30. French by Name, French by Nature

30

FRENCH BY NAME, FRENCH BY NATURE

MADDY

T hirty feels better than I thought.

But why wouldn’t it?

The air under this canopy of pine trees is cool enough to be considered balmy, and its faint breeze carries the scent of fertile undergrowth. Even in summer, this area of the C?te d’Azur is pretty verdant. Shouts of effort and triumph carry over from the tennis court, where Stella is hopefully thrashing Zach. And, best of all, the warm and slightly sticky skin of our youngest, three-year-old Nicky, is pressed up tight against mine in this hammock.

We both woke from our naps a few minutes ago, but he seems as content as I am to lie here and just be. It’s hot beyond these trees, and my interest in thrashing anything out on the tennis court is literally zero. I’d rather lie here, entangled with my little man, our heads close enough that I can inhale the glorious scent of sunshine off his hair and his skin for as long as he lets me.

He’s usually the active one. His elder brother, Jonny, is a dreamer and already more interested in books aged five than any child of mine should ever be. Thank God he got some of his father’s genes. He and Nance are probably off reading with Ruth right at this moment, in fact.

Nicky, on the other hand, is rarely seen without an implement for hitting balls. Since he was old enough to walk, he’s trailed cricket bats and hockey sticks and tennis racquets behind him. They’re practically an extension of his little body at this point. This kid is in such a hurry to grow up and do everything his brother and sisters can do, especially the sporty Stel, who he hero-worships.

He and his daddy totally knackered each other out in the pool this afternoon, between volleyball and Marco Polo. When Nicky crashes, he crashes hard. He’s either on or off. No in between. He falls asleep in the weirdest positions—he often looks like he’s mid-stride in his bed when we go up to check on him.

I’m amazed Zach’s still standing. Surely, he too will need a nap before dinner.

‘Swim, Mummy?’ Nicky asks sleepily, and I laugh to myself at this kid’s Duracell bunny powers as I brush his dark hair away from his forehead and give him a kiss. His hair is so soft, but it’s slightly grimy from all the sun cream. There are white streaks of zinc on his forehead.

I love him so much I can barely breathe.

‘How about a night-time swim?’ I murmur against his skin. ‘When the lights are on in the pool?’

He fist-bumps the air with one tiny arm. ‘Yeah. I splash Stel on the floatie.’

I laugh and pull him closer. ‘Of course you will. That’s what little brothers are for.’

My phone pings, and I feel around for it next to me. I unearth it under my thigh and squint at it .

‘Who is it?’ Nicky demands.

‘It’s Caro,’ I tell him. I open the WhatsApp. It’s a thank you message from Stel and Nance’s grandmother, Caroline.

Claire’s mother.

I’ve been bombarding her and Peter with photos from this thirtieth-birthday trip. The girls, who look more like Claire every year, will always be their favourite way of keeping their daughter’s memory alive, but they’ve taken to their granddaughters’ little brothers with great enthusiasm and open-heartedness, and for that I’ll always be grateful beyond belief.

Peter was a wonderful cricketer in his day and still coaches his local team at the weekend. He was underwhelmed by Jonny’s lacklustre reaction to cricket, but he’s already pronounced Nicky a future pro. I personally think the hours he puts in to teaching Nicky to bowl are probably wasted at this age, but it seems to make them both very happy to lark about outside.

Mum and Justin are super-involved, too. Once my mum got over the horror of becoming a grandmother far too young (her words), she embraced the role with her customary gusto. She’s actually been brilliant with Stel, educating her on the importance of good nutrition and helping her get her hormonal acne mostly under control through a decent diet.

Four kids.

Three sets of grandparents.

One old but gorgeous dog.

And one incoming Labrador puppy, whose imminent arrival Zach and I are guarding like a state secret and who will undoubtedly make Norm’s life a misery.

It’s messy, and exhausting, and not where I thought I’d be at thirty, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. Alchemy’s now global, so Zach’s role is bigger than ever, and my role has expanded massively. We work from home a lot. It’s easier that way. Once the boys came on board it was clear we’d need a lot more outdoor space, so we’re down near Richmond Park, and neither of us can be arsed to go into the office more than a couple of times a week.

We still head for The Playroom once a fortnight, though. Wink, wink.

We don’t play with anyone else, but my husband likes to show me off. He’s as bad as Rafe.

The weirdest thing is that, despite the chaos, and the noise, and the lack of me-time, I feel more peaceful than I ever thought I could. Belle and I had this chat a few weeks ago, and we identified the feeling as contentment.

Contentment .

Weird, huh? I can’t say it’s an emotion I’ve ever aspired to, but it turns out it’s the healthiest, most restorative type of happiness. Like I’m full. Replenished.

Mum says it’s because I’m spending more time in my ventral nervous system, but then again, she gave me a jade Goop egg for my vagina after Jonny was born, so it’s always best to take what she says with a pinch of salt.

I’m assuming Stella won the tennis match, if her elated and not particularly gracious shrieks of I won! echoing around the grounds of this gorgeous villa are anything to go by.

