick to clit stimulation because I long since gave up trying to hit it. I grunt and rock myself against him, building the perfect rhythm to summon the orgasm I’ve been craving for—what seems like—forever.

“You going to come for me, wife?” I nod eagerly. “You going to soak my hand? Make a mess of me, hm? ”

Oh god.

“Such a perfect little wife for me. Come Lisa, come for your husband.”

The gravel in his voice. His hardness pressed to my arse. The press of his palm to my clit. It all sends me over the edge, convulsing and whimpering. My pleasure crests and flows through me, warming my limbs and allowing my heartbeat to be felt everywhere.

“So perfect,” he repeats, breathy but strained. Still hard against my buttocks, I reach behind me to relieve some of his tension, but he stops me. “All for you, wife.”

“Harry,” I moan, as he releases me, the feel of his hand still a phantom over my mouth.

“We should get some sleep, it’s late.” He gives me a hard, quick kiss on my cheek and leaves the bed. I listen as he washes his hands and then climbs back into bed. “It’s gone midnight. Merry Christmas, Angel.”

“Merry Christmas, Frosty.”

My eyes are heavy and I feel myself falling into blissful sleep just as Mary’s cries fill the room.