Page 135 of The Pucking Date
She gasps as my palms come up, cupping her gently, like I’m afraid to press too hard.
“They’re sore,” she says, breath catching. “The pregnancy makes them ache. My bras don’t fit right anymore.”
I groan, low and guttural, dragging my thumbs across her nipples until she whimpers. “No shit, they don’t fit. Jesus, Red…” I glance up at her, wild with it. “You’re bigger. Swollen. Fucking gorgeous.”
Her head falls back against the wall as I lean in, mouth hot on one tender peak.
“I’ll be gentle,” I whisper, then bite—soft, possessive, just enough to make her moan. “Not complaining,” I add, voice wrecked. “Hell, I’ve been dreaming about these tits.”
I groan at the slick, tight feel of her pussy sheathing me. She wraps her hands around my neck, holding on while I pound into her, hard and fast and desperate. The wet, obscene sound of flesh slapping against flesh fills the room.
“Finn,” she moans, scratching my back. “So good, baby. More.”
“Tell me you’re mine. Tell me you’re staying,” I groan, continuing to pound into her mercilessly.
“Yours. Always yours”
“You like it when I fuck you hard, don’t you, sugar?” I raise my head and kiss her, drinking in her taste, her smell, her moans.
Chasing my own release, I thrust harder and faster, covering her in my sweat and smell, until she is drenched in her own juices. When I carefully close my teeth around her nipple and tug, she convulses around my cock with a scream, her heels digging into my back. Her needy cries are my undoing, and I feel my balls tightening, lights exploding behind my eyes, my grunts mixed with her moans.
And I can’t tell anymore where she ends and where I begin. This isn’t just sex. It’s reclaiming. Healing. Promising.Every touch erasing weeks of doubt. I stay inside her until our bodies start relaxing, coming down from the high.
“Come on, Red, let’s get cleaned up and order dinner.”
I pull out carefully and carry her to the bathroom like she weighs nothing. She’s loose-limbed and blissed out, face tucked against my shoulder.
The shower steams up fast. I set her down gently and step in behind her. She reaches for the soap, but I stop her, curling my arms around her from behind.
“Let me,” I murmur against her neck.
I wash her slowly—thoroughly—pressing soft kisses to every inch I touch. Her shoulders. Her hips. The faint, tender swell of her belly. Memorizing her all over again.
When I’m done, she turns, takes the soap from my hands, and returns the favor. Gentle. Focused. Her fingers in my hair. Her palms tracing every sore muscle, every inch of skin that missed her.
By the time we dry off and climb into bed, I feel like I’ve been scrubbed clean from the inside out. She’s curled against me now, wrapped in a thick hotel robe, cheek resting on my bare chest. Her fingers drum absently along my ribs. I trace lazy patterns on her skin, still breathing hard. “I was so scared,” I admit against her hair. “Scared you’d realize you didn’t need me.”
She looks up, eyes fierce. “I need you like breathing, Finnian O’Reilly. Don’t you ever doubt that.”
I’m so fucking full of her—of us—I don’t even know what to do with myself. Which is why it stops me cold when she says, “I went to the doctor yesterday.”
I shift just enough to see her face. My body goes tight.
“I know,” I say softly. “I hated missing it. I wanted to be there.”
Her hand comes to rest on my chest, warm and steady. “I know you did.”
“Everything okay?” My tone drops lower. “You…you have pictures?”
She nods. “They gave me a few. Wanna see?”
“Yes,” I say instantly, like she just offered me oxygen.
She shifts, then slips out from under the covers. Pads across the room, scanning the floor until she spots her purse.
“Hold on,” she says, tone soft.
She kneels, digs through the bag, and pulls out a small envelope. Her fingers tremble as she climbs back into bed and hands it to me.
