Chapter Text
“Stop moving, darling.”
A little sigh reaches his ears, soft and sweet and utterly ignorant of the delicate position she’s in.
“Tag, you’re going to hurt yourself if you keep squirming.”
She huffs her displeasure, shifting back and forth indignantly. He loves her like this, the bratty side of her slowly starting to peek through as she grows more comfortable with him. If only it wasn’t happening when he had scissors at her eyeline, a definite hazard as she whimpered and squirmed. “Agatha Maud, if you don’t stop wiggling I’ll have to put you over my knee.”
That draws her attention, her eyes going wide and liquid with desire. Oh hello, he thinks, carefully lowering the scissors in his hands. They were sharp little things, freshly cut from the packaging when Taggie had appeared at his doorstep that morning with a shy smile. “I told my parents I had a haircut scheduled,” she murmured, tucked into his chest as soon as he swung the door open. “I’m running out of good excuses.”
Honestly, he hadn’t intended to play hairdresser at all. But in the afterglow of a truly excellent fuck, their clothes torn off before they could get halfway up the stairs, Rupert saw her fringe stubbornly sticking to her eye lashes and whisked her up to the ensuite.
It’s not his fault that he kept getting distracted at the sight of her in his robe, blue silk pooling all around her and slipping off one shoulder. He could die happily, seeing her so relaxed in his space. Penscombe Court was a behemoth, a massive legacy that usually left his paramours yearning to be the lady of the manor. Taggie simply floated through the halls, unaware of the brightness she left in her wake.
“You’re not going to give me a bowl cut, are you?” Her voice is a low growl, brows raised beneath her grown-out fringe. “I don’t know if I trust your work.”
“Well it’s either my work,” he starts, eyeing the line of her hair carefully. “Or you go back home to mummy and explain why your hair hasn’t changed.”
For a second, her eyes flash with sadness and he immediately regrets his words. He can guess what her next words will be, he knows that Maud has never noticed much if it didn’t concern herself. The choice words he has for Taggie’s parents are ever-growing, a long list that ends with she’s mine now. Sensing the shift in her mood, quiet melancholy starting to seep into her face, Rupert raises a hand and cups her cheek. “Alright angel, let’s trim this fringe, hm?”
Carefully, he combs through her hair, the strands of her bangs brushing against her lashes. Her head tilts slightly in his grip, drawing a low chuckle out of him. “You really want that spanking, don’t you,” he murmurs, adjusting her again so that her head is straight. “Naughty girl.”
The first snip is the most frightening, the risk of absolutely fucking up sitting heavily on his chest. He holds up a little gilded hand mirror, one that had sat unused and dust-ridden for the past few years until Taggie had pulled it from his vanity with a wondrous gasp, and lets her judge his first cut. “Perfect,” Taggie murmurs, smiling up at him sweetly. “Have you considered a career in hairdressing?”
“Still time for me to fuck it up,” he mutters, brows furrowed in concentration. It was only a few centimeters, barely more than a trim, but each little strand that fell into her lap felt precious to him. Christ, he was getting sentimental. He has an aching desire to whisk her off to a real salon, one where she could be pampered by professionals. It was easily imaginable: her shy smile as the staff bustled around her, offering tea or a cocktail and the little sighs she would let out as her hair was washed, his tactile girl always happy to be touched.
The worst fantasy, the one that made his stomach churn with desire, was the image of him taking the scissors to her long curls, making a simple snip from a lock of her hair. He pictured tying it with a little pink ribbon, tucking it in a locket or some other saccharine location, only to be removed when a bouncing baby had their first hair cut.
He knows he’s putting the cart before the horse, so to speak. There’s no ring on her finger, no church date set. Her parents aren’t even aware of their burgeoning relationship, a purposeful decision that they had made a few weeks prior. Only until the bid ended, they had agreed, the tentative peace that Venturer had finally achieved was too fragile to risk this close to the end. Neither of them were particularly happy about the deal, the sacrifice of their happiness in the name of the fucking franchise. But as Taggie reminded him, this was only temporary.
Three careful snips later, he thinks he’s done it. Holding his breath, he presses the mirror into Taggie’s hands again. “Now, if you hate it,” he warns, voice only trembling a little, “I know people who can fix it. Wigs are particularly fashionable this year, according to Janey.”
Her tinkling laugh is music to his ears. “I love it,” Taggie murmurs quietly, as if the quarter-inch he trimmed from her fringe was some wondrous difference. “What do you think? Do they make me look horribly young?”
