He laughs under his breath, his fingers flexing against me. “I want everything with you, Mia.”
The sincerity in his voice doesn’t surprise me. He’s always intense for me, but this isn’t buying a vacation home in the Hamptons or a new car. A baby is…life changing.
“I know, but are we ready for that? I mean, it’s not just a baby at the end, Jensen, which is a huge responsibility. My body will change too. I’ll change.”
He presses his forehead to mine, like he’s trying to climb into my skin. “You think I don’t like the idea of that? Imagining you with a huge belly makes me want to do unspeakable things to you.”
My thighs clench, my pussy too around the device inside me. “That turns you on? Me being pregnant?”
“Knowing that your body is completely owned by me? Yeah, baby, that turns me on.” He leans in so close I don’t think I could get a piece of paper between us. “Maybe next time I should fill you with my cum before I stuff that egg into your pretty cunt. I like the idea of you walking around with me inside you.”
Holyshit.
TWO
MIA
THREE MONTHS LATER…
He’s watching me.He always is, but this morning I feel it like a live wire between us, and I’m not sure why.
Did I do something?
Is he mad at me?
No, he’d tell me if I’d upset him.
And yet he’s clutching the spatula like he’s trying not to snap it.
I lean against the counter island, the sun streaming in through the huge floor to ceiling windows behind me. The Tribeca skyline dominates the view. High-rises and brick fill my view, a mix of old and new. Familiar and reassuring.
Home.
But it’s not the horizon I’m looking at. It’s the pancakes forgotten on the stove that are about to burn.
“Are you serving those char-grilled?” I tease, trying to lighten the mood.
He frowns, then follows my line of sight. “Fuck,” he mutters, pulling the pan off the heat.
What has my husband’s jaw flexing like he’s fighting against the wildness inside him?
I pick an apple out of the fruit bowl, just to give my hands something to do. “You want to go out for breakfast?”
He cuts a glance over his shoulder, pancakes forgotten. “You’re not pregnant.”
I blink. Then I do it again. Because what does that have to do with eating? “What?”
Jensen lets out a sigh that could wake the dead. “You’re not pregnant,” he repeats.
I glance down at my stomach like it’s suddenly going to be round and full, but it’s flat under my shirt. Maybe a little bloated. “I… um… I know.”
And I do. I’m the one who has been dealing with sore boobs and weird mid-cycle bleeding since I came off birth control three months ago.
But I’m also the one who has benefitted from Jensen’s insatiable appetite to impregnate me. So I’m not complaining. I’m still a little sore from our bedroom gymnastics last night.
Since the gallery event, my husband has made fucking me an Olympic sport. I only have to catch his eye and whatever I’m wearing is shoved out of the way and he’s inside me like he’s possessed. I can’t count how many pairs of panties he’s ruined in the last month alone.
Not that I mind. I like his animalistic desperation more than I should—more than is sane.
