Deck the Palace (A Duched Series Holiday Novella), page 2
“Santa’s watching,” Kendall loudly reminds, unaware of just how little it means to them.
“No,” he argues without hesitation.
“He’s watching Mum and Dad.”
“No.”
“Kage and Lena.”
Our security guard – that you may remember used to just be mine – and our nanny that tends to have the weekends off. Like now.
“No,” the bite-sized antagonist continues to deny.
“Yeah!” exclaims his big sister leaning slightly in his direction. “All of us. Me and Kal and you…and…and…” an unexpected reminder widens her gaze, “even Goldie…”
That’s our golden cocker retriever who is likely enjoying a nap near the stairs, thankful to be excluded from all the bathroom excitement. Our boy loves water. Hates baths. Practically the opposite of the twins. Kendall on the other hand loves any and all water. Lately, she’s taking a big interest in surfing, but I’m pretty sure that probably has more to do with her American bestie, Wyland Wilcox. Yeah. Son to famous billionaire, Weston Wilcox. Hm? Oh yeah! We’re still very much in business with him. Our families are actually super close.
Whether it’s Kendall’s haunting inflection or the simple fact she’s talking to them rather than shrieking that gets Killian behaving is unknown.
And doesn’t matter.
Not nearly as much as the fact that he gently places down the objects.
Nods.
Surrenders his palms to prove he’s not hiding anything.
Totally not fun to get stopped by security at the Wild Wonders gift shop only to discover your toddler has somehow managed to smuggle a stuffed kangaroo in his clothes. And you guessed it. Those in the media – that aren’t a fan of us or our marriage – had quite a field day with it. I don’t have to tell you what they said. You can use the worst parts of your own imagination to correctly guess.
“Perhaps apologizing to mummy might be something I could add into my message?” Kellan less than casually encourages our daughter.
“My apologies, Mummy,” Kendall softly expresses. “I not supposed to use outside voice like that.” She waits until my gaze cuts her way. “I had big feelings.”
“I understand your big feelings,” I acknowledge on a sympathetic head nod. “I understand how special your toys are to you.”
“So special, Mummy.”
“But-”
“I no like but,” she murmurs to the man holding her.
“Me either,” he casually concurs.
“But,” is reemphasized as I reach for the shark, hooded bath towels that were a gift from The Wilcoxes last Christmas, “what are the bath toy rules?”
Her little bottom lip pokes itself out comically far before grumbling, “Red bucket is mine to care. Green bucket is for all to share.”
“And where was Princess Ducky?”
“Geeeeen!” croak the twins in unison upon me rising to my feet.
“You made the mistake, not Mummy,” Kellan calmly states during my removal and wrapping of our boys. “Therefore, you have to deal with the outcome, baby girl. Those big feelings you felt were not because of Mummy. They were because of Kendall.”
It’s impossible not to grin over being on the same side of the easel.
In front of our kids, we almost always are. When they’re not looking, we often aren’t. Seriously. What’s the harm in occasionally going to get greasy cheeseburgers and fries for dinner instead of having one of the chefs serve us braised lamb shanks and paella? Hm? Okay, yeah, my kids do like that shit but guess what? They should be given the chance to like the more simple shit too!
“My apologies again, Mummy,” Kendall sweetly sighs.
“Words are lovely, actions are better,” my husband’s reminder precedes him putting her down on her feet.
The instant she’s there, she rushes to close the distance and hug my arm.
Stretch her face over for a “forgive me” kiss.
I plant my lips in the middle of her forehead prompting her to coo, “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“Help,” Kalum requests in sign language, something I love that they teach in the on-site childcare program of Hannah’s Hope.
Not only has it expanded – in enrollment we can accommodate along with accommodations – but the number of buildings themselves have grown immensely to incorporate a wider, more balanced range for the faculty and staff. Obviously, not everyone has kids; however, enough of us do that dividing them up more appropriately has been one of the most appreciated things Guy has done – for us, the staff – as Headmaster. Pretty sure it landed him a nice bonus too. Not from the orphanage’s capital. No. All of the lower-level donors’ money goes directly into improving the students’ environment yet on occasion, Wilcox or Trenton will toss additional funds to the organization, which is then used to show appreciation for those of us employed there. Just this past summer they helped one of the English teachers purchase a new car to guarantee her ability to get to and from work safely.
“Pwease,” he kindly adds, convincing her to beam brightly.
“Always,” Kendall insists and abandons my arm to aid him.
Once she’s successfully got his hood up, her dad makes a suggestion, “Perhaps you could continue helping your brothers by picking them out fresh clothes for the afternoon?”
“Would you like that?” she sweetly asks Kalum. “Do you want me to help you get dressed?”
“Yes, pwease!”
“Come along, Killian.” Her attention shifts to where he’s pushing my hand away in between clumsily turning in circles, anxious to put on his hood unassisted. “Let’s go find your kangaroo sweaters.”
The magic word not only successfully grabs his attention, it has him happily putting his hand in hers to be led elsewhere.
