by Frankie Love
She licks her lips, looking me up and down. “Sure. I mean, if I found the right man.”
My cock aches. I can just imagine Bridget pregnant. My seed filling her up nice and good, the swell of her belly, her tits full and round.
“I don’t know if Granny’s ideas about making a baby are real, they might be nothing more than an old wive’s tale.” I step toward her, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. I breathe her in, and god, I want her. “But tonight, I suppose we could test her theories.”
Her eyelashes flutter, her nipples hard under her tank. She wants this. Me. “You saying you want to be my baby-daddy, Beckett? A few minutes after we’ve met?”
“I’m saying you came into my kitchen hungry and I want to get you nice and full.”
2 Become 1
Bridget
I have no idea how one minute we’re talking about ’90s music, and the next we’re discussing a set of triplets — but we are. Beckett steps away from me and turns his steak over, the meat sizzling to perfection.
I could lick it.
Him, not the steak.
“It looks good,” I say, my stomach not the only thing growling with hunger. My pussy is wet, needy. It’s been so long.
“The steak?” Beckett asks.
I shake my head. My eyes are on his butt. It looks so good. He looks so good. Like the meal I really want to eat tonight.
“I’m so hungry.” I watch as he takes the steak from the pan, letting it rest on a cutting board.
“Good,” he says, stepping toward me. “Because I’m fucking starved.” He unbuttons his shirt, tossing it on the floor, and he eyes me with the kind of greed a girl could get used to.
I reach out, run my hand over his six pack, wondering just how close we are to doing the deed. I’m hoping close. Like, very, very close.
“I never do this,” I say. His skin is hot to the touch. My body tingles. I’m so ready.
“Do what?” he asks with a smirk that sends a shiver over my skin.
“Do this,” I say, lifting the hem of my tank top, pulling it off. I have on a white lace bra, and his eyes drop to my breasts. I smile, knowing he likes how big and full they are. Knowing he likes the way my nipples pop through the sheer lace. Knowing he likes the way I unbutton my jeans, shimmy them off. Step out of them and turn, letting him take in my butt.
“Feckin’ hell, woman,” he groans, pulling my waist toward him. My ass grinds against his cock. He’s hard and I’m wet and I know tonight is going to be about more than a good meal.
It’s going to be about a second course. Maybe a third.
I spin in his arms, facing him. His arms are muscular and you know what they say about big hands? Well let’s just say there are reasons people use that cliché. As I unzip Beckett’s jeans, his big woody greets me.
“Commando?” I whimper, taking in his girth. His length. “Is that an Irish thing?” I ask.
“It’s a Beckett O’Connor thing.” He reaches behind me and unhooks my bra. “Tell me, what’s your thing?
He tosses my bra aside, dips his head to my breast, his tongue teasing my nipple and stirring more than desire within me. I am horny as hell and ready for that massive cock to fill my dripping pussy.
I slide off my panties. “This is a Bridget Martin thing,” I say, guiding his hand to my cunt. “I like to be completely bare. Do you like it?”
Beckett laughs tightly. “Like it? God, Bridget, I love it.”
I smile, knowing he would, his capable hand runs over my waxed pussy and his fingers tease between my folds. We’re standing in a kitchen, a hot steak beside us, and he’s getting me off. This has got to be against a health code. Do the same rules apply in Ireland?
“Good, because another Bridget Martin thing is how I respond when I orgasm.”
His hand stills. “How’s that?”
“I guess you’ll have to wait and see.”
He kisses me then, his hands in my hair, his mouth on my lips, his tongue against mine and I’m melting. Into him. Into this moment. The possibility of now.
He lifts my ass, setting me down on the counter. His cock is so, so close. My pussy is just getting started.
I spread my knees, liking his attention. “I’m not wearing green, why haven’t you pinched me?” I tease.
“I’d much rather lick you, love.”
He drops to his knees and pulls me to the edge of the counter. His tongue running up and down my creamy slit, my tight pussy his for the taking.
