"Completely," he agrees without hesitation. His hand leaves my hip to cup my face, tilting it up to his. "But that doesn't make it any less true."
His mouth claims mine in a kiss that starts gentle but quickly deepens, his tongue seeking entrance I readily grant. His other hand slides down to cup my bottom, pulling me flush against him so I can feel the evidence of his desire pressing against my stomach.
"It's been six weeks," he murmurs against my lips when we finally break for air. "The doctor gave you the all-clear at your appointment today."
I nod, heat flooding my cheeks at the memory of the thorough post-partum examination, at the doctor's matter-of-fact statement that I could resume "normal marital relations" whenever I felt ready.
"I know," I whisper, my hands sliding up his chest to tangle in his hair. "I've been counting the days too."
His smile is predatory, triumphant. "Bedroom," he says, the single word both invitation and command.
We move down the hallway toward our room, his hand never leaving my body, as if he can't bear to break contact even for the short journey. Once inside, he closes the door behind us, his eyes darkening as they roam over me with hungry appreciation.
"I've missed being inside you," he says, his voice rough with need. "Missed feeling you come apart around me."
The crude words send a flood of heat to my core, my body already preparing itself for his possession. Sutton has taught me well over the past year, conditioned me to respond to his voice, his touch, his mere presence with an eagerness that still sometimes embarrasses me.
His hands find the buttons of my blouse, working them open with deliberate slowness, his eyes following the trail of skin revealed by each one. When the garment hangs open, he pushes it off my shoulders, letting it fall to the floor at my feet.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, his hands cupping my breasts, now larger from pregnancy and nursing. His thumbs brush over the nipples, drawing a gasp from my lips at the heightened sensitivity. "So perfect."
He continues undressing me with the same careful attention, removing each piece of clothing as if unwrapping a precious gift, until I stand naked before him while he remains fully dressed—a power dynamic that still thrills me in ways I don't fully understand.
His hand slides down my body, over the slight curve of my stomach that hasn't quite returned to its pre-pregnancy flatness. There's something considering in his touch, something deliberate that makes my breath catch.
"I think it's time," he says, his voice thoughtful as his palm presses against my abdomen. "Time to give Sophia a brother or sister."
The suggestion takes me by surprise, though perhaps it shouldn't. Sutton has always been clear about wanting a family,about wanting to bind me to him in the most permanent way possible.
"She's only three months old," I remind him, though there's no real protest in my voice.
His smile deepens, knowing and satisfied. "The perfect age gap is two years," he says, as if he's researched this thoroughly. Knowing him, he has. "If we start trying now, by the time you conceive and carry to term, Sophia will be ready for a sibling."
His hand slides lower, between my legs, finding me already wet for him. "Besides," he continues, his fingers exploring me with expert precision, "your body was made for carrying my children. For being filled with my seed. I want to see you round with my child again. Want to watch you grow heavy with the proof of my possession."
I should find his words crude, controlling. Instead, they send a fresh flood of moisture to my core, my body responding to the dark promise in his voice with eager anticipation.
"Ready for another?" he asks, though it's not really a question. His fingers circle my entrance, teasing but not penetrating. "Ready to be bred by me again?"
"Yes," I breathe, beyond shame, beyond everything but the desperate need to please him, to be filled by him. "Please, Sutton."
He doesn't make me wait. In one fluid motion, he lifts me, carries me to the bed, lays me down with surprising gentleness given the hunger evident in his eyes. He undresses quickly, efficiently, revealing the powerful body I've missed having pressed against mine these past weeks.
When he covers me with his weight, careful to support himself on his elbows, the feeling of skin against skin after so long is almost overwhelming. His mouth finds mine in a kiss that's all possession and hunger, his hands relearning the curves and planes of my post-pregnancy body with reverent touches.
"Mine," he whispers against my lips as he positions himself at my entrance. "Forever mine."
"Yours," I agree, my legs wrapping around his waist, drawing him closer. "Always yours."
He enters me slowly, giving me time to adjust after the weeks without him, his eyes never leaving mine as he fills me completely. There's a momentary discomfort, my body relearning this intrusion, but it quickly gives way to pleasure as he begins to move within me.
"Perfect," he murmurs, his rhythm steady, controlled despite the desire evident in every tense line of his body. "So perfect around me. Like you were made for this. Made for me."
And as he moves above me, within me, around me, I realize that he's right. I was made for this—for him, for us, for the family we're creating together. The frightened girl who ran from Raymond's house into the rain that fateful night feels like a different person entirely—a ghost of who I was before Sutton found me, claimed me, reshaped me in the image of his perfect possession.
"I love you," I whisper as he drives me toward that peak of pleasure only he has ever shown me. "I love you, Sutton. I love our life. I love being yours."
His rhythm falters at my words, his control slipping as emotion overtakes him. "Say it again," he demands, his voice rough with need. "Tell me you're mine. That you'll never leave. That you want to carry my children, build our family, stay with me forever."
