OCTAVIA
After pancakes and bacon, Knight bends me over the kitchen counter, drags me onto his dick and fucks me…carefully. I might be a little sorer than I was willing to admit, but even a gentle fuck with Knight is still an epic fuck, and only after I’ve come once from his fingers and a second time from his cock, does he allow himself to fall over the edge and rut into me until his cum is dripping out of me with every breath.
Despite his desire to knock me up, Knight still enjoys watching his cum drip out of me, which is how I find myself splayed over the counter with my legs spread while his eyes are laser-focused on my cunt and the cream pie that’s making its way onto the floor beneath me.
Before Knight, I wouldn’t have said I had a particularly high sex drive, but I’m wondering if that was just because Abel was shitty in bed. Back then, I didn’t really care about having sex because I knew it was going to be bad, and I’d be left unsatisfied.
Knight knows exactly how to make me feel good, and I’m honestly worried I might be right at the start of an orgasm addiction. Once I realized I was too sore to ride his dick again last night, I knew I had to do something to distract myself from the craving to feel him inside of me.
Sketching has always relaxed me, but sketching in this beautiful house Knight built for us, surrounded by his huge body and comforting warmth, was perfect, and for a moment, I considered if adding a beautiful baby into the mix wouldn’t be a good thing.
Knight’s views of me and him, of our marriage, and now of us starting a family, are so simplistic that it’s hard to argue against them.
He believes that the moment he saw me he knew he was mine and I was his, so he doesn’t understand why either of us would fight against something so instinctual.
He feels that I was destined or fated or biologically matched as his mate. So why wouldn’t we get married only hours after coming together, because we’re going to be together forever, and splitting up simply isn’t an option?
He feels that now we’re married and living in this beautiful house he built for us, then why would we wait for some arbitrary right time to start a family when we could just do it now?
Even though I can think of a thousand reasons why having a baby with someone I barely know might be insane, I’m struggling to think of a single reason why I wouldn’t want to start a family with my husband who I’m growing more and more obsessed with every moment I spend with him.
This entire thing is crazy, but does crazy always have to equal bad? Can crazy just be good and right and instinctual?
“Let me help you, Doll,” Knight says, scooping me off my prone position on the kitchen counter and swinging me into his arms, bridal style. Just like every day since he claimed me, he carries me upstairs and runs me a bath, helping to wash and condition my hair after he’s run his soap-clad hands over every inch of my body. Once he’s dried my hair, he follows me into the closet while I pick out an outfit.
Today, I select a black pinafore dress with an ornate frilled motif made of white ribbon and lace, and pair it with a white blouse with long flared sleeves that hang over my hands all the way down to my fingertips. Slipping black-and-white diamond-patterned thigh-high socks on, I finish my look with heeled Dr. Martens boots with black ribbons for laces, and black-and-white diamond-patterned bows at the end of my braided pigtails.
Watching me like he’s worried if he blinks, he’ll miss something, Knight takes in every detail of my outfit, then quickly finds jeans, his thick leather belt, socks, and a white shirt, and gets dressed like he’s being timed.
Considering how over-the-top my outfit is and how basic his is, when I glance at our reflection in the mirror, we look good together. I’m tiny, and he’s huge, but our extreme opposites complement each other.
He’s looking at me like I’m everything, and I find myself looking at him, like he’s the answer to all the questions I’m desperate to ask.
Instead of waiting for him to take my hand, I reach for his, entwining our fingers together as I tip my head back and wait for him to lead us to the car, because even though it’s only been a few days, I know he has everything under control. He’ll take care of me. He’ll look after me. He has me, and that thought is enough to make me want to drag him back to bed.
I’m nervous by the time Knight slows the car to a stop outside the studio. It’s Sunday, so the building is dark and empty, but I have the key Betty gave me yesterday, so I can let myself in and get set up.
When Knight kills the engine, I wait for him to get out and unfasten my seat belt. I’m more than capable of doing it myself, but he likes to do it for me, and honestly, I kind of like it too. Once we’re both standing on the sidewalk, I expect him to grabthe boxes from the trunk, but instead he takes the front door key from my hand, opens the shutter, then unlocks the door.
“Wait here,” he growls when I move to step over the threshold.
Freezing, I furrow my brow in confusion. “Why?”
“Let me check it’s safe first. Stay here,” he says, flashing me a challenging look before he steps into the dark building, leaving me in the doorway.
Moments later, the overhead lights flick on, and I get to see the completed studio for the first time. The last time I was here, the place was a building site full of Cody’s construction crew erecting walls and building staging. Now it’s the tattoo studio of my dreams.
The building itself is an old warehouse, but instead of feeling cold and drafty, it feels airy and comfortable. Closed rooms line up against the back wall of the space, with a raised platform that uses most of the center of the building. The platform is surrounded by polished chrome hand railing that makes it separate, but still part of the room. Eight tattoo chairs fill the huge stage, each with a rolling storage unit situated alongside it. Three of the chairs are clearly being used. The other five spaces are brand new and untouched.
I watch from the doorway as Knight circles the building, opening the door to each room like he’s expecting an intruder to jump out and attack us. Once he’s confident we’re the only people here, he strides back to me and takes my hand, pulling me fully inside before he closes the door behind us.
“It’s safe,” he assures me, even though I never doubted for a minute that it wasn’t.
Stepping past him, I walk by the front desk, then climb the stairs onto the stage, walking over to the chair positioned at the back on the right-hand side. It’s clear the space belongs to Suede. His well-known and respected logo has been printed onthe front of his cabinet and again on a head cover that’s draped over the headrest on his tattoo bed. Moving slowly across the space, I pass a chair for an artist whose name is Cyrus, then over to Betty’s chair. Her familiar logo stickers cover her work cabinet, and I find myself smiling at the familiarity of her brand of chaotic organization.
The seat beside hers is labeled as mine, then the remaining four are for Atticus, Tori’s brother, and then three other artists called Jed, Brooks, and Sullivan, who I don’t know. Circling the stage, I run my fingers along the metal railing, then slowly descend the steps and peer into each of the private rooms at the back of the building.
Two of the four are private tattoo rooms, the third is set up for piercing and body mods, and the fourth, which is much larger than the others, is set up as a break room. Large section couches fill one wall opposite a large TV with a game console. There’s a small kitchenette, a door to a storage room that’s filled with supplies, and a bathroom with a shower through a door in the corner.