When he plants kisses against my thigh, when he breathes warm air against me, I have to brace myself. My hands on his shoulders. We are alone, the kitchen is dark, the night is ours.
“Ohh,” I moan. It’s been so long since anyone touched me like this. Slowly. With consideration. We may have rushed into this but now that we’re here Beckett is in control. He is showing restraint. He is making my pussy hum. Later I’ll make his cock sing.
“You like it, lassie?” he asks, eyes looking up, meeting mine and I nod. I nod while biting my lip, my core alive.
He licks me up and down, his tongue twirling around my clit until I’m gasping. Then he presses two fingers inside me, my g-spot hot and ready. He knows what’s doing. He is making me his.
“You’re so wet,” he tells me. “So wet and so fecking tight.”
I close my eyes, breathing slowly as he moves against me, his fingers stroking me, in my most tender place, making it hard for me to stay present — his touch is washing me away. Out to sea. A few more minutes of this and we’ll both be drowning in my release.
“Oh, oh, Beck, ohh!” My cunt is dripping, so wet and so close. He knows it. He adds another finger to my tight pussy, and that’s when I show him the other Bridget Martin thing.
“You’re a gusher,” he marvels, finishing the finger fuck, and I cling to him, panting, my pussy so completely his.
“Do you like it?”
He answers by lowering his mouth to my cunt, sucking my clit until I’m screaming. Until his name is on my lips, until I’m begging him for more. Harder. Faster.
When I finish, there is sweat between my tits, on his brow. He reaches for a towel, offering it to me. As he does, my stomach growls. Still hungry.
He laughs. “Guess now that I ate, it’s time for you to have your supper.”
I smile, blushing at his words. He washes his hands before grabbing a serrated knife and cutting the steak.
Standing, I clean up my mess and reach for his flannel shirt. He smiles, watching me put it on. “It smells like you,” I say.
“And what’s that?”
“Like a man. A real man.”
He holds up a fork, piercing the meat. I lean close, take a bite.
“Oh my god,” I moan. “That’s so good.”
He smiles, charming and sexy and so freaking hot. “It’s the meat, a local butcher.”
“Not just that,” I say, taking another piece. “It’s the spices.”
His eyebrows lift. “You aren’t scared of my granny’s tales?”
“Are you?”
He shakes his head. “I wanna give you a wee little one, Bridget Martin. I want to give you a baby and make you stay in Ireland a bit longer. Maybe forever.”
I close my eyes, his words not ones I was expecting to hear tonight, maybe ever. No man has ever wanted to claim me. Make me his. Beckett is singular. How could I walk away from an offer like that?
“But I thought you wanted to travel the world,” I say.
He nods. “Suppose you’d want to do that, even after the babes come?”
“You’re sounding pretty certain.”
“I trust my granny.”
“I want to travel the world, Beckett. I love my job. Love the adventure. I wouldn’t stop for a man or a child. It’s kind of a package deal. The open road and I agree.”
He grabs a piece of meat, eats it. Hands me another. “Guess we ought to test the baby spice out before we start making plans for forever.”
“If it didn’t wo
rk, would you just … would you still want—”
He cuts me off. “Bridget, I’m falling for you, baby or not. You’re not getting far from me. You like the open road? Good. Because lassie, I’ve been waiting for someone to walk into my life and take my hand, and show me the way.”
“You want me to be the boss of you?”
He laughs, kissing me. “No, Bridget. I want you to be my wife.”
Say You’ll Be There
Beckett
She looks at me with shock. Maybe a hint of fear. “Wife?”
“Is there something wrong with that?” I ask, grabbing her Guiness and taking a swig.
“Well. I mean. For starters, we just met.”
“It’s Saint Patrick’s day. A day of chance. Of luck. And hell, you’re much better than any four-leaf clover.”
She is naked, in my arms, and I want to stay like this for as long as she’ll have me. “Beckett, I might be a crazy person. A girl who collects balls of hair or, or, cats!” she says, clearly grasping at straws.