“Is it devilish of me to say yes,” Rupert grins, leaning close to press a soft kiss to her forehead. The happy little sigh she lets out when his lips make contact is everything, quickly turning his innocent kiss into something deeper as he captures her mouth. One hand slides into the robe’s opening, skirting along her skin until he reaches her breast. “My lovely little girl,” he groans, plucking her nipple with two fingers.
“We shouldn’t–” Taggie cuts herself off with a low moan, back arching and pushing her breasts towards him. “I’m already going to be late getting home.”
“You’ll just have to tell them that the salon owner wanted to do a very, very thorough job.” Lowering himself to his knees, firmly ignoring the tender pops that echo as he crouches down, he pulls at one side of the robe until it fully splits, revealing her bare form to him. “We’re a full service salon, and I believe there’s one more spot I’ve got to trim.”
He watches her leave with a heavy heart, standing on Penscombe’s driveway and staring until the yellow Mini becomes nothing more than a speck in the distance. This is the worst part, the silence that follows a day with Taggie. There are still the dogs, yipping excitedly and filled with energy that he will attempt to run out of them before the sun sets, but it’s not the same. Now that he knows her presence, the warmth she brings to every nook and cranny of his ancestral home, he feels bereft without it. He mourns her when she’s gone, a new stage of grief introduced to his life. It never lasts long, they are both becoming quite skilled at making up excuses to visit one another and she’s stopped protesting when he slides a wad of bills sufficient enough to cover a catering gig into the little purse she carries.
“You’re still catering,” he insisted one morning, when what was supposed to be a brief walk in the woods with the dogs had turned into a full English breakfast. “Catering to my needs. I’m very demanding, you know, you should charge extra.”
Claudius, perched happily in his lap and munching on a crispy edge of bacon, had barked his approval. “See, the baby agrees with me!”
“He’d agree with anyone who had bacon-scented fingers,” Taggie said, eyes rolling. She still smiled though, which Rupert counted as a win.
Now that he knew the space she took up, the feeling of eight dogs under one roof, anything less felt like walking through a ghost town. It made him even more resolved to win the bid, for the sole reason that once the fucking thing was done they could finally move on with their lives.
He used to spend nights at parties, lingering by bars to see what women showed even the briefest flicker of interest in him. Now, he spent them holed up in his study with a collection of materials that could rival the keenest A-levels student. There were endless notes to review, Venturer policies to memorize and perform on cue at the panel interview like a little show dog. When those become too tedious, the words starting to blur as he reviews some HR policy that certainly won’t apply to him, he shifts to more important reading.
The only copy of Overcoming Dyslexia in his entire former constituency had been tucked in some dusty Tetbury bookstore. It had taken a few days of calling around to find anything that would help him understand the condition that Taggie regularly triumphed over, most booksellers apologetically murmuring it’s a bit ironic, isn’t it? Every rejection just pushed him to call another store, his trusty yellow pages now dog-eared as he stretched the borders of his search outwards. He knows London would certainly have had more resources, some dusty old professor at Cambridge or Oxford sure to have a list of books that Rupert could pull from, but Taggie loves the Cotswolds. This is where she wants to lay roots, with him, and it felt right to honour her by finding a local business to meet his needs.
The book's contents are drier than he expected. There are a few chapters that go right over his head, one on the detailed analysis of the brain and how text is processed almost immediately putting him to sleep. There are a few gems, little tips and tricks that he copies down in a little leather notebook, a pressed-flower card tucked into the cover. “A bluebell,” Taggie had said softly, presenting him with the card shortly after their first weekend together. “So you have something to remember me by.”
It was a sweet gesture, one that he wanted to reciprocate immediately. He wanted to give her something permanent too: a key, a ring, a baby in her belly. Things that he had yearned for a month ago but never imagined would actually come to fruition. Before he could think about it for too long, Beaver pawed softly at his leg, letting out a quiet whine that suggested he was ready for bed.
“Alright dogs,” Rupert calls, listening to the soft pitter-patter of paws on the hardwood floors. “Let’s go out, then off to bed. We’ve got a big day ahead tomorrow.”
Helen had finally agreed to resume their usual custody agreement as Autumn had taken hold over the Cotswolds. It was still tentative, lingering whispers about the Uncensored episode still working their way through society, but there was always going to be talk. It came with the status, inherited along with the big house. There would always be gossip, but the children wouldn’t be small for much longer. Marcus had already sprung up in the weeks he went without visiting them, half a foot taller than he had been during that perfect June day.
