Another inch that makes me moan and stretches me out like a rubber band. So much so that I take my hand off his shoulder and bite on my finger.
I take it between my teeth and bite on it hard, trying to adjust to the pain, to the largeness of him, the girth and the width.
My villain’s invasion.
But as always, Reed doesn’t like it when I bite or claw on things when I’m uncomfortable.
Especially when that discomfort is something he thinks he’s responsible for.
So breathing heavily, still half stuck out of my body, he makes me take my finger out of my mouth and gives me his. He gives me his thumb, and as always I latch onto it like it’s my lifeline.
I grab his wrist with both hands and suck on his thumb, bite on it, and just like that my pain goes away.
His magical, fascinating hand makes everything easier.
He pulls out again, his body vibrates before pushing back in. All the way in.
And the stretch is not so bad.
The stretch is sweet.
So sweet that I suck on his thumb harder and I arch myself under him and open my legs wider. I stretch them on either side of his body, like I’m doing a split, getting ready to spin on my toes and dance for him.
He gets so deep that I feel him in my pregnant womb and the moan that I emit is my loudest so far.
But I’m not alone.
He makes noises too.
Especially when he watches my big lusty blue eyes staring up at him and my pink lips sucking on his digit.
A long growl escapes him as he drops down on me, not all the way though. He’s careful of the baby but enough that his forehead falls on the crook of my neck.
But I’ve gotten so messy now, so wet between my legs that I don’t feel any pain, only delicious pleasure when he starts to move and sets up a rhythm.
A rhythm that drives me crazy. That gets his cock all the way in and all the way out. That makes me juice up more so he can hasten it.
Hasten that rhythm so his hips slam into me.
His hips shake my body and I grab onto his sleek skin as I moan.
As he grunts too, in my neck. As he sucks on the skin there, leaving yet another mark on me.
The mark of my gorgeous villain.
And God, he’s so deep now.
So deep and so high up there that my thighs, which had gone back around his waist after he gained full entry into my body, inch up. They slide up and down his sweaty sides.
That somehow makes him go even deeper when I thought there was no space for him.
But that’s the thing about him, isn’t it?
He always creeps up on me. He always makes space for himself in my heart, in my body.
Even when I don’t want him to.
Even when I knew I was wrong to obsess over him back at Bardstown High because he was my brother’s rival, he lived in my heart, in my thoughts.
Tonight I want him in there. I crave him, so when he gets deeper and deeper and his pumps grow feral and faster so that he has to pull himself up and away from me, so he can look down at my jiggling body, at my pregnant belly, I come.
My womb contracts and I come all over his dick.
I come even harder when he puts a hand on my swollen belly, as if he wants to feel the life he’s given.
The life I wasn’t expecting him to give me that night but he gave me anyway.
In turn binding us for life.
Maybe he’s thinking the same thing, that love or not we’re bound for life, when his eyes snap shut and he comes too. His back arches and the beautiful lines of his face drip agony as his dick lurches inside of me and spews cum.
It lashes it as I’m still coming.
As my pussy is still fluttering around his rod and I put my hand over his on my belly.
As he grabs my hand and joins our fingers, squeezing, and when he’s done, he opens his shining wolf eyes. He opens them to show me his stark possessiveness, his stark satisfaction that he’s got me now.
That I’m his.
Not forever, no. But for as long as he wants me.
And then he comes back down and kisses me softly on the forehead.
Some girls in love don’t get their happy ending.
The men they love don’t love them back. The men they love can’t love them back. And so they are forever blue.
They’re forever sad and aching.
They’re forever longing.
But my Halo won’t be one of them. My Halo will be loved.
By the first man she’ll ever love.
The man with sparkling vampire skin and glinting wolf eyes. Her daddy.
He will carry her in his muscular arms, play with her with those fascinating hands. He’ll even put her on his shoulders so she feels like she’s at the top of the world. He’ll make her smile and laugh. He’ll wipe her tears off, bandage her scrapes. Maybe teach her to ride a bicycle.
He’ll protect her from everything bad. Or at least he’ll try to.
I know that.
I know that he’ll lose sleep over how to protect her, how to make her life easier, how to give her everything. How to make all her dreams come true.
I’ll take my happiness in that.
I’ll watch them together, our baby and him, and all the blue inside of me will fade for a while.
For now though, I’ll let myself cry.
In the shower, at school during lunch, when I’m shut up in the restroom. Even in class, sitting in the last row while teachers are explaining to a bunch of uninterested, delinquent girls how a heart functions or why Romeo and Juliet is the greatest Shakespeare play ever written.
It’s not.
It’s tragic and painful. There is nothing great about tragedy.
There is nothing epic in keeping two people who love each other apart.
Heartbreak is not glorious. It’s not poetic or an inspiration for generations to come.
Stupid, sadistic, sick Shakespeare.
