It’s almost dawn.
My body stirs as the room grows colder. It had been hot all night, and I’d had no choice but to sleep naked. Now, my heavy, engorged breasts and round, full belly lie exposed as I rest on my side.
Pregnancy came with its share of discomforts; being unable to tolerate heat was one of them. Pushing my husband away when he tried to touch me because my skin was burning up was another.
As I drift closer to wakefulness, I listen to his even breathing. My heart softens at the sound. This beautiful, understanding man I married.
Since the pregnancy began, I’ve watched him grow increasingly attached to me. My pregnant body drives him wild. I see it in the subtle ways he brushes his hardness against my backside at the oddest moments, in how his gaze lingers on my swollen breasts mid-conversation, and in the way he grabs my thighs and nuzzles my neck when we’re curled up on the couch together.
I’m a constant distraction to him, and it’s just as well, because I crave him just as much. By my third trimester, I found it hard to be away from him for too long. I needed to see him, touch him, hear his voice, or else the panic would creep in. By my fifth month, he’d moved his work into the home office just to be near me. That was when things truly spiraled.
I’d abandon laundry halfway just to barge into his office and ride him. He’d leave his desk just to feed me his juice straight from the source. Some afternoons, I’d sit in his lap and watch him type while he fingered me, slow, deep, until I was trembling and whimpering, then he'd bend me over his chair and finish the job with his dick.
There were days I’d sit on his desk. Legs wide open, playing with my coochie while he watched and stroked himself to the rhythm of my fingers. I was insatiable, and he matched my freak.
He’d wanted to make love to me last night, but I’d turned him down. He understood, gave me space, and let me rest. But now, with the chill creeping in, all I can think about is his warmth... from the inside out.
I shift my hips, pushing my backside against him until I feel the solid heat of his body pressing back.
He stirs, a low groan rumbling in his chest as his arm tightens around my waist. His morning wood nudges against my ass, thick and eager, already straining through his boxers. I know he’s barely awake, but his body always knows what to do with mine.
“Mm,” he murmurs, voice still raspy with sleep. “You okay, baby?”
“I’m cold,” I whisper, pressing my ass harder against him.
He grunts softly, sliding his hand over the curve of my belly, then lower, tracing the line of my hip. His fingers splay there, anchoring me to him. I feel his cock twitch against my skin, growing harder by the second.
“I missed you last night,” he says, mouth grazing my shoulder. “Let me warm you up.”
I don’t answer. I just guide his hand down between my thighs. He groans again when he feels how warm and slick I already am.
“Fuck,” he breathes, his fingers dipping into my wetness. “You’ve been waiting for me.”
He strokes me slowly, lazily, like he’s savoring it. One long finger glides through my folds, circling my clit before slipping inside. I exhale shakily, my hips rolling against his hand.
“More,” I whisper.
He doesn’t make me ask twice. Another finger slides in beside the first, stretching me gently. His fingers curl inside me just right, finding that sweet spot with practiced ease. His thumb rubs circles on my clit, unhurried but firm.
My breath hitches. My thighs tremble.
“That’s it,” he murmurs into my hair. “Take it, baby. Let me feel you melt for me.”
I grind back against him, needy now. My body is on fire, clenching around his fingers, aching for more than just his hand. I need to feel him, all of him, pressing into the ache that's been building since dawn.
He pulls his fingers out and strokes them over my entrance, teasing me as he shifts closer. I reach back and slide my hand inside his boxers, wrapping my fingers around his meat. He’s hot, thick, and pulsing in my palm.
I lift my leg and tilt my hips, opening myself to him. He groans and lines himself up, his tip brushing against my slick folds. Slowly, he pushes in.
I gasp, every inch stretching me open, taking him. He sinks into me with a low, guttural sound, pressing his chest to my back, his arms around my middle, his breath hot against my neck.
“God, you feel so good,” he murmurs. “So full of me already.”
He starts to move, slow, deliberate thrusts that grind into me from behind. Each one sends heat coiling low in my belly. His hand cups my breast, fingers toying with my nipple as he fucks me with slow, deep strokes.
“You were made for this,” he whispers, voice thick with awe. “Made to take me. Look at you, swollen, glowing, full of life and still so fucking tight.”
I whimper, every nerve alight. The friction, the fullness, the way his body cages mine. It’s all too much.
My orgasm builds sharp and fast, and when it crashes over me, it knocks the breath from my lungs.
My body clenches around him, and he groans deep, thrusting harder now, chasing his own release. His fingers tighten on my hips as he drives into me, rougher, faster, until with a final growl he spills into me, pulsing deep inside.
The room goes still except for our panting breaths.
He kisses my shoulder. “Still cold?”
I smile, blissed out and sore in the best way. “Not even a little.”