Thankfully, Taggie had scraped together a tight enough excuse that allowed her to spend the full weekend at Penscombe. Something about visiting Caitlin and staying over with Lizzie, the details just specific enough that neither Declan nor Maud will ask any further questions. It makes his heart ache, knowing how desperately she had begged for scraps of attention from her parents for years. Never again, he vows, ushering the dogs out of his study with a gentle whistle. She would be cherished at Penscombe, by their children, their friends, and most especially him.
If she ever came to doubt his love for her, he would consider himself an absolute failure.
The children arrive full of energy, immediately wrestling with each other upon exiting the car. “Daddy,” Tabitha cries, launching herself into his arms. “Marcus is being such a toad and Mummy said I couldn’t bring any whoopee cushions even though you said it was fine last time!”
He can’t help but laugh. “I’ve got one stashed in the office,” he murmurs into her ear, giving Tabitha one last squeeze before letting her go. “Go on inside, munchkin.”
Marcus is slower to approach, taking tentative steps up the stairs towards him. It hurts, honestly, to see his son move in fear of him. He wants to do better–no, he has to do better. “C’mere, kid,” he murmurs, opening his arms wide. Marcus rushes to him then, colliding into him and grasping his shirt tightly.
They haven’t been this close since Marcus was a toddler. Rupert’s presence around Penscombe was unpredictable at that time, but his son had always come running at the sound of his voice, chubby legs carrying him across marble floors. He can’t remember when Marcus stopped running to him, when Tabitha became the only member of their family who greeted him happily at the front door.
Marcus squeezes him tightly, eyes closed as if he fears this is all a dream. Fuck, what kind of a father is he, if this is how his son reacts to being hugged? Running a hand through his fine hair, the chestnut colour that reminds him so much of Taggie, Rupert bends slightly so that he can whisper in his ear. “Don’t tell your sister, but we’re going out for dinner tonight. Wherever you want, alright?”
He lights up at that, a smile blooming across his face. “Anywhere I want? Really?”
“Really. But your sister gets to pick tomorrow, alright?” Marcus runs off with a nod, his overnight bag flopping behind him. In the car, Helen’s mouth is pulled into a frown, her sunglasses pulled low over her eyes.
Rupert offers her a small wave, one that she ignores as she revs the engine and heads down the driveway. He has some choice words for her, ones that any other time he wouldn’t hesitate to call out as she sped off. But he needs her on his side, needs her to not hate him enough to rescind the emergency custody agreement for good. “Okay kids,” he calls out, jogging back to the house with a grin. “Go put your bags away, then we’ve got to talk.”
Twin groans echo from upstairs, the noise making him surprisingly emotional. At one point, he thought he may never hear those petulant moans ever again. Penscombe would have fallen silent without them, turning him into a shell of a man as he moved through the halls. Helen changed her mind, he reminds himself, tossing one of the throw blankets that Taggie favours over the back of the sofa. She isn’t taking them away, isn’t cutting him from their lives. Everything will be alright.
The kids wander down quickly, dogs nipping at their heels in anticipation of food dropping to the floor. Flopping onto the sofa across from him, elbowing each other until their need for personal space is satisfied, Marcus and Tabitha look at him with expectant faces. “You’re not going to be in the papers again, are you?”
Tab’s question strikes him in the heart, her voice soft and sad. Holding a hand out, he waves her over, letting her curl up beside him. “No, this isn’t about that. It’s not about anything bad,” he reassures the children, feeling Tabitha exhale against him. “I was wondering how you two would feel if Taggie was around more often.”
“Like a babysitter?” Marcus asks shrewdly, brows raising. “I thought you didn’t have a job."
Christ, what has their mother been telling them. “I have a job,” Rupert stresses, not needing that particular rumour to make its way around Rutshire. “But no, Taggie wouldn’t be here as a babysitter. She is… very important to me and I would like you to get to know her too.”
“Is that why you had a sleepover with her?” Tabitha perks up, her eyes wide. “When you paid us ten pounds each to not tell mummy? We didn’t, by the way.”
The conversation gets derailed quickly, with Marcus debating if Taggie would actually want to stay the night if she knew how loud he snored and Tab fluttering excitedly off the couch, making extravagant plans for a sleepover of her own. Somewhere between it all, he realizes that they approve, in their own way. “Is it alright if she joins us for dinner,” he interrupts loudly, disturbing the building argument between the children. “Because I told her to come over at three and by my count, she should be here in ten minutes.”
