Page 24 of Bred By The King

“I’m in love.”

He says it so simply. So honestly. My heart melts.

“I love you too, you big possessive brute.”

We leave the festival early. Soren carries me up the stairs because he says I shouldn’t be walking so much in my “condition.” I remind him that I’m pregnant, not broken. He ignores me.

Once the doors close, he’s on me. Gentle but desperate. He strips my dress off carefully, his eyes going dark as he takes in my changed body.

“Fuck, Layla,” he breathes. “Look at you.”

I do look. Heavy breasts with dark nipples, a round belly that protrudes proudly, wide hips that have spread even wider. I look fertile. I look like his.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he says.

He kneels in front of me, pressing his face to my belly. “Hey, baby. Daddy’s home.”

Then he kisses lower. Between my thighs. He eats my pussy like it’s his last meal, licking and sucking until I’m shaking, until I come twice against his tongue.

Then he stands, bends me over the arm of the chaise lounge, and slides inside me from behind.

“Gonna fuck you slow,” he promises, his hands gripping my hips. “Gonna take care of my pregnant queen.”

He does. Long, deep strokes that hit every sensitive spot. His hand reaches around to rub my clit, his other hand cupping my breast, pinching the nipple. Milk leaks on his fingers and he groans like he’s dying.

“Can’t wait until you’re full of milk,” he growls. “Gonna drink from you while I fuck you. Gonna breed you again the second this one is out.”

“Yes,” I moan, pushing back against him. “Yes, Soren. Keep me full. Always.”

“Always,” he promises, pounding deeper. “You’re never not going to be full of me, Layla. Never.”

He comes with a groan, flooding me, his cock pulsing deep inside. He stays there, wrapped around me, his hands cradling my belly.

“I love you,” he whispers.

“I love you too,” I breathe.

And I do. With every beat of my heart. With every kick of our baby. With every breath in my body.

I’m his. He’s mine.

Twenty One

MONIQUE

When Layla told me she was pregnant, I screamed so loud they probably heard me in the next kingdom.

“Monique!”

“I’M SORRY! I’M EXCITED! YOUR UTERUS IS DOING DIPLOMACY!”

That was three months ago. Now I’m standing in the middle of Vinterfjord palace, freezing my ass off, staring at my best friend who looks like she’s smuggling a watermelon under her dress.

“Girl,” I say, hands on my hips. “You are ROUND.”

“Thank you, Monique. So kind.”

“I mean it in the best way! You look like a fertility goddess. Like if Beyoncé and the Venus of Willendorf had a baby.”