Ross takes his time, finding a perfect, agonizing rhythm. He works me closer to the edge, his hands sliding up to cup my breasts through the silk fabric. The dual sensation pushes me over the breaking point. I cry out, burying my face in the throw pillows as my climax ripples through me in a wave.
He pulls up and unfastens the drawstring of his sweatpants, freeing his thick, throbbing length. The knot at the base is already swollen and heavy with arousal. He shifts his weight, climbing up onto the edge of the sofa to position himself over me.
He guides his slick cock to my entrance. He pushes forward, burying the length of his shaft deep inside my slick core. The thick bulb of his knot stays just outside, nudging against my opening. I let out a wrecked moan, my legs wrapping around his waist to pull him closer.
Ross sets a slow, deliberate pace. He pulls his hips back and drives forward, his rhythm matching the steady beat of the rain hitting the roof. The swollen knot bumps against my entrance with every single thrust. He props his weight on his forearms to keep his body clear of my bump. The friction builds a new, consuming fire between us.
His ginger scent fills my lungs. I rake my nails down his back, urging him to go faster. He groans, his hips snapping forward with a sudden, desperate force.
"Sandra." Ross buries his face in the crook of my neck, his entire body going rigid.
He hits his climax, driving deep one last time. He pushes his hips forward with a brutal surge, popping the swollen knot past my entrance to lock us together. The hot pulse of his release spills inside me, triggering a second, softer climax of my own. We hold onto each other, the violent trembling of our bodies fading into a warm, comfortable exhaustion.
After a while, Ross pulls out, adjusting my nightgown before settling beside me on the wide sofa. He pulls the discarded robe over us both to keep the chill away. He wraps his arms around me, pulling my back flush against his chest in a gentle spooning position.
I lean into his solid strength, listening to the rain fall over our home. The anxiety of the past is gone. I close my eyes, feeling completely, utterly secure in my life and my pack.
Connections
Jethro
Rain lashes against the large living room windows in heavy, gray sheets. The steady, rhythmic drumming of the water hitting the glass provides a constant, soothing background noise. The pack house is silent, stripped of its usual chaotic, high-energy buzzing. Ross and Caleb left hours ago for their all-day tabletop gaming campaign in the city, taking their loud debates and booming laughter with them. The quiet leaves me alone with my two favorite people in the world.
I stand at the kitchen counter, listening to the sizzle of butter on a hot cast-iron skillet. I press down on a grilled chicken and gouda sandwich with a spatula, waiting for the crust to turn a perfect, crispy golden brown. I transfer it to a cutting board and slice it into neat triangles. I open the refrigerator, the cool air hitting my face, and grab the massive glass jar of spicy garlic pickles. The pungent smell of vinegar and garlic cuts through the rich scent of melted cheese. I place a generous handful of the thick spears right next to the sandwich.
Sandra requested this exact, savory combination twenty minutes ago. At thirty-one weeks pregnant, her cravings dictate the entire menu of the house, and my Alpha instincts hum with deep, primal satisfaction every time I can provide what she needs.
I pick up the heavy ceramic plate and carry it out of the kitchen and into the living room.
Oli and I spent the entire morning dragging every spare pillow, heavy fleece blanket, and plush cushion we could find downstairs. We built a massive, sprawling nest right in front of the crackling fireplace. It looks like a fortress of absolute comfort. Sandra rests in the dead center of it, looking like a queen holding court. She lies on her side, supported by an arranged mountain of memory foam. Her oversized, knitted sweater stretches tight over the heavy, distinct curve of her stomach.
Oli sits right behind her, his long legs tangled with hers under a velvet throw blanket. He runs his fingers through her dark hair, massaging her scalp. His honeysuckle scent acts as a bright, cheerful note for the gray, rainy afternoon.
"Room service." I drop to my knees at the edge of the nest, sinking into the layers of blankets, and set the plate down on the coffee table.
"You are my absolute hero." Sandra props herself up on one elbow, her eyes lighting up at the sight of the food. She grabs a spicy pickle and takes a large bite, a look of pure, unadulterated bliss crossing her face. "This is what I needed. You have no idea."
"Eat as much as you want." I settle onto the cushions right beside her, crossing my legs. "I can make another one if you are still hungry. There is plenty of chicken left."
She finishes the entire sandwich and the pile of pickles in record time, letting out a soft hum of approval with every bite. I take the empty plate and set it back on the table out of theway, wiping a stray crumb from the corner of her mouth with my thumb.
Sandra shifts, trying to find a comfortable position among the pillows. She lets out a small, frustrated breath, rolling a fraction onto her back before wincing and returning to her side. She rests a protective hand over her bump. Her sweet jasmine scent spikes with a sharp hint of physical discomfort and exhaustion.
"I feel huge." She looks down at her stomach, her brow furrowing. "I feel like a whale trying to navigate a bathtub. Nothing is comfortable anymore. My lower back is aching."
"You look beautiful." I lean forward, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead. "Your body is doing an incredible amount of hard work right now. You are building our daughter from scratch. You just need to relax and let us take care of you."
I reach out, sliding my hands over her thick maternity leggings to massage her aching calves. Sandra lets out a soft, appreciative hum, her eyes fluttering shut as I work the tension out of her muscles. I move up her legs, kneading the tight knots, my hands drawing closer to the heavy curve of her hips.
Her sweet jasmine scent spikes, warming the air between us and taking on a heavier, flushed note. She shifts her hips a fraction toward me, parting her knees just an inch. It is a silent, unmistakable invitation.
My breath catches in my throat. My protective instincts are running in overdrive today, clashing with my physical need for her. My smoky marshmallow scent fills the entire living room, thick with my need to shield her. Every single time I look at her, I'm hyper-aware of her fragility. She carries our child, and at thirty-one weeks, her body has changed so much that I feel like I'm navigating a minefield.
We haven't been intimate in weeks. It isn't a lack of desire. My blood burns for her every second of the day, but the simple physics of our bodies have become a terrifying obstacle.
I'm a massive, muscled Alpha. My hands are rough, my shoulders are broad, and I'm built to be a lethal weapon in a fight. I use my size to ground her, to cover her and make her feel secure. Now, that same size feels like a liability.
The fear of putting too much pressure on her stretched skin, of crushing her, or hurting the baby, sits in the back of my mind. It makes me second-guess every touch. It makes me hesitate.