Tabitha scurries from the room, half-shouting that she’s going to make Taggie a card. “Where are all my stickers,” she screeches, voice echoing down the stairs. “All of the good ones are gone!”
Jogging up the stairs, Rupert wills his face not to flush. “Check the top drawer of my desk, darling.” He knows that most of them are stashed there, easily accessible for the times Taggie comes crawling into his lap to ask for a reward. She’s always so sweet when she does, that soft husky voice murmuring please daddy, doe-eyed until he finally gives in to her. It usually turns into a slow, luxurious fuck, with Taggie bent over his desk until the sharp wood edge begins to dig into her tummy. One memorable occasion found him pressing gold star stickers to her tits, one for every positive thing she said about herself on a particularly down day, before sitting her on his cock until she wept with pleasure.
(He takes the stairs two at a time upon remembering that the polaroids from that day are stuffed in his second desk drawer, one that Tabitha would happily ransack if it meant finding more craft supplies.)
Thankfully, Tabitha seems to locate her bounty without having to rifle through the contents of his other drawers. Sitting happily at his desk, glitter gel pen gliding furiously across her paper, she gives him a steely look. “Why did you have my stickers,” Tabitha asks, eyes narrowed. “Grown ups don’t like stickers.”
“Taggie likes stickers,” he informs her, watching as her face lights up at the revelation. “I told her you would be happy to share with her.”
What he doesn’t predict is the absolute tear Tab goes on once Taggie arrives, dashing down the stairs and shrieking that daddy says you like stickers! His poor girl’s eyes go wide, giving him a panicked look over Tabitha’s head, and he can’t help but chuckle. “Alright, Tab, don’t hog her. Marcus, Taggie is here!”
When the children finally release her, the picnic basket full of treats that she arrived with immediately squirreled off to the kitchen, Rupert pulls her into his arms. “Hi, baby,” he murmurs, feeling her hands cup his cheeks and pull him into a kiss. “Missed you.”
“It’s been less than a day,” Taggie laughs, rising onto her toes and burying her nose in the collar of his shirt. She’s a tactile thing, always burrowing close and pressing herself against his skin. He adores it, and would happily pull her into a snog if he didn’t suspect Tabitha was watching them from around the corner. Grabbing her hand, he presses a kiss to the back of it instead, a quiet promise of later.
“I miss you when we’ve been apart for any length of time, angel,” Rupert confesses, feeling utterly unabashed. It’s the kind of sentiment he used to tease Billy for, not understanding why his friend regularly chose sitting at home with his wife over wild parties. He gets it now, after all these years, and likely owes his friend several apologies for comments made when he didn’t.
Her presence makes the day even better, the entirety of dinner spent laughing at the kids jokes and listening as they ramble on about their day-to-day lives. Taggie fits in seamlessly, asking Marcus about his piano lessons and engaging Tab in a lively discussion about her pony club friends. He can easily imagine thousands of other dinners just like this, ones where there’s a ring on Taggie’s finger and eventually more chairs at the table. The desire makes him dizzy, longing rushing through his veins until he becomes faint with it. He doesn’t even have the excuse of alcohol influencing his thoughts, their table at the chip shop littered with greasy papers and half-empty soda cans. Every little thing she does seems like magic, from convincing Marcus to try dark malt vinegar on his chips to the game of I Spy she starts on the way home, curled up in the back seat with the kids on either side of her. In the past he would have pouted, bitter that she didn't choose to sit with him, but as he watches Tab slowly fall asleep against Taggie's chest in the rearview mirror, all he can think is how lucky he is to have even a sliver of her attention.
They don't get a true moment of peace that weekend, the children happily taking up every second of their attention. Even at night, when they should be sleeping, Marcus and Tabitha find excuses to stay up for just a moment longer, asking for a glass of water or one more hug. Neither of them turn them away, indulging each request happily. Helen could rip them away at any moment, the threat of their tenuous custody agreement getting thrown out constantly running through his head. They spend it as if this weekend could be their last, running through the fields from dawn til dusk.
There are tears when they drop the children off with Helen and Malise, lingering hugs that have his ex-wife rolling her eyes while Tabitha sobs into Taggie's stomach. "I'm going to m-m-miss you," his daughter howls, fingers scrabbling onto the belt of her trench coat. "Can we come back n-next weekend?"
"That's up to mummy and daddy," Taggie murmurs, brushing hair from Tabitha's face. "Until then, you'll have so much fun at school and with Biscuit."
