Page 61 of Marrying the Pakhan

“Off,” she says quietly. “I want to touch you too.”

I sit up enough to pull the shirt over my head and toss it aside. Her hands settle on my chest, then move lower. There is nothing rushed about the way she explores.

When her palm presses over the front of my pants and finds me already hard, she looks up at my face.

“Come closer,” she says.

I shift so I am kneeling nearer to her, close enough that she does not have to strain. She works my belt open and pushes the rest of my clothes down. I help her get them out of the way. When I am bare, she wraps her hand around me and strokes once, slow and sure.

“You don’t have to,” I tell her.

“I know. I want to.”

She guides me a little nearer and leans in. The first touch of her mouth is warm and careful. She takes her time, learning what she can manage comfortably with the size of her stomach between us.

I keep one hand on the headboard and the other lightly in her hair, not directing, just steadying. Every few moments I check her face.

“Still okay?”

She pulls off long enough to answer. “Yes. Stay still for me.”

I do. She takes me deeper in slow increments, one hand wrapped around the base, the other braced on my thigh. The wet heat of her mouth and the focused way she works me make it hard to keep my breathing even.

I talk to her in a low voice while she does it, telling her how good she feels, how much I love watching her like this, how careful I will be with her afterward. She answers with small sounds around me and the steady rhythm of her mouth.

When the need starts to climb too high, I ease her back with a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Enough,” I say. “I want the rest of you.”

She lets me go and settles back against the pillows, cheeks flushed, mouth a little swollen. I lean down and kiss her, tasting myself on her tongue, then help her shift onto her side. I arrange the pillows again, so her stomach is supported and her upper body is comfortable. Only when she is fully settled do I stretch out behind her.

“This position still good?”

“Yes.”

I lift her top knee and rest it over my thigh, opening her carefully. My hand slides between her legs and finds her already wet. I stroke her slowly, watching her face over her shoulder, until she is breathing deeper and pressing back against my hand.

“Ready?”

“Yes. Just… go slow.”

“Always.”

I guide myself to her and push in with careful, shallow thrusts at first, giving her body time to adjust around me. The angle is different with the size of her stomach. I stay mindful of depth and pressure, one hand braced on the bed and the other resting over the curve of her belly.

When I am fully inside, I stop and simply hold her against me, feeling the heat of her and the occasional small movement under my palm.

“Okay?” I ask against her shoulder.

“More than okay.” Her hand covers mine on her stomach. “You can move.”

I begin with long, measured strokes, keeping the pace moderate and the depth controlled.

Every few thrusts I check in with a quiet question or a shift of my hand to make sure nothing is starting to ache. She answers with soft sounds and the way she presses back to meet me. The entire time I stay focused on her breathing, the tension in her shoulders, the small adjustments that keep her comfortable.

There’s no hurry in any of it. Only the steady, careful rhythm of giving her what she asked for while making sure her body stays easy the whole time.

I keep the same rhythm, watching every shift in her breathing and the small sounds she makes. When her top leg starts to tire, I pause and help her adjust, sliding an extra pillow under her knee so the angle stays open without strain. She settles again with a quiet sigh.

“Better?”