Sure enough, a moment later she’s running up to me and Nicky, puce and breathless and dripping with sweat. ‘I won! Dad was rubbish!’ she yells as she grabs Nicky under his arms and lifts him out of the hammock.

‘Go Stel!’ he cries .

I’m grinning at them when my husband materialises. He too is seriously sweaty. As he approaches, he peels off his soaking t-shirt and uses it to mop his face. I’m instantly interested. Despite being super old, he is super fit, and the appearance of his gorgeously tanned, toned chest and shoulders has me salivating.

He catches my eye and smirks. I’m not exactly subtle.

‘I wasn’t rubbish,’ he tells Stel. ‘I was fine, but you, my darling, are a lot more than fine. You’re bloody amazing.’

‘Bloody,’ Nicky agrees.

Zach licks his lips as he takes in what I’m wearing. Or, more accurately, what I’m not wearing. I changed out of my wet bikini for my nap, and this little pistachio-green ERES number is an exact replica of the one I was wearing on Rafe’s terrace all those years ago.

My husband has since told me a million times just what a tidal wave of carnal fantasies that bikini unleashed for him.

And yes, just as I suspected, he fantasised about coming all over my tits that day.

Since then, Zach’s kept ERES in business with a steady stream of bikinis for his wife. We travel a lot, so they get put through their paces.

They get ejaculated on a lot, too.

Truth.

I smile seductively at him.

‘Stel,’ he says, not taking his eyes off me, ‘can you take Nickychops here inside to find Ruth?’

‘Want Paw Patrol ,’ Nicky whines.

‘And you may have it,’ his father says in a gracious tone. ‘Ruth will put the TV on for you.’

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Thank fuck for Ruth .

‘Thank you, sweetie,’ I say to Stel, who flashes me a wide grin and hikes Nicky up on her hip. I love that girl so much. I love both my girls.

As our kids wander off in the direction of the house, my chivalrous husband holds out his hand. ‘Come shower with me?’

I grip it tightly as I clamber inelegantly out of the hammock.

As if he needs to ask.

One of the many amazing things about this villa is that the master suite is located away from the other bedrooms. Another is that it boasts its own private outdoor shower area. Zach and I are making it our life’s mission to shower alfresco in as many incredible locations as possible.

Bali held the top spot until this holiday, but I have a feeling Ramatuelle has beaten it.

He leads me by the hand through the house and into our bedroom, cranking open the shuttered doors to our secluded terrace and showering spot. This shower is particularly chic—unsurprisingly, given where we are. The French do house porn so well. The entire back wall and floor of the enclosure is made of the smoothest, whitest pebbles, a canopy of bougainvillea blanketing the wooden slats that run across the top.

It’s fragrant, and pretty, and private.

‘Why don’t you go stand over there, sweetheart,’ my husband says as he cranks the overhead spray on and unhooks the handheld attachment.

It’s not a question. Nor is it a request.

I lick my lips and sashay a few steps, plastering my back to the cool smoothness of the pebbled wall.

‘Nice,’ he murmurs. He makes quick work of my bikini strings with a couple of strategic tugs. Within seconds I’m naked. Waiting. I bend a leg and lean the sole of my foot against the wall.

The heat in my husband’s eyes is literally the best thing in the world. There’s nothing that does it for me more than my quiet, understated and very British husband going fucking feral over me.

‘I can always lie down,’ I suggest innocently, and his face contorts as if he’s a man in pain as he turns on the attachment.

‘Fuck. I’ll never get over that,’ he says, testing the spray against his hand. ‘Hottest moment of my life.’

‘Try getting railed to within an inch of your life by your gorgeous boss on the floor of your shower,’ I retort. ‘That was a game-changer.’

He grins at me and steps closer, tugging his shorts down with one hand over his painful-looking erection. ‘Christ, I love you so fucking much, Mrs French. Nice tits.’

I laugh and throw my arms around his neck, pulling my favourite face in the world down for a sweaty (at his end) kiss. ‘Nice dick,’ I whisper against his lips. ‘I hope you know what to do with it. And I love you, too.’

‘I have a fair idea,’ he says, closing the gap even further and pressing his hardness against my stomach. And then he’s sluicing us down with the warm spray, water coursing over my nipples and between our bodies.

I pump some shower gel into my hands and get to work washing the sweat off my husband’s gorgeous body. He takes a step back and lets me work. He knows how much I love doing this. I’m still his little slave girl in all the best ways. I glide my hands lovingly over glorious hard muscle and he flicks the shower head this way and that, washing off the suds between teasing my nipples.

When I slip my hand under his dick and soap up his balls, we both groan. This guy’s definitely building up to a good release, and my need’s building too. Quickly. I slide my soapy hand up and down his rigid length, loving the impossible hardness in my grip. Our eyes are locked. His breathing is growing more ragged.

‘I need you,’ my husband says in that low growl that undoes me every time.

I reach over and turn off the handheld shower. ‘I want it hard,’ I tell him.

He moves us so we’re fully under the torrent and kisses me ravenously, his tongue devouring mine as his hands glide over my body. Then he’s grabbing me under my bum and hiking me up so my back is against the smooth pebbled wall.