Marcus tucks against her side as well, both children clinging to her sweetly. It sends a rush of want through him. He wants every weekend with them, wants more children with Taggie's hair and eyes. The realization almost knocks him over, his solemn vow of no more kids breaking at the sight of a good-bye hug.
The sun is just beginning to set as they cruise through the country roads back to Penscombe, Taggie's head tilted towards the window. "I could fall asleep like this," she murmurs, her voice soft. Everything is quieter without the children, their giggles and screeches a notable absence. It reminds him of the first time they did this drive, the peace that had settled between them as they made their way back to Rutshire and the ache in his chest that he now knew was a deep, terminal yearning for a life with her. A life filled with drives every day, ones where he could determine what songs she liked to listen to when she cooked and what dreams she had as a child.
"When Tab was a baby, I used to drive her around for hours." It feels nice, bringing up a piece of his past in front of her. He knew he wasn't the greatest father back then, absent more often than not, but he still had moments he treasured. Stories that he held tight in the darkest nights, flickering reminders that he had done some good in his life. "She was a terrible sleeper, would scream her head off for hours at night. Helen got frustrated because it woke Marcus, so I would take her out in the Aston, drive in circles." Stealing a glance at her, the soft smile that made her glow brighter than the setting sun, Rupert can't help but reach for her hand. "I had her in a carseat, promise."
"That must be why she's such a good rider," Taggie says, her voice a low growl that betrays her exhaustion. "Did you ride with her, when she was that little?"
A chuckle escapes his throat, memories flooding to mind. "Oh, I tried. Helen about had my head, threatened to call and report me for child endangerment. What she hated most of all, I think, was that Tab really did adore it. Giggled and clapped as soon as a horse came into view, a real chip off the old block."
"That's lovely." Yawning widely, barely covering her mouth with her free hand. "We'll have to see if you still have the magic touch."
Her words awaken something within him, every shred of self-preservation vanishing when he looks over at her, sleepy and content in the passenger seat. "With you? Or with our children?"
He should have kept the words bitten back, hidden behind clenched teeth and only imagined in the dark of night, when Taggie was forced to return to the Priory. His most sacred dream, their relationship blossoming into something bigger, permanent. He hadn't even told her he loved her, he realized ashamedly, the hand he still had on the steering wheel clenching painfully. It's only when she quietly tells him to pull over, her eyes locked on the windshield, that he fears he's gone too far.
The little copse of trees he pulls into has yet to shed their leaves, a red-gold canopy surrounding them on all sides. It's private, at least, if the conversation takes a turn for the worst. He turns to her, mouth open to apologize immediately, stopped only by the way she shucks off her coat and crawls across the bench seat. "Tag." He's barely able to moan out her name before she's in his lap, her slight frame wiggling until she's happy with their position. "Tag, angel, I—"
"Tell me what you wished for," she begs, mouth slanting over his desperately. Each word was gasped against his lips, her hips beginning to rock down towards his. "L-last time, when we drove home. What were you wishing for."
“It's—it’s too much," Rupert groans, snaking his hand under her jumper to grasp her waist. He couldn't share them, the greedy desires that sat in his chest, haunting every waking minute of his life. Her life couldn't be burdened with his yearning, not when she was still figuring out how to ask for what she wanted. "I shouldn't."
Shifting, her knees starting to slip on the black leather, Taggie gives a low whine. "Please, please tell me," she murmurs, pausing only to sweep her curious little tongue against his lower lip. "Maybe I can make it come true."
He never could say no when she begged; she did it so prettily. All wide eyes and swollen lips, fingers clutching anywhere she could grasp. What could it hurt, really, to reveal his desperate dreams to her?
One hand cups her cheek, tilting her just enough that her neck was bared to him."I wished you were a mother," he whispers, lips ghosting over the lily-white flesh of her jaw, working his way down, down, down with sucking kisses. "To my children. I wished that you were mine, in every way imaginable. My baby, my wife, my darling."
A sharp nip to her skin punctuates every word, until her soft neck is littered with marks. Proof that he was there, that they were real. He could hear her shuddering breaths, feel her hand tangled in his hair as his words processed. Were they too much, a step too far? Rupert wants to pull back, to take her flushed cheeks in his hand and tell her to forget all about it, but then her little cry pierces the air. "Please, daddy. I want it."
"Yeah?" His breath catches in his throat, chest tightening at her words. "You want that, angel? Want daddy to put a baby in you? Even if we aren't married?"