“You don’t collect cats,” I say with a smirk. “You’re never home. How could you feed them?”
“Well, you could be an axe murderer. Or a felon.”
“I told you I was a poor country boy, not much more.” I shrug. “Though, that’s not entirely true. I’m not exactly poor. My family owns this castle. And most of the land out here in the country. My brother Gerry and I are the heirs to the Cosgrave Textile fortune.”
Her eyes widen. “Really? Then why work at a pub in Dublin?”
I pull her to me. “I may be independently wealthy, but I like to cook. I told you that.”
She drops her chin, lifts her eyes. “You weren’t being serious though, were you?”
“I don’t play games, Bridget. I believe in fate. You came here tonight, hungry as hell. And the truth is, I’ve been starving. Waiting for you.”
She covers her face, blushing with incredulity. “Are you always so sure?”
I shake my head. “No. But now?”
“Now we give into our wildest fantasies?”
My face breaks into a smile. “You saying I’m your fantasy?”
She wraps her arms around my neck. “I’m saying that you’re what I want, what I really, really want.”
“So you’ll be my lover?”
“I’ll be your everything.”
I pull her to my, needing her sweet body against mine. My cock is hard and ready. Her body is warm and willing. It’s time for two to become one.
Running my fingers over her back, the curve of her ass, I squeeze her cheeks. Groaning with anticipation. This is what I want. Us.
I know she wants it too.
She wraps her hand around my shaft, teasing my stiffy into submission. It doesn’t take much. One meal with Bridget and I’m a changed man. Her man.
“God that feels good,” I tell her as she drops to her knees. She takes me in her mouth, her lips suctioned around my cock, and she sucks me hard. She lifts her eyes and they meet mine. I run my fingers through her hair, taking it in — the two of us in this stolen moment, this undeniable magic. The start of something real.
“Feck,” I groan, knowing I’m close. She press a hand to my ass, taking me down her throat, as best she can. I don’t want her to gag, to be in pain, but she keeps sucking my swelling cock until I’m about to explode.
“I’m gonna come,” I tell her, thinking she’ll pull back. Instead it seems to invigorate her and she starts sucking me off all the harder.
When I come, my fingers drag through her hair, she’s moaning in pleasure as she swallows my hot come. Her hands on my tight balls, the release still working its way through my body.
She pulls back, licks her lips. Her eyes heavy with lust and I take her hand, helping her stand. The cool cement floor couldn’t have been comfortable.
“Come to my room,” I tell her, and she follows. We grab our clothes, her bag, and I take her hand, pulling her through the back door of the kitchen. She giggles as we tiptoe up a back staircase, my cock hanging between my legs, I use my jeans to try to cover myself but there’s no need. These are my private quarters at Granny’s castle.
I push open the door to my rooms, watching her take in the decadent antique furnishings. “What do you think?”
“This is gorgeous,” she says. “But know if you say yes you’ll think it’s because I’ve realized you’re an heir to a fortune.”
I shake my head, pulling her to the four-poster bed. Together, we crawl into bed, crumbling the satin sheets as I toss back the blankets. “Never, I know you’re not after my money.”
“What is it you think I’m after?”
I grin, cupping my cock and balls. “The baby spice, lassie.”
She giggles, tossing a pillow at me, and we laugh, I grab her waist, sending a delicate wash of laughter across the dark room. I tickle her, making her squirm, until she is on her back. Breathless. Waiting for more. I’ll give her plenty.
I pull her knees apart, taking in her tits, so full. Her pink pussy is bare and ready to be pounded. Her eyes filled with heat. So fucking hot.
“I want you, baby or no baby. Understood?”
She nods, sighing. “I want you too.”
I lean down, kissing her gently. Her mouth so sweet, her lips so soft. “Is that a yes?”
“To forever?”
I nod.
She smiles up at me. “Then it’s a yes.”
“You’ll marry me? A boy from the country that isn’t your home?”
