Epilogue
ONE YEAR LATER
Sloane
Iamdone.Clinically,spiritually, cosmically done being pregnant.
My feet are swollen. My hips feel as though they've been pried apart with a crowbar. The baby has spent the last hour testing how hard she can kick my ribs before I cry. I am ninety percent belly, ten percent willpower, and I have exactly one plan left.
Sex.
Specifically sex with my more-than-willing, fully obsessed husband, because I read on a perfectly reputable medical site at three in the morning that orgasms can help induce labor.
Knox has been walking around as though starving all day, and every time I catch him staring at my belly with that feral, possessive look, his hands flex at his sides. He wants to touch me. He wants inside me. And he's been holding himself back for approximately three hours because I told him I needed a nap.
I'm about to prove him very, very wrong about the nap.
I waddle into the bedroom with purpose.
Knox is halfway through pulling off his shirt when he sees my face. He freezes, shirt caught behind his neck, abs exposed, one hand tangled in cotton.
"Sweetheart," he says carefully, eyes darkening. "Why do you look as though you're about to commit a felony?"
I step into his space and yank the shirt the rest of the way off. He lets me. I grab his hands and place them directly on my stomach. Low, where the weight sits heaviest.
His breath stutters. His pupils blow wide. He's been this way my entire pregnancy, reverent and hungry, half feral every time he touches me. His cock hardens against my hip.
"I'm ready," I tell him. "She's ready. My pelvis is threatening mutiny. And you." I palm the bulge in his jeans. "Have been eye-fucking me all day."
His hands slide from my stomach to my hips. His grip tightens. "Jesus Christ, Sloane."
"I want you to put me in labor," I say, squeezing him through denim.
Knox lets out a sound somewhere between a growl and a laugh, and his mouth crashes onto mine. Hungry, possessive, filthy. His hands slide down to cup my ass, drawing me as close as my belly allows.
"You don't have to ask twice." He growls against my lips. "I've been losing my fucking mind watching you carry my baby and not being able to bury myself inside you for three entire hours."
I laugh against his mouth. "Three hours. You're so deprived."
"I am. It's been torture."
"Stop talking and fuck me."
He strips me efficiently, careful with my swollen body, but urgent. When I'm bare, he steps back to look, and the hunger in his eyes makes my thighs clench.
"Fuck, look at you," he murmurs. His hand slides over my belly, dips lower, between my thighs where I'm wet and aching.
"You're soaked, sweetheart."
"I've been thinking about this all afternoon," I gasp as his thumb finds my clit.
His voice drops into that dark, commanding tone that makes me shiver. "Get on the bed. Hands and knees."
I obey, grateful, because my back has been killing me and this position takes all the pressure off. When his hands grip my hips from behind, I moan.
"That's it," he murmurs, one hand riding up my spine. "Let me take care of you."
His cock notches against my entrance and he drives in, filling me inch by inch until I'm stretched around him, gasping.