I wanted to do this the right way, he thinks. Take her on a date, tell her I love her. Not run straight to baby carriages. This feels more permanent than any other time he's murmured about filling her up. It's equal parts confession and promise, a vow made between the two of them in his fucking run-around. Taggie just shifts in his lap, nodding enthusiastically. "I do, I do," she murmurs against his cheek, a beautiful echo of the words he hopes to hear in front of God and all of Rutshire soon. "I l-love you."
His brave girl, cheeks flushing as the weight of her admittance seems to land. "I love you, angel," he breathes, pulling her in for a bruising kiss. He wants to be as close as possible, to have their bodies aligned at every possible point. There were times where he thought they would never have this, the forces of the world determined to pry them apart. To be here, now, with love on their lips and marriage on their minds, feels like nothing short of a miracle. "My brave, gorgeous girl," he murmurs against her lips, hand beginning to snake under the skirt of her dress. "Fucking need you, darling. Can I have you here, hm?"
The silky undergarments he had watched her slide on that morning are soaked through, his fingers slipping easily over the gusset of her panties. "I—" she starts, breaking off into a keening cry as he circles her clit with his thumb. "NeedyousobadDaddy."
Lifting her skirt, the gingham linen folding easily in his grip, Rupert lets his other hand work her panties down her legs. They fall easily to the floor of the car, the hedonist in him hoping that the tangy scent of her permeates the air and lingers for years. "Hold still," he grunts, tapping her thigh so that she remains perched above him, creating barely enough room for him to unzip his trousers. On any other day he would be happy to let her rock herself to orgasm on his thigh, her slick cunt catching on the edges of his cords until she cries in pleasure. But he needs to be in her, needs to know the exact feeling of her pussy clenching around him as he says I love you, I want you, I will give you the world.
By the time he's pulled his cock out, hard and aching, he can feel the fretful twitch of her adductors against his thighs. "Good girl," he coos, petting the soft skin of her ass as he pushes up into her. "My best girl, my darling. Fuck, you're tight. It's like I've never broken you in."
The involuntary clench around him almost sends his orgasm ripping through him, Taggie's broken moan sighed into his shoulder. Her hips shift against him, sighing softly as she adjusts to his size. "You're just big," she mumbles, turning so that her nose brushes against his neck. "Makes me so full."
Pride blooms in his chest, her words an ego-boost that he truly doesn't need. "You're so sweet, angel. The sweetest, kindest girl. You're going to be the perfect mummy, you know that?" Words pour from his mouth, an uncontrollable flood as he fucks up into her. It usually leaves Taggie cockdrunk, the combination of praise and pleasure leaving her sweet as kitten in his arms. But this time, she murmurs back to him.
So good, Daddy, always make me feel so good. Love you, love you, will you put a baby in me? I've been good, you always say I've been good. Haven't I been good enough? Let me show you, let me prove it. Please, daddy, please please please.
It's only the mental recitation of London crime statistics and the image of that awful Margaret Thatcher mask from his short-lived victory party that keep him from coming at her words. She needs to come before him, needs to be taken care of before he can fill her up. Rupert tells her so, watching with pride as she reaches between them and rubs viciously at her clit. "M'close," Taggie whines, leaning back until she hits the steering wheel. "Wanna come."
"Come on, Tag, you can do it. You need to come so that I can give you a baby, darling. Can you do that for me? Can you come so daddy can give you a baby?"A cry tears from her at his words, her back arching as pleasure races down her spine. "Good girl," he coos, teeth gritting to keep his orgasm at bay for a few moments longer. "So good, sweetheart. Are you ready now? Ready to make a baby?"
Her head nods against his neck, tucked tightly against him as her cunt pulses around him. It's her quiet murmur, a sweet little please daddywhispered into his skin that has him finally letting go, the pleasure so strong that he fears he may black out for a moment. All he can focus on are the shuddering little breaths against his neck and her hands clutching his shoulders, Taggie's body still trembling with the aftershocks of her orgasm.
Both of their foreheads are tacky with sweat, but they press together anyways. A giggle escapes Taggie's lips, pressed together in a little smile. "I'm still on birth control," she murmurs sweetly, the apples of her cheeks flushed pink. He can't help pressing a kiss to one, the skin warm underneath his lips.
"I know," he murmurs, endorphins racing beneath his skin. Nothing compares to this, no gold medal or cup hoisted overhead had ever brought him as much joy as Taggie did. "We'll just have to keep practicing, for whenever you're ready."