Not because I don’t understand, but because my body doesn’t care about logic anymore. Desire curls low and hot in my belly, heavy and insistent, different than before. It’s deeper now, slower and more demanding, like my body knows it’s not just mine anymore. I want him in a way that feels primal and greedy, like I need him pressed into me to remind me I’m alive, that I survived, that we survived.
I catch myself staring at the curve of my stomach in the mirror, fingers tracing it absentmindedly, wondering if this is what changed him. Wondering if the sight of me carrying his child unsettles him. Or worse, softens him in a way that frightens him. I’ve heard the rumors. Men who stop seeing their wives as lovers once they’re pregnant. Men who only see a mother too cherished to be sexualized.
The thought makes something sharp twist in my chest. Because I don’t feel fragile. I feel powerful. Full. Hungry. I’ve never wanted him more than I do now, and the idea that he might not want me back makes me ache in places I didn’t know could ache.
A few sexless nights later, I wake to heat pooling behind me. His breath ghosts over my shoulder, slow and uneven, and beneath the silk of my nightgown, his body betrays him. He’s hard. Fully. Achingly. Pressed into me like he forgot, in sleep, that he was trying to be careful.
His hips move once, barely there, and I feel desire all the way down to my toes. The sound he makes isn’t conscious. It’s needy. Almost broken. I don’t dare move at first, afraid he’ll pull away again, afraid this fragile moment will shatter if I breathe too loud.
But that’s exactly what I do. I inhale sharply as the excitement builds, causing his entire body to go rigid. His breath catches. He presses his forehead to my neck like he’s fighting himself.
“Fuck,” he whispers into the dark, like a confession.
Was he sleeping? Awakened and surprised to be pawing at his wife?
Then he retreats, rolling onto his back, severing the connection.
I stare at the wall, heart racing, my body humming with unsatisfied need, knowing now that he wants sex. I’m justunsure if that want was for my body or a sensual dream that didn’t include me.
Another week passes. My shower sex attempt didn’t work. Belly getting bigger.
As well as my desire for the godlike man that sleeps beside me every night.
I’m worried. I’m doing well. He should want me. Yet I fail to excite him.
As normal, I’m discouraged and go to sleep unsatisfied.
In the middle of the night, my eyes snap open.
I wake to warmth again. His hand rests lightly over my waist. His body rolls toward mine. His hardness finds me through the silk and he grunts into the pillow, a low, aching sound.
He doesn’t want me to hear.
This time, I don’t look, hoping he takes this further.
I arch my hips very subtly, just enough to allow him easier access. Enough for the head of his length to catch at my entrance. My arousal coats his tip instantly.
He stills and trembles. His breath stutters.
Come on, baby, I pray to myself. Do it.
When the tip breaches my entrance, nudging in, the air leaves his lungs in a ragged curse.
He doesn’t thrust. He holds himself there, shaking. Resisting.
I squeeze my eyes shut, still silently begging.
His shaft inches forward, painfully slow, yet incredibly erotic.
ThankfreakingGod.
Deeply he fills my tight walls. It’s perfect. He can’t help it. Need overpowered fear. Need for me.
He moves again. A slow but steady rhythm.
“Mmm, moyá devushka,” he murmurs, almost inaudible.
His breath is short and hot against my neck. His dick throbs inside me, and now I’m the one losing my sanity. My mouth opens with a soft, involuntary moan—
