Page 117 of Top Scorer
“Yes. God, Tristan, I could come with just your tip.”
So could I, dammit. She’s definitely taking more than the head of my penis.
“Easy, sweetheart.”
“Oh, it’s so good.” She slides down and I close my eyes, willing my body to relax. The weight of her ass on my groin, the pulsing grip of her folds, the smell of her hair spilling down her back . . . everything about her threatens to push me over the edge.
“Rock,” she says breathlessly.
It takes me a second to realize what she means. This is a gliding chair meant to rock the babies to sleep or to rest on while feeding. Resourceful as Ligaya is, she’s already put it to other interesting uses. Instead of rocking full tilt, I test a slight movement. The chair is sensitive enough to respond to the tug of my elbows on the armrests. We rock back and forth on the most sensual swing ever invented.
Best. Chair. Ever.
The movement is gentle at first, her slippery walls making perfect friction against my hardness with every glide. As the pleasure builds, Ligaya is no longer satisfied with the steady strokes. She starts circling her hips, chasing down the increasing intensity. The smoothness of our contact makes way for erratic pulsing of her body around mine.
“Come with me,” she orders.
When my woman decides to be in control, she’s the best kind of bossy. I release hot surges of cum as she continues to grind.
She collapses back after we climax.
“Are you OK?”
Her silent nod is the only answer I get.
“I’m gonna help you clean up and tuck you in,” I state, guiding her off me.
“Can I have a snack in the shower?” she asks drowsily while wobbling out of the nursery.
I am in love with the sexiest and cutest person to ever get pregnant. And since I can’t ever say no to Ligaya, I get her a snack.
CHAPTER 47
LIGAYA
The Mavericks won against Toronto, securing the East Coast Conference title. They’re currently in Seattle for the Stanley Cup Final Series, at the cusp of sweeping the Hawks after winning the first three games. This incredible season is a big deal. Huge for the city and momentous for Tristan’s career.
I’m cheering him on from the comfort of my bed.
I’ve been asked, multiple times,What if you go into labor while he’s across the continent?
I won’t. I’m not due for another three weeks. Everything is fine. I’ve gained more weight and don’t remember how my toes look, but walking is still possible. The weekly checks have shown routine progress. Dr. LeGuin predicts I’m on track to go full term till the end of June.
Heaviness, however, has settled in like a permanent companion. My pelvis is low and burdened, my back aches like I’ve been hauling bags of cement, and the sporadic contractions remind me that this is not a drill. I shift on the propped pillows of my bed, searching for a comfortable angle that doesn’t exist.
I can hear Mom in the kitchen with Samantha, who arrived with enough groceries to feed a hockey team. The two of them are laughing while they scrub down countertops and argue aboutwhether dish towels should be folded or rolled. The grandmas are getting along just fine.
Dad appears from the hallway, carrying one of the dining chairs. He sets it down right beside the bed.
“How are you doing? Want me to fetch you a popsicle?”
“I just finished one,” I say, pointing to the red stain on my pajama top.
He settles in, watching me with quiet concentration.
My father is a mild-mannered man, with an unlimited reservoir of patience and love. Looking back at my childhood, I realize that he isn’t merely surrounded by strong-willed women, he nurtured our confidence.
I have been blessed with two parents who love me unconditionally, but I’ve always turned to my father for the more sensitive, often difficult, conversations. It’s as if he can read my mind, intuitively knowing that I need him right now.