Light snickers are accompanied by a small headshake and the folding of my arms across my chest.
I’m impressed. Annoyed. Amazed. Exhausted. Pretty much every primary color in the mom crayon box.
Kellan waits until the pitter patter of their feet is quite a distance away to coo, “Afternoon, Mrs. Kenningston.”
“Wanna make it a good one?” I playfully inquire with an eyebrow waggle.
“By me cleaning up the restroom?”
Eagerly nodding gets us both chuckling.
“Would you prefer I do that or guide them into their afternoon quiet time?”
“Ooooph,” teasingly precedes an impish lip bite, “cleaning up the set of Moana here or recreating a live-action version of The Princes and The Pea?” Additional mirth expands through each of our expressions. “How ever will I choose?”
Laughing together occurs yet again.
I can honestly say that hasn’t changed, and I’m thankful for it. We still spend a ridiculous amount of time talking shit, giving each other shit, and laughing about dumb shit. It’s the backbone of our marriage. And how we survive the never-ending art project that is parenting.
Post our shared amusement fading, I kick my latte shaded chin to the device he’s holding and quietly inquire, “What’s actually on your tablet? Tickets to a kid free weekend in Fiji?”
“We would not need tickets, love,” he cockily reminds. “Perk of being a royal.” I can’t even finish rolling my eyes before he continues, “The curse-”
“There’s more than one.”
Kellan briefly pauses to nod in agreement
You know it too.
“The current curse-”
“Better.”
“Involves us-”
“I’m guessing not a royal us?”
“-planning this year’s holiday events and activities.”
One slow, uncomprehending blink is executed.
Hm? No. No. I can see his lips moving. I just don’t know why I’m not hearing anything.
“Love?” Cautiously, my husband takes a step forward. “Are you…alright?”
“I’m sorry. I think I blacked out due to a peanut butter deficiency.”
“Sunflower butter is comparable.”
“It’s weird.”
“It’s healthy.”
“It’s hurtful.”
“And you, my love, are currently hurt because you do not want to be responsible for planning The Kenningston Christmas Extravaganza.”
“No part of me says extravaganza!”
“Br-”
“Do you not remember what a nightmare it was planning for our wedding before we decided to say fuck it and escape to the states?”
“I-”
“Do you not remember what a welcome to the shitshow it was for both baby showers?!”
“I-”
“Kendall’s first birthday?!”
“I-”
“The twins first birthday?!”
“You will not be planning this alone,” he gingerly tries to protest.
“I don’t wanna plan this at all!” Frantic headshaking can’t be stopped. “I didn’t even wanna be here this Christmas, Kellan!”
Confusion accompanies his head tilting. “Pardon?”
Shit. This was so not the way I wanted to discuss this.
“I…” the words bubble past my lips regardless of my resistance, “I wanted us to spend Christmas in the states this year.”
The pulling of his light brows together is done in silence.
“We have yet to spend one Christmas there since we’ve been married. And I get it.” My hands find their way to the back pockets of my jeans. “We do the big royal Christmas thing. It’s what we have to do because we’re royalty. It’s what’s expected. But like I miss my family, ya know? It would be nice not to do the big over the top, find this shit in a Hallmark movie production thing, and just spend time with them there. Something a bit simpler. With a lot less cameras and wardrobe changes.”
Sadness flickers in his gaze, yet he doesn’t cave.
Should I keep going? I should keep going.
“You know we don’t even get to see them during the holidays unless they come to us, which isn’t always feasible. Candice’s boss hates giving her extra time off so close to Christmas. Kurtis is constantly requested to lead the extra security teams that assist at The Frost for events. Plus, flying with a baby is rarely ever easy, and flying with a baby and a preschooler is even worse.”
“It is far from an easy feat, yes.”
“And let’s not forget that Dad’s back isn’t what it used to be. And Mom’s holiday hours always get booked solid. And…and…we practically never get to see Jovi and Merrick and their fam during this time of year.”
They are often equally as busy as we are, although I haven’t quite given up on the idea of them coming here for the big celebration one year.
“And um…um…”
He tilts his head slightly to one side to indicate he’s still listening.
“And…and…” steam for pleading finally dissipates, “and it would just be nice to celebrate lowkey. Show our kids some of the traditions I had growing up.” A defeated shrug bounces my marled, rainbow yarn sweater bearing shoulders. “I was hoping we could do things differently this year.”
“We can do things differently,” proclaims the man I married as he takes another step closer across the white tile floor. “Perhaps we choose activities for the event that resemble your traditions from childhood.”
“Or…” my face winces prior to my pushing, “we could just go and do the traditions there instead for Christmas?”
Pain that I hate to see – particularly because I know there’s no arguing out of it – overwhelms his crystal stare along with his tone, “We cannot go to the states this year.”
“Why not?”
“Per royal decree-”
“Words no Princess ever wants to here.”
“-the holiday revelry for the season has fallen upon our household.”
“Decreed by who?”
“Mum.”
At that, my entire frame slumps in defeat.
