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“Goddamn,” I whisper, taking a moment to caress and lift them, squeezing and sucking them into my mouth, circling each nipple until it’s hard as my cock.

I slide closer to her, gripping my shaft and rubbing my crown through her juices until it’s well and fully slick. “How bad do you want this, Mrs. Richie?”

She makes a frustrated, needy sound that I’ve never heard, but would pay to hear again. Then arches her back, cupping her tits and rocking her hips toward me.

“That bad?” I slap her slippery pussy gently with my cock. “Guess we better do something about it.”

She raises her head to watch as I position my head at her entrance, her mouth open, nearly panting. I can tell she wants me to drive it in hard, but I’m having too much fun and I am trying to be a little careful, so I slide into her slowly, inch by inch until I’m fully inside her.

Now she is panting, flailing her arms around, gripping my thighs.

“Everything feel okay?” I ask cautiously.

“Yes,” she says, wild-eyed. “But Anton, start moving, please.”

I suppress a grin. “Whatever you want, Mrs. Richie.” I go for a disinterested shrug. “Happy wife, happy life.”

She screeches as I pull out and thrust back in, both because I’m pretty sure it feels phenomenal, but also she hates that phrase and can’t fucking argue right now.

“Who’s needed to be fucked for ten long weeks?” I ask, keeping up my rhythm, pumping in and out. But when she doesn’t answer, I stop moving entirely. Her eyes pop open, and I ask again. “Who needs fucking?”

“Oh God.” She looks down to where we’re joined with distress, then covers her face with her hands. “I do. I—I need it.”

I resume my pace immediately. “That’s right, pretty mama.”

She moans again, closing her eyes, and I increase my pace, sensing it’s what she needs. My balls are slapping in her juices, her tits bouncing to the same rhythm, and her face is the most beautiful thing of all, eyes closed, lips parted, right on the cusp...

I reach out, grasp and pinch both her nipples with another thrust, and a sound releases from her throat like a song. I maintain my thrusting, letting her ride out her pleasure on my cock until it’s clear she is well and truly spent—and there’s going to be no repeat of the cramping. Then I pull out of her, grab my shaft in my hand, and pump myself empty. All over her stomach, her face, and those gorgeous, round tits like I’ve been dying to for months.

With a grunt, and the last of my effort, I push her breasts together, admiring the way they look decorated in my seed before rubbing it lightly into her skin. Then I look down to find her smiling, contented up at me, and whisper, “Told you I was going to make you sing.”

CHAPTER FORTY

Facing the mirror, I decide I look like a giant serving of cotton candy. The light-pink sweater dress clings to and enhances my thirty-week bump, putting it out there for all to see with zero subtlety. When I turn to the side, it’s not much better. Celia picked this dress because I’m having a girl and because it’s “spring.” Obviously, she’s never spent spring in Denver. It is currently sleeting and should be dumping snow by evening.

“Maybe we should cancel,” I say. “The roads will be bad later, and I don’t want anyone risking their lives for this.”

Anton comes up behind me, placing his hands on my hips, then slowly running them over all of my abundant curves. “I’m in favor of that plan.” His lips trace along the side of my neck. “You look delicious—now take the dress off so I can eat you.”

I clench my thighs, shuddering under his touch. We already fucked first thing this morning—yes, I’m calling it that. I was bent over gripping the kitchen counter and actually came twice. If the two of us remember how to do anything besides sex after the baby is born, it will be a miracle. On some level, I know the situation has a lot to do with hormones, but considering where we started, I will never truly understand how this is my life.

Anton has my dress hiked halfway up my trembling thighs when we’re interrupted by a firm knock on our bedroom door. “Are you decent? Let me see!” my sister calls.

“Fuck,” Anton whispers in my ear. I let out an exasperated sigh.

“Almost ready!” I yell, smoothing my clothes back into place.

My husband gives Celia a polite nod as she enters, muttering to himself about checking the hors d’oeuvres.

She literally squeals when she sees me. “Oh my gosh, you look so cute!”

“That’s kind,” I say, curling my lip at the mirror. “I’m not sure how I’m supposed to keep getting bigger for ten more weeks. It doesn’t seem like my body can physically stretch much further.”

Celia titters a knowing, if slightly evil laugh. “Oh, it can, and it will.”

“That’s what they said in our birth class.” I sigh, then notice her arms are empty. “Where’s Gabriel?”

“With Grandma in the living room,” she says through her teeth. “I am trusting her to keep him alive for a few minutes, though I’m sure I’ll be paying for his therapy too, someday.”

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