We find our rhythm together, his hips rocking into me in slow, deep strokes that make my toes curl. Each thrust sends more waves of pleasure radiating from my pussy, spreading like warm honey through my limbs.
His hand splays across my lower back, keeping me in position and making sure I’m okay while he makes love to me.
We alternate between kisses and moans and gasps for air as our bodies work in tandem.
His powerful frame braces mine protectively, his muscles flexing with each controlled thrust. I rock forward againsthim, meeting him in the middle, the friction building delicious tension low in my belly.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, his dark gray eyes boring into mine. “Take my cock, mia bella. Just like you always have.”
His pace gradually increases, still controlled but deeper, hitting the spot inside me that makes sparks dance behind my eyelids.
Pleasure coils tighter with each stroke, my body clenching around him as the pressure builds. His fingers find my sensitive bundle of nerves, circling with practiced skill, eliciting a sharp cry from me.
“Cael, I’m close?—”
“Shhh,” he silences with a deep kiss. He slides back into me, sending more sparks of pleasure radiating up my body. “Just let go. Come on my cock.”
His hips drive into me harder, his thickness stroking every sensitive nerve as his fingers work magic between my legs.
It’s enough to take me there. I reach the peak my pleasure’s been building toward, then go careening over the edge.
The orgasm crashes through me like a powerful tide at sea, pleasure exploding from my pussy and radiating through every last cell in my body.
My walls clench around him, milking his length as I gasp his name. He groans deep in his chest, his rhythm faltering as my body pulls him with me.
He goes under by my side, wiped out by the same consuming tide.
“Nevaeh… FUCK!” he grunts. His hips jerk against mine as he comes, spilling deep inside me with shuddering thrusts.
I feel the heat of him and the pulse of his cock, both sending smaller waves of pleasure through me.
We stay connected, breathing hard together, his hand protective over our baby as the aftershocks fade. His lips press tender kisses to my shoulder, my neck, anywhere he can reach.
“Happy?” he asks with a throaty chuckle.
A small smile comes to my face. “Very happy. And definitely not in labor.”
“One of us has to be paranoid,” he reminds, stroking my belly. “But it seems our little bundle of joy isn’t ready to meet the world yet.”
“Soon,” I say with a peck to his lips. “She’ll—or he’ll—be here very soon.”
“A little to the left,” I call out hours later, standing back to admire the silver streamers Ms. Poitier is tacking up along the dining room’s crown molding.
She adjusts them with a grunt. “Like this, honey?”
“Perfect!”
The formal dining room is slowly transforming into the festive space we need it to be—tasteful decorations in blues and silvers, nothing too outrageous, but celebratory enough to mark the occasion.
Caelian’s never been big on celebrating any occasion, from Thanksgiving to Christmas. According to Ms. Poitier, that also includes his birthday.
His father certainly never bothered besides a couple occasions when he was very young, and after years of being experimented on and poisoned, I doubt he had much reason to feel joyful about marking another year of survival.
But that changes today.
I’m arranging a centerpiece of white roses and eucalyptus on the credenza when a dull ache radiates in my lower back. I pause, pressing my hand against the spot and rolling my shoulders. Probably from being on my feet most of the afternoon.
Caelian, Ms. P,andDr. Tulio have all lectured me about staying on my feet too long.
