“Hold up your skirt, baby.”
She did, revealing a pair of white panties. Not skimpy, not particularly sexy. But the package? Damn, my mouth watered at the prospect.
I ran my hand up the insides of her milky-white thighs. Skin so soft against my calloused hands, and I was the rough, brute invader of the virginal maiden.
“Wonder how you taste.”
“You’ve tasted me before.”
I looked up to find her watching me avidly, her teeth clamped in that plump lower lip.
“Yeah, but that was before. Your body was different. Now it’s growing a new life, and I bet everything is different about you. How you feel, how you taste, how tight that pussy will grip my cock.” I rubbed a knuckle over the front of her panties.
She shuddered and swayed a little.
“You okay?”
“F-fine. Continue.” Said a little imperiously, like she was trying desperately to assume power over a situation she’d lost control of hours ago. The moment she walked into that bar and told the world with her body that she was carrying my child, the game had changed.
I kissed her inner thigh, then the other, and worked my way up. Slowly. She started to shake, parted her legs as best she could, given how the tights were knee-cuffing her.
“Please,” she whispered.
“Please what?”
“Make it better.”
I peeled down her panties and moved my fingers to where she was wet and wanting. She gasped, a desperate, needy sound, and I let my digits wander, soaking in her desire, driving her a little crazy.
Driving myself even crazier.
Her thighs were parted but not nearly enough for what I needed.
More access. More Franky. More everything.
I stood and placed a finger over her ready-to-object lips. “Trust me.” Leading her to the kitchen table, I sat her down in a chair, then knelt before her. I removed one boot. Then the other. Her tights. Her panties.
“Comfortable?” I asked.
She scooted forward a few inches and parted her thighs, pulling up the skirt of her dress as she settled.
“Yes.”
I moved my hands up her thighs, placed my thumbs over soft, sensitive, wet flesh, and stroked. Her bottom lip quivered.
“Put your hands on my shoulders, Francesca. Squeeze if you need to. Use me for support. I’m here for whatever you want.”
And then I bent and took what I wanted. That sweet tang, the delicious nectar of her pussy, while she gripped my shoulders and rolled her hips, searching and seeking the release I insisted on denying her.
Not yet.
But soon.
Later, I lay beside her, sated but not entirely satisfied. Tomorrow, she would return to Boston, and now that everyone knew the score, I felt as though we had moved into a different phase of the pregnancy.
Of us.
She ran a finger over my collarbones. “What’s on your mind?”
