“I don’t like hospitals,” she says weakly.
I despise the meek volume of her lovely voice, so I try to soothe her. “I will be there the entire time. Safety comes first, little deer. Share the moon, your magic, with our children after their birth.”
She chews on her lower lip, probably tasting the salt of her own sorrow. A sting to match my words. I’ll fix this. I need to make her come, to spoil her for pleasure. Remind her how I’ll please her, but for this, I can’t falter.
Less than ten minutes later, I’m on my back and pulling her down to sit on my face, the scent of her sensual skin engorging my cock to the point of pain, making it throb with its own heartbeat.
“Fuck,” I bite out a growl, covering my mouth and nose with her sweet pussy. I look up to see the lower curve of her swollen stomach; the pretty sight rips another groan from me.
I like her pregnant.
I glide my tongue up and down her slit, chasing the ripples of her need as her skin reacts to my attention. She grinds on me.
Christ, sweet girl.
That’s it.
Sit on my tongue.
Breathing through my nose, I single-mindedly suck and lick her to a shuddering mess. I gorge on her orgasm, lathering my tongue with her, wrenching more of her climax from her greedy little pussy.
I need more of her.
Though she is all over me, inside my soul, fuelling my heart and directing my body, I want more of her. My sweet girl—the one person in the world who handles my evil.
When I don’t stop as she shudders the remains of her pleasure away, her moans become a perpetual whimper. I don’t let up. I lick and suck her until her muscles can no longer hold her upright.
After I lay her down to sleep, I’m kept from slumber by our earlier conversation. Her dreamcatcher sways slightly by the bedpost, reminding me how these ideals are part of her passions. Of her humanity.
But a doula is not a doctor.
A home birth is archaic, impractical—Christ.
I turn to watch her sleep, heavy blonde lashes lay over her flushed cheeks, and she stuns my heart to a stop.
I love her.
There has never been a more lovely sight. I do not believe in her spirituality, but I believe in her.Still… her safety must always come first.
9th Month Pregnant
The sheets are cold. A jarring sensation given my pregnant body is otherwise prickling with warmth and drenched in perspiration.
In my hazy sleep state, I recall altering the air-conditioner last night, but I'm certain I didn't switch it off. I reach out, seeking Sir’s hard, muscular form, but find his side of the bed empty but for a slight dip—a small patch where his body recently warmed.
Moaning, I slowly come to.
Awareness circles me in that moment; my toes, my body, all the parts of me hum to life, and I immediately sit up. Something feels different. I feel lighter—Yet, heavier at the same time.Heavier… lower…
Searching the room, I find the wall lights casting a dim glow below them and Clay's eyes locked on me as though viscerally fixed. Watching. Wait.
For what, Sir?
He’s naked but for a pair of jeans sitting around his toned hips. “Little deer.” His blue gaze softens on me, his concern smoothing to trained control.
Peering wide-eyed down at the sheets, I feel my heart contract. I clutch at it. Rub it. Without even seeing the mess, I know my lower half is wet.
“It’s okay, sweet girl.”
