And the worst part? The part I could barely admit, even to myself?
I didn’t hate the idea of her getting pregnant. Not even a little.
My eyes dropped to her stomach, and something twisted low in my gut.
I could already see it. She’d hate me for it, and I’d give her everything. She smiled, still dazed, still drunk on me, and when her legs shifted, I watched more of my cum slip out of her.
Jesus.
I was getting hard again.
“Max?” she murmured, eyes fluttering open. “You, okay?”
I gave her a slow grin. “Oh, baby, I’m better than okay.”
“You’re staring,” she said sleepily. “You’re thinking hard about something.”
Yeah. I was.
Nothing weird here, just me, the guy who married her while she was unconscious, casually imagining pushing my cum back up inside her.
Totally normal thoughts from a totally normal person.
But I wasn’t normal, and neither was she.
“What are you thinking about?” She asked me, getting up on one elbow to look at me.
“Just how hot it is knowing I might have just gotten you pregnant tonight.”
She froze, blinking at me. “What?”
“Nothing,” I smirked, cocky as hell now. “Just thinking about filling you up again.”
She rolled her eyes, but I didn’t miss the flush on her cheeks. Or the way her hips subtly tilted into mine.
Yeah, she liked it too. She was a little freak.
“I love you,” she said in my ear.
I looked over at her, and I knew I was never going to be the same.
“I love you, too.”
She sat up, looked down at me, and then gave me a hard slap across the face. The sharp crack stunned me. The sting of her hand burned on my cheek. I raised my hand to the spot where she had hit me.
“Oh, baby. You’re in fucking trouble.”
“Shut up and kiss me.”
We ordered room service afterwards, watching a movie together while curled up in bed. It was honestly the best night of my life. Domesticity was something I had dreamed about. Honestly, more than the sex.
I just wanted her. Just like this.
I didn’t know what I did to deserve her, but having her in my arms, like this, made everything worth it.
Every single fucked-up thing.
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