Fuck.Fuck.Fuck. We really can’t just blow this shit off, huh? Deceased parent’s wishes definitely trumps alive wife’s inconvenience. And to make matters worse? She didn’t exactly have that many rules put in place pre-death. I think it’s like…ten? Maybe fifteen? Most of which are just creative ways to keep the family lovingly together versus something you might binge stream on BritBox.
“You have my word that next year, we will politely decline all of these festivities and celebrate the entire holiday season in the states. With your family. Doing whatever it is you lot want us to do or not do. However, this year-”
“Mummmmmmyyyyyyyy,” Kendall howls from down the hall. “Killian bit me!”
“Yeah, yeah,” I quietly brush off in a mutter during my exiting. “This year duty calls.”
Which sucks. It royally fucking sucks.
Treemendously Romantic
(Starring Trenton Kenningston & Paislee Acaster)
Paislee
You are never too old to be bent over a marble countertop and shagged rotten.
This is a lesson Trenton Kenningston, my first love who wooed his way into getting a second chance decades later, is absolutely determined to teach me.
And it is most certainly one lesson I do not mind learning.
Even when I probably should.
Such as now.
Now is when we should be getting dressed for the first official event of the annual Kenningston Christmas Extravaganza.
Which is something I have not attended in ages.
I was so young then.
So naïve.
Aware of the mass distaste my hazelnut skin presence brought, yet so in love it mattered not.
That was then.
When we were practically still children.
Stars in our eyes.
Hope in our hearts.
Focus on only one another.
Truthfully, the latter has managed to cycle itself around considering where we are and what we’re doing versus where we’re supposed to be and should be getting ready to do.
I swear, no other man on this earth has ever made the entire world disappear from existence the way Trenton Kenningston does.
Trenton curls his sun-kissed tan, free hand deliciously around my throat at the same time he buries his salt and pepper beard covered face into the crook of my neck on another hard pound from behind.
It’s intense.
Knee wobbling.
But everything with Trenton Kenningston is intense.
And knee wobbling.
I used to think that was simply because he was my first love.
I do not anymore.
I am quite positive it is because he’s my true love.
I am also quite positive not having been shagged in almost a decade likely plays a minor role.
However, only minor.
The tiny squeeze he executes is instantly mimicked by my sopping wet muscles, an action that leads to him hungrily grumbling against my skin, “Bloodyhell, I do not think I will ever get enough of you, my everything.”
His tone.
His word choice.
His teeth grazing my skin.
All of it is somehow too much.
Not enough.
Hitches my breath.
Bows my back.
Steals my ability to move.
Swears there’s no reason to.
“Yes,” huffs the man I let myself learn to love again, “bounce that beautiful arse back against me.” There’s no stopping my body from obeying the order. “That is it, my everything.” Another small nip of my neck is taken. “Take that cock.” Wet waves ceaselessly whirl around his shaft. Spill over onto our inner thighs. “Take what is yours.”
Disregarding the butterflies fluttering through my stomach is equally as impossible as ignoring the flames licking every centimeter of my skin each time he savagely thrusts forward, stretching my muscles to their limits while simultaneously forcing my swollen clit to withstand the pressure being applied by the hand that he’s banging me into.
Shivers shoot through me encouraging my ganache shaded eyes to squeeze shut; however, Trenton – always so aware of my every movement in intimate moments – possessively purrs, “Watch.”
My hooded vision grows more so.
Glazes over further.
“Do not dare look away, my everything.”
I helplessly admire the sight of being yanked into his primal pumping.
I visually and physically become lost in our melodic undulation.
How his solid, 1.87 meter figure is completely towering and covering my 1.7 one while also openly surrendering to it.
Following its direction.
Its needs.
My needs.
Gone is the young male still learning to please a lady and in his place is the man that will not stop until his lady can no longer take being pleased.
“Trenton…” airily escapes, thighs trembling.
Pussy throbbing.
“Mygod,” he grunts in return, hips heaving harder, “my name sounds so bloody perfect on your lips.”
Confidence – that he has had a hand in helping restore since Patton passed – convinces me to cockily grin and tilt my head slightly back.
Tease his wandering mouth with mine.
Remind him that I’m here.
That we’re really here.
Together.
One swipe from my tongue pushes him to cup my dripping lower half harder, adding just the extra friction needed to send me soaring into ecstasy.
Orgasmic huffs rapidly release, reverberating around the ivory and gold palace bathroom, as white-hot pulsations unrelentingly inundate Trenton’s cock, refusing to cease until he provides them with the same toe-curling heat we’re providing him.
And he does.
Vigorously.
Both hands clamp down harshly in tandem with his teeth latching onto my shoulder while blazing burst on top of burst sear my most sensitive muscles, showcasing not only his satisfaction but his determination to always be felt in ways no one else ever will.
“I love you, my everything,” precedes a delicate kiss on the very spot likely displaying his teeth marks.
“I love you as well, darling, however,” I catch his gaze and cheekily chastise, “I do not love you having to apply makeup to the areas I cannot reach.”
