Page 122 of Wistful Whispers
The air inside the car is warm. Calm. Outside, the trees blur past like watercolor—pine-tipped, wrapped in sleepy holiday lights. We’re both still buzzing, and I’m not talking about coffee—obviously.
We fucked each other blind all morning.
Not lazy, half-asleep sex either. I mean full-throttle, hand-over-mouth, can’t-stop-coming sex.
He worships my soft, ripe body like it’s holy ground. My breasts are heavier, my hips wider, my belly already starting to pop around the baby we didn’t plan but already love—and none of it seems to scare him.
If anything, he’s more obsessed than ever.
“I crave you,” he whispered against my skin under the covers when he pushed into me from behind. “You drive me mad.”
I know it’s true. I feel it. His hands on me constantly, possessive and gentle. Reverent. Like he’s cataloging every change. Every inch of soft new curves.
I crave him too. I’m insatiable for my man. Pregnancy hormones have turned me into some sort of touch-starved Siren, and thank God I'm with the one man on earth who’s both relentlessly good at sex and delighted to be used like a personal vibrator.
My own personal Orgasm Whisperer.
We barely made it to his parents’ house. On our way out the door, I yanked him back into the bedroom and pushed him onto the edge of the bed. Then I climbed on and rode him slow in front of the mirror—my eyes locked on his, his hands controlling my hips so his cock hit me just so—until I came so hard I saw stars.
It wasn’t enough, I’m embarrassed to say.
A few hours later, his mom was putting out scones and coffee after the gifts were opened, and he walked past me, stopping to give me a kiss on the temple. Instant hormonal surge.
I gave Seamus the “look.” He tracked my meaning and motioned for me to follow him upstairs.
“We’ll be right back.” I tried to sound innocent, already halfway out of my chair.
Everyone was on to us. I mean, duh.
I saw the way his brothers exchanged glances. Ronni, Astrid, and Ivy all smirked. Maureen didn’t even look up as we made our way past her.
In his childhood bedroom, the moment the door clicked shut behind us, I pushed him against it.
Hands under his shirt. Tongue in his mouth. Desperate and completely unapologetic.
“Jesus, Marcella,” he groaned.
I pulled his pants down. “Quick, fuck me so they don't get suspicious.”
“They already know exactly what's happening.” He spun me around, pressed me against the door, and dragged my leggings and underwear down in one motion. My palms braced on the wood as he slid inside. One of his hands covered my mouth, the other splayed over the curve of my belly.
We made it back downstairs ten minutes later, hair slightly tousled, cheeks flushed, pretending like we weren’t christening his childhood bedroom.
Connor raised one brow. “You’re glowing, Doc.”
“Hope the door didn't splinter.” Padraig took a long sip of coffee.
Astrid hid a smile behind her hand and Ronni rolled her eyes.
Maureen seemed unfazed. She slid a plate of eggs in front of me, then patted my shoulder. “Eat up, love. You’ll need your strength.”
Seamus’s eyes caught mine from across the table. He winked.
God, I love his family.
When it came to telling them, we didn’t make a big speech. There was no dramatic pause, no clink of a glass. Just a natural lull in the conversation—one of those rare silences you don’t see coming until it lands—and Seamus gave my hand a squeeze under the table and said, “We have news.”
He looked at me. I nodded.