I don’t need to be asked. I wrap my legs and arms tightly around him. Instantly, he’s nudging at my entrance, and I shimmy in his arms in my desperation to get his cock inside me. I drop my forehead to his and revel in the unique sensation that is being filled up by Zach French.

It’s indescribable. I’m beyond words as I struggle to accommodate my husband. I bear down as much as I can, and we stay like that for a moment. Utterly still. His dick pulsing with need inside me. Our kisses slow and greedy and sensual. The water pouring over us drowns out every other sound except for our breaths and the relentless hum of the cicadas.

Then he says, ‘Hold on tight, sweetheart,’ and I do, and he begins to move inside me, pushing me up against the wall so he can thrust up into me again and again and again, and fuck me, it’s incredible. I cling to him and take the punishing drives that have me winding higher and higher.

It’s so intense. Being here with my family in this paradise. Having my husband cage me in like this, the look in his eyes telling me nothing else matters for him in this moment but me, and the growing harshness of his thrusts telling me how badly he needs this.

Needs me.

I need him too. This man has given me the world, and still he won’t stop giving and giving, and my heart is so full it could explode. I don’t know how anyone can take this much happiness. This much pleasure.

I don’t know how I ever, ever got this lucky.

‘I love you so much,’ I murmur against his beautiful mouth, my heart full and eyes wet and voice shaky. And it seems my words move him, too, because he pushes up more powerfully than ever.

‘Fuck, I love you too, sweetheart,’ he says, one hand wrapping around the back of my neck. ‘You close?’

Close doesn’t even describe it. The combination of sensation and emotion is so intoxicating I’m barely functioning. Because this is how it always is with my husband. When we’re together like this, it isn’t just about orgasms. It’s fucking transcendent.

Obviously, I’m in no position to articulate anything like that in this moment, so I just nod madly and whimper, ‘Yes. Yes. ’

I’m on a precipice. Zach’s thrusts are feeding the ache that’s building and threatening to morph into something exquisite. Something I can’t possibly withstand.

So I don’t.

I give myself over to the feeling of my husband showing me how much he loves me. I allow the heat to spread across my body. I let my head slump forward, and I slurp at the skin of his shoulder.

I let him do all the work, basically.

I take and I take and the pleasure grows and shimmers .

And then it detonates deep inside me, in a place only Zach can help me reach, and I bite down on his shoulder as I attempt to muffle my cries, grabbing furiously at his soaking hair as I writhe and convulse in his arms.

He follows me right over the edge with a low roar, pressing me up against the wall as he goes rigid and comes.

And comes.

When we’re done, I lift my head with difficulty and let it drop back against the wall. My husband is gazing at me, those astonishingly blue eyes still glassy from his orgasm but shining with unconditional love.

He’s not the tightly wound, self-judgemental ball of stress and grief I first met. This Zach is lighthearted and joyous, with the most immense capacity for love. He’s still the grownup in our relationship—thank fuck—but he lives life hard and fully and open-heartedly.

And he tells me over and over that he’s got me to thank for that.

‘Holiday fucking is the best,’ I slur, and he grins like I’ve just made the cleverest comment of all time.

‘The best,’ he agrees.

I smile and rake his hair away from his forehead. He’s still holding me up. Still inside me.

‘This place is heaven,’ I sigh. ‘I wish we never had to go home.’

His grin changes to an I did a thing grin.

I stiffen. ‘What did you do?’

‘Happy birthday, darling,’ he says, going in for a kiss.

I oblige and then swat him away.

‘Zach. What did you do?’

‘I wouldn’t make a decision this big without you,’ he begins carefully. ‘But everyone seems to adore this place, and it feels right. So I put an offer in, and they’ve accepted it. If you’d like to go ahead, we’ll buy it.’

I gape at him, momentarily speechless. My eyes fill up the entire rest of the way, instantly. I can’t even—I don’t know what to say. This is insane. God knows how many millions a villa like this costs in a place this fancy, but?—

‘Say something,’ he says. He nudges my nose with his.

‘Can we afford it?’ I say meekly.

His smile is smug, and powerful, and fucking hot. ‘You know we can.’

‘Oh my God.’ I crane my head, though I can’t see much beyond the shower enclosure. ‘I can’t even imagine it. Coming here over and over?’

‘It makes sense,’ he says. ‘We can get a boat. It’d be lovely out of season, too. We could even come here for Christmas. Bring the grandparents. What do you think?’

‘I’m overwhelmed,’ I say. ‘You’ve got to stop giving me stuff. One person should never be this lucky.’ A fat tear rolls down my cheek as I stare at my impossibly generous, loving husband.

‘I mean, obviously it’s for all of us,’ he says as he wipes my tear away with his thumb. ‘And yeah, it’s extravagant. But honestly, sweetheart, we get one life. And it’s fucking short. You gave me a second shot at happiness, so let’s make a home here and make as many fucking memories as we can, the six of us. Okay?’

Well, it’s hard to argue with that.