“That’s it,” I murmur against her. “That’s what you are to me.”
My hand moves lower, over her hip, her thigh, between her legs. She’s already wet. Again. Always so fast for me, and tonightthere is something desperate in it, like she’s been holding this back too long.
I stroke her slowly at first, then harder when she presses into my hand. She’s more sensitive now, the pregnancy making everything sensitive, more immediate. I’ve learned that quickly. The smallest touch makes her shiver. The right pressure makes her shake.
She whispers my name when I slide two fingers into her.
I move down her body, kiss her belly once, then again, deliberately. Her whole body goes still for a second.
Then she looks at me with a softness that nearly undoes me.
I don’t let it. I spread her thighs and put my mouth on her instead.
She cries out and grabs for the sheets. I keep her there, licking slow and deep, my hand splayed over the underside of her belly to steady her while she writhes and gasps and tries to stay quiet in a house full of people.
“Someone will hear,” she whispers.
“Then be quieter.”
That gets me the glare I wanted. Then I suck her clit into my mouth and she loses the ability to argue.
I make her come once with my mouth and fingers before I even think about taking her. By the time I rise over her again, she’s flushed and soft and open, one hand over her mouth, the other reaching for me like she can’t stand the distance.
I strip us both the rest of the way and settle between her thighs, but stop before entering. “Tell me if anything hurts.”
She gives me a look. “You’re very bossy after midnight.”
“Answer.”
“It won’t.”
I lift a brow.
She softens. “I will.”
Good enough.
I ease into her slowly. The angle is different now. Her body fuller, her belly between us, forcing patience I probably needed anyway. She takes me with a low moan, hands sliding over my shoulders, my back, my arms.
“God,” she breathes.
I stay still for a second, forehead to hers, until the tension leaves her face. Then I move. Slow at first. Deep and careful. One hand under her thigh, the other planted beside her head. Her body answers me immediately, opening, tightening, pulling me in deeper every time I thrust.
She wants harder. I can feel it. But I make her wait.
I roll her slightly onto her side and go with her, fitting myself behind her, one arm under her neck, the other hand finding her breast. I spoon her that way, my chest to her back, my hand spread over the curve of her stomach while I thrust into her in long, steady strokes.
This position suits her now. Lets me hold her. Lets me feel everything.
She moans into the pillow, one leg hooked back over mine, fingers gripping my forearm.
“That’s it,” I say against her ear. “Take it.”
She does. Soon the slow strokes aren’t enough. She’s pushing back for more, frustrated, wet, vocal in a way that goes straight to my spine. I shift her again, sit back against the headboard, and lift her onto my lap facing me so she can ride me.
Her belly presses warm and round between us. Her hair falls over her face. She braces her hands on my shoulders and sinks down on me with a moan that sounds half wonder, half need.
“There,” she gasps.
