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As if by mutual agreement, we remained silent, our hands clasped as our driver returned to our hotel.  In the elevator, no longer able to resist, I kissed Angelique passionately.  We were both breathless by the time it stopped on our floor.  The moment I shut our door to our suite, I captured her mouth in another searing kiss.  She clung to me, molding her body to mine.  I wanted her, needed her, and Angelique, sensing my desperation, slowed our kisses and led me into the bedroom.  She undressed me and then herself and, loosening her hair, lay on the bed.


“I’m yours, Adam,” she said, holding out her hand.  I claimed her possessively, and some considerable time later, as I caressed her back, Angelique broke our silence about the night's events.


“I’m sorry,” she whispered.


“What for?  I should be apologizing,” I countered.


“I’m sorry the special night you planned was spoiled.”


“Darling, it wasn’t spoiled, it changed, and I’m sorry for being jealous.”


“You know you have nothing to worry about, don’t you, Adam?” Angelique implored, and when I nodded, continued.  “I don’t have feelings for Luke… well, other than regret for leaving Leipzig the way I did.  He deserved better.”


“You were young and distraught, Angelique.  We all do foolish things when we’re young.  And I do know you love me—it’s just...I’ve never felt jealous before.  I didn’t think I was capable until you entered my life.  I love you so much, but that doesn't excuse my behavior,” I confessed.


“I understand, m’fhíorghrá,” she tenderly stroked my cheek.  “If our roles were reversed, I’d probably have felt the same way.  You’re not alone in fighting those feelings, you know,” she added more lightly and explained how she'd felt when seeing photographs of me with Lisa.


“There’s no one else for me, Darling; there'll never be,” I assured her. 


“I know that.  Maybe one day, when we’ve been married for decades, we’ll stop feeling possessive.”


“I doubt I will,” I answered lightly, but I knew the truth in what I said.


We drifted off to sleep, and I woke early, before Angelique as I almost always do.  I pulled on sleep pants and wandered onto our balcony to watch the sun rise on our last morning in Paris.  A while later, I ordered a breakfast tray and, when it arrived, carried it to the bedroom.  I woke my wife with a soft kiss.  She stretched and smiled lazily.  “Good morning; how long have you been awake?” she asked in a husky, sleep-induced voice.


“Long enough to order breakfast.  Would you like tea?”


“Please.  Do you mind if I visit the bathroom?  I must look a mess.”


“You could never,” I said. “Don’t bother getting dressed,” I added, handing Angelique my shirt from the night before. “I like you naked and sleep-rumpled, “ I said as her eyes met mine.  Color suffused her cheeks, and I was still smiling as I poured tea.  She returned and crawled back into bed, still wearing my unbuttoned shirt.  I served her tea and poured myself a cup of coffee, then watched as she sipped. 


“Ready for something to eat?” I asked.


“Mmm, please.  What do we have?”


“Croissant, pain au chocolat, or toast with honey, and fresh fruit for after if you want,” I rattled off.


“Toast with honey,” she decided, and I prepared a slice.  I tore my croissant, popped a piece in my mouth, and then watched a dollop of honey drip off her toast onto her breast and slowly slide down and over a rosy nipple.  She moved to wipe it, but I beat her to it. I clasped her hand, leaned over, and licked the sweet trickle, instantly aroused by the low moan she uttered as my lips closed around silky flesh. 


“I didn’t think you could taste any sweeter,” I said, smiling up at her beautifully flushed face.


I moved the tray from her lap and set the crystal honey container on the bedside table. I helped Angelique out of my shirt and spread it under her torso before stepping out of my pants. Lifting the dipper from the pot, I smeared honey onto her full, parted lips. I licked and sucked on her mouth, plunging my tongue into its sweet warmth. We moaned in unison, and I proceeded, then, to dribble honey onto first one breast and then the other before removing it in the same way. We were both frantic with want by the time I held the spoon, poised above Angelique’s naked sex.


She gasped softly as it drizzled between her lips. “Watch me,” I commanded and repeatedly ran my tongue over her bud and through her folds. “Ambrosia,” I said, glancing up at her before lowering my head once more. Angelique tangled her hands in my hair, her grip tightening as I brought her to a shuddering climax. 


Later, when relaxed in the bath with her back nestled against my chest, Angelique turned and spread her body down the length of mine. She kissed my lips. “I want to do that to you when we get back home,” she said.

"Can’t wait,” I answered. Then, easing my hands under her armpits, I encouraged her to straddle me.


We left Paris later that morning for London, aboard the legendary Orient Express. We sat in our cabin and later in the dining car to enjoy a delicious meal while marveling at the countryside on a journey that marked the end of our second week of honeymooning.


In London, we boarded a plane and arrived at Waterford Castle late that evening. We dined in our room, and that night, ensconced in our four-poster bed in a castle originating back to the twelfth century, Angelique had once again become emotional about being in Ireland, close to where her grandfather and his parents had been born. 