“You can be my home, Beckett O’Connor.”
My cock enters her, our words promises that seem too good to be true but as we begin to make love, I realize this is real. Really happening. The fates collided, brought us here.
“You’re so fecking tight,” I tell her. She moans deliciously as we move in a rhythm that is our song. Our dance. Our vow.
Her body hums to life as I move deeper, her body small against mine, her curves so welcome, so warm. I lick her nipples, sucking them softly. Her knees drop, granting me more access. I’ll take everything she gives.
“Oh, Beckett, oh, yes,” she whimpers. Our bodies are one as we move together. Her pussy is slick and my cock fills her so nice and deep. She wraps her legs around me as she orgasms, her pretty little clit screaming out in pleasure. My cock is prepared to fill her cunt up with the baby spice she craves.
When we finish, we’re panting, fingers laced, eyes locked. “What name would the spice girls have given you?” I ask her.
She laughs. “Crazy spice. I mean, I just agreed to marry a stranger.”
“I like crazy,” I tell her, brushing back the hair on her forehead, looking deeply into her eyes. “In fact, I love crazy.”
Love Thing
Bridget
Four weeks later Beckett and I are in a small cafe in Prague. We’ve been traveling the last few weeks — my travel food blog won’t write itself, and Beckett is taking cooking classes in each city we visit. We’re planning on spending next year in South America, though that might change a bit. Instead of traveling, we might be renting a place and making a home base.
I’ve ordered us quiche and lattes. I take them from the counter, my Claddagh engagement ring glittering. The woman who made us our coffees compliments it.
“I’ve never seen a ring that was so beautiful,” she gushes, leaning to get a closer look.
I smile, it’s a gold band with a massive emerald in the center. A family heirloom, now on my finger forever. “Thanks, we just got engaged a month ago.”
“When is the wedding?”
“This summer. In Ireland.”
The barista swoons. “So romantic.”
“I agree,” I say with a small laugh. When I reach our table, Beckett is on the phone.
“Yes, Granny, we know you can hire a caterer. But Bridget is planning the menu now. I’m cooking. End of story.”
He reaches across the table and squeezes my hand, mouthing ‘sorry’. I brush the thought away. His Grann
y has been so supportive of us since the day after Saint Patrick’s day, when he took me around to her cottage in the back of the castle estate. She said it was more than fate, it was a miracle. She’d always wanted me to settle down soon enough for her to see it.
“We love you too, yes, I’ll send some photos straight away.”
When he hangs up he is grinning. “She was trying to tell me it would be too much work for us to do the food for the rehearsal dinner.”
“It’s what I’m most excited about!”
Beckett’s eyes widen, feigning offense. “Wow, more excited than marrying me? Or, aren’t lassies supposed to be most excited about the wedding dress?”
I bite my lip. “Actually, I’m not exactly looking forward to that part.”
Beckett frowns. “What are you talking about?”
“Well, I’m just not sure what I’ll find to fit me.”
“I don’t follow. You’ll look great in anything.”
“The thing is, in August I’ll be seven months pregnant, Beckett.”
He jumps up, nearly knocking over the lattes. “No fecking way?!”
“Way. I took four tests this morning. All positive.”
He wraps his arms around me, kissing my cheeks, his hands in my hair, his eyes bright. “The baby spice worked,” he says, laughing. “I knew Granny wasn’t talking out of her arse.”
I look at my fiancé with wonder. “You’re not mad? We have so many plans … so many dreams. How will we do them with a baby?”
“And we can make all the plans come true, Bridget. A child will change things, but it’s all good changes.”
His laughter is infectious and I join in. “Oh Beckett, I love you so much,” I tell him, resting my face against his chest.
“What would our lives be if you hadn’t come into the kitchen after the concert, starving?” he asks.
“I don’t want to know. I’m just happy I had such an appetite.”
He looks down at the coffee and quiche now cold on the table. “You still hungry?” The look in his eyes tells me he isn’t thinking about anything you can order at the restaurant.
