She's still pulsing around me in aftershocks, her walls fluttering like a heartbeat against my spent cock, and it's the sweetest torture I've ever known. I shift us on the chaise, my back against the velvet, her thighs bracketing my hips, and she sinks down deeper onto me with a gasp that shoots straight to my balls.
We're both slick with sweat and cum, her arousal mixed with my release leaking out around where we're joined, but I don't pull out. I can't. Not when she's looking at me like that. Eyes hazy, lips parted, cheeks flushed the color of ripe cherries.
"Keep me inside you," I rasp, my voice wrecked from the roar I let out moments ago. My hands grip her hips, thumbs digging into the soft flesh just above her mound, holding her steady. "Ride me like the fucking goddess you are."
She whimpers, her hands planting on my chest for leverage, nails scraping through the damp fabric of my shirt. She's trembling, oversensitive from the orgasm that just ripped through her, but there's fire in her eyes. Determination.
That stubborn spark that made me choose her in the first place. My cock twitches inside her, already hardening again despite the ache in my balls from emptying so hard. It's not enough. It'll never be enough with her.
Charlotte starts slow, rocking her hips in tentative circles, grinding her clit against my pubic bone. Her breath hitches, asoft "oh" escaping her lips as she adjusts to the new angle. I can feel every part of her, hot, wet, swollen from how roughly I took her. She's dripping down my shaft, coating my balls and thighs, and the obscene slick sound of it fills the room like a filthy symphony.
"Fuck, look at you," I groan, my gaze dragging over her body like a desperate prayer. Her tits sway gently with each roll of her hips, nipples pebbled and dark from my earlier attention, begging for more. I reach up, cupping one in my palm, thumb circling the peak until she arches into my touch. "You're already changing, malyshka. Already so fucking beautiful it hurts."
She moans, her pace quickening, lifting herself up just enough to drop back down, taking me deeper. Her head falls back, exposing the long line of her throat, and I surge up to latch my mouth there, sucking a mark into her skin. Mine. Always mine. The contract was a farce from the start, I knew it the moment I saw her in that steam-filled bathroom, wide-eyed and innocent, but now? With my child growing inside her? She's etched into my soul.
"Harder," I growl against her collarbone, my free hand sliding to her ass, squeezing, guiding her movements. "Take what you need from me. Use my cock to make yourself come again. I want to feel this pregnant pussy shatter around me. I want to feel you drain me again."
She grunts softly with exertion or determination, her rhythm turning frantic, hips slamming down with a desperation that matches the fire building in my gut. It's harder this time, the sensitivity borders on pain, every thrust sending electric jolts up my spine, my balls drawing up tight again despite being drained already. But I worship it. I worship her. This woman who was supposed to be temporary, a means to an end, now riding me like she owns me. And fuck me, she does.
I wrap my arms around her waist, pulling her chest forward so I can bury my face in her tits. My tongue flicks out, lapping at one nipple, then the other, imagining them leaking sweet milk for our child, and for me.
"You're going to be so round here," I murmur, one hand splaying over her still-soft belly, pressing where I can feel myself buried inside her. "Swollen with my heir. And I'll fuck you through every month of it. Fill you over and over until you're bred again. You were made for this, for me."
Her nails dig into my shoulders, as she desperately chases the edge. "Vitali... I can't... it's too much..."
"Yes, you can," I snarl, thrusting up to meet her, pressing two fingers against her clit. My cock throbs, oversensitive and raw, but the pressure builds anyway, coiling like a spring ready to snap. She's wild now, hair tumbling around her shoulders, body glistening with sweat, riding me with reckless abandon. Dirty. Primal. Perfect. I lie back and take in the view, lifting my hands to cup her tits and roll her nipples between my thumbs and forefingers. "Milk my cock, Charlotte. Show me how much you love being full of my cum."
Her head drops back as she cries out, her body seizing as the orgasm hits her in a desperate, shuddering release that clamps down on me like a vice. Her walls pulse, squeezing every inch of my exhausted cock, and it drags me over the edge with her. I moan loudly into the space between us, my release ripping through me in hot, painful spurts. Less cum this time, but no less intense, my body giving her everything it has left.
When her moans turn into little broken sounds of surprise, she slumps against my chest, both of us gasping like we've run a marathon. I hold her there, still buried inside as I soften, but unwilling to let go.
My hands roam her back, soothing, worshipping the curve of her spine, the dip of her waist. She's trembling, spent, but she lifts her head just enough to meet my eyes, a soft, sated smile curving her lips.
Charlotte
Time feels different now.
It used to slip through my fingers like sand. Shift after shift, day after day, nothing changing except the beds I made and the stains I scrubbed out of carpets too plush to belong to real people.
But now, every morning has purpose. Every afternoon has possibility. Every flutter low in my abdomen feels like a secret being whispered into my bones.
I sink back into the cushions of the sitting room sofa, one hand wrapped around a mug of mint tea, the other curled protectively over the curve of my belly.
Vitali’s child.
Our child.
I still can’t fully comprehend it.
The house feels too big today. Too quiet. Too… not-him. He had to leave suddenly, a call from Yury, something about shipments and territories that needed in-person attention. He didn’t want to go. I saw the way his jaw clenched when he told me. How his hand lingered at the small of my back like he was checking he could still reach me.
He promised he’d be back by tonight.
I keep checking the clock.
I hate that I miss him. I hate how much.
I’ve been reading the pregnancy book he left on the bedside table with his underlined paragraphs, little sticky notes marking chapters about symptoms and nutrition. He pretends this arrangement is clinical, but his actions betray him constantly.