She’d learned about our destination on the Orient Express and had been overwhelmed then as well. “So our next week will be in London?” Angelique asked.

“We’ll spend our last weekend there,” I answered.


“Weekend?” I thought we weren’t flying home until the thirtieth?”


“We are,” I smiled and smoothed the slight furrow between her brows.


“We’re spending a week in Ireland,” I revealed and watched, delighted, as the information registered. Angelique's eyes widened before brimming with tears.


“Where,” she asked.


“Waterford Castle, but hopefully, if you’d like, we'll spend most of our time in the two villages where your Mom and I discovered the Bains settled when they arrived from Scotland.”


“Dad always wanted to visit,” Angelique whispered, her voice caught in her throat.


“I know, Darling, and now you can realize that dream for him." I embraced her, and with her cuddled in my arms, I revealed what we’d learned about the Bain family. Angelique was as sad and disappointed as Grace and I'd been when discovering that no direct relatives remained in the area.


“I’m just glad to be visiting,” she decided in the end.


We spent the first day familiarizing ourselves with the castle and its grounds. Angelique gasped and then held her breath when we spotted a fawn. She squeezed my hand as the delicate creature, poised, ready to flee, stared back at us. It must have recognized that we posed no threat because it turned slowly and wandered back into the trees to join its mother. Even in that short time, and exposed only to the castle grounds, we could see why Ireland is known as the Emerald Isle. I’d never seen so much and such a rich color green. We enjoyed the day, but I sensed Angelique’s anxiety and excitement to tread the places her family had.


We traveled approximately forty minutes to the seaside town of Tramore, where we wandered the beach and visited the small, nearby amusement park. We lunched in a pub and chatted with locals. Sadly, none remembered any Bains. We learned that Tramore had been a fishing village until the mid-eighteen hundreds before the arrival of the railway. Angelique wondered aloud whether some of her ancestors might have been fishermen. “Most likely if they were here then, lass,” she was told.


Next, we visited the Metal Man, an enormous cast-iron structure erected to warn sailors of the dangerous shallow coastal waters. We sat on the clifftop, staring out at the ocean separating Ireland and Britain and mused about the Bains who might have sailed and fished the waters.  


Angelique loved Tramore, but Ballyduff called to her. The undulating green of the gently rolling hills, the Blackwater River, she said, made her feel like she’d come home. We wandered through the place and found an old cemetery. At Angelique’s urging, we explored, and, as if preordained, we found several graves bearing the Bain name. Four were familiar to both Angelique and me. My information had come from Grace, but Angelique remembered Rory mentioning the names. Rory and Annis Bain, her great-grandparents, rested side by side. In another nearby section, we discovered the final resting places of her grandmother Ceit and her grandfather, Conor, who died eighteen months after his wife. Neither of us recognized the other names, but Angelique was saddened that three belonged to children under two years old. Two passed away before they’d lived a week.


“Sadly, many babies died in those days, Darling,” I consoled her.  


She wanted to return with flowers, and I promised we would. And that’s what we did earlier today on our second and last trip to Ballyduff before departing the following morning. Since our first visit, with the help of a local priest, I’d managed to arrange for someone to tend the Bain graves in exchange for an ongoing donation to his parish. So, after Angelique and I placed her flowers, I told her about those arrangements.  She thanked me tearfully, and I assured her there was no need.  “They’re my family now, too,” I said.


On our last visit, the day before, we learned that the local dance school would be performing traditional dancing today, so we made our way to the little square we’d been told about. When one of the organizers called for people from the audience to participate, I encouraged Angelique. “Come on, Mrs. Thorne, let's see just how Irish you are. Anyone can eat colcannon,” I teased.   


She pouted those luscious lips and lifted her chin proudly. Seamus, the elderly local who’d sat beside us and who'd befriended us through conversation, laughed as she kissed my cheek and then poked out her tongue before joining the other volunteers. She caught on quickly, naturally, and effortlessly fit in with the seasoned Irish dancers.


And now, as the music ends, I watch Angelique, smiling happily as speak to the dancers on either side. She turns to me, and her face lights up with the most dazzling smile.


“Well?” she challenges as she nears. I rise to greet her and cup her exquisite face in both hands. 'Onlookers be damned,' I think, as capture her mouth in a searing kiss. Angelique blushes deeply when the crowd around us applauds.


“Luck of the Irish,” I tell her. In the car on our way back to the castle, I admit that she is, indeed, Irish.


In bed later that night, Angelique sighs wistfully. “Our honeymoon’s nearly over. It’s been amazing. I couldn’t have dreamed up a better one; thank you, M’fhíorghrá.”


“It’s been more than even I imagined, and I planned it. But Darling, it's not the places we’ve visited or the things we’ve seen that’s made it memorable. sharing it with you made it unforgettable. And Angelique, our honeymoon will never be over, not until one of us is forced to leave this earth.”  


Her eyes glisten.  “It will start again when we meet up,” she whispers, pressing her lips to mine.


                      —THE END—
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