Although crying in class is much harder, not because my teacher cares that a pregnant girl is sitting with her head down all the way in the back, possibly not paying attention. But because my girls are there and they worry over me. Especially Salem, who always sits right adjacent to me. Something that accidentally happened in the beginning of the year and that’s how our friendship started.
But I tell her and the other two that it’s the pregnancy.
That’s my excuse for everything.
I’m crying because I’m hormonal.
And I am.
The only good thing is that I can eat meat now; as soon as I entered my twenty-third week, something shifted and I started craving meat again. So peanut butter ice cream with beef jerky bits on top? That’s the food of the gods. That’s like my pregnancy anthem.
Other people don’t think so though.
Especially the guy who got me pregnant in the first place.
Scooping a spoonful of my ice cream, I put it in my mouth and look up to find him watching me. With my mouth full, I ask, “What?”
As he stands by the door, his wolf eyes rove over my face, my ballooned-up cheeks, my propped-up form on the bed, surrounded by pillows. It’s only late March but I get so hot these days that I’ve ditched his hoodies — though I keep them close if I want to smell him and he’s not around to lend me his sexy body — and started to wear all the maternity stuff that people have gotten for me.
So I’m wearing a white, frilly, sleeveless nightie that goes down to the middle of my calves.
He spends a lot of time on that, on studying my nightie and my baby bump.
When he comes back to my face, I swallow the ice cream and glare at him. “You think it’s weird, isn’t it? That I’m eating this. You think peanut butter and beef jerky is weird.” I stab my spoon at him when all he does is stare at me with amused eyes and lips that are on the verge of smiling at me. “But let me tell you something: you are weird. You, Roma
n. For not liking it. For thinking that my ice cream is weird. And it’s not as if it’s my fault that I like it, okay? Halo likes it. She wants it all the time and everybody thinks I’m crazy. And it’s all your fault. Your fault, yes. You’re the one who got me pregnant and now I’m eating weird ice cream and I’m fat and my ankles are always swollen and my…”
I trail off because he’s moved.
He was leaning against the door, his arms folded. But now he’s straightened up, his hands at his sides, his eyes on my verge-of-crying face as he approaches the bed.
He still has his work clothes on, white shirt and dark dress pants, and suddenly I don’t want to cry anymore.
I want to kiss him.
I want him to kiss me because God, he’s so sexy. All masculine and strong and tall. And pretty.
So pretty that I’m breathless by the time he reaches me, which only takes him about three seconds, but still. And when he does, he bends over and grabs my face. “And what?”
I lean up to his touch. “What?”
“Your ankles are swollen and what?”
“My fingers. They’re swollen too.”
He glances down at my hands. One is holding my ice cream tub with the spoon in it but the other’s free and he grabs it. “These fingers?”
Sniffling, I nod. “Yes.”
And without taking his eyes off me, he goes on to kiss every single one of them, making me curl my toes and squirm. “Roman…”
That’s all I can say. His name.
I’ve been saying that a lot these days. Ever since I realized he missed it, missed me calling him that.
So now I call him that all the time. Without occasion, without reason. Just like that.
“And your ice cream is weird, huh?” he rasps, still bending over me.
I nod. “Poe laughed at me.”
“Yeah?”
He knows all about my St. Mary’s friends now.
“Yes. And Salem too. Even Wyn. And she never laughs at anyone. People think I’m weird, Roman.”
His eyes have that same melting color that I’ve come to like, liquid mercury. “But you’re not, are you?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Then what are you?”
My heart spins in my chest as I whisper, “Your fairy.”
Possessiveness flickers through his features when I say that. “Fuck yeah, you are. My glorious, gorgeous, pregnant fairy.”
“And hot. I’m always hot. And I have to pee like all the time,” I whisper, almost accusingly, wet between my legs. “You did that.”
This pregnancy thing is hard.
He breathes me in, smells my hair, kisses my forehead. “My poor, sweet fairy.”
“I’m fat too. All slow and awkward. I’m an awkward, clumsy ballerina, Roman.”
I can’t dance anymore though. It’s become more difficult.
But Miss Petrova, despite being super angry at Reed still, helps me with stretches and exercises. Which is good and will keep me in the loop.
Oh, and I’ve also started Lamaze classes, and of course, Reed goes with me. And of course I cry in class when I see all the happy, cuddly couples. And when I do and Reed wipes my tears with a concerned, clueless frown, I tell him it’s the hormones.
I sniffle, continuing, “You did this to me.”
“Yeah, and this too.” His arm reaches out and he spreads his fingers over my belly, rubbing his palm, and Halo kicks back, making his eyes go tender. “Made my sweet fairy all swollen and ripe. And horny. You horny, Fae? You want my cock?”
God yes, I’m horny.
I’m horny, horny, horny.
I’ve become a devourer. I eat and eat and I need his cock. I need him. My Roman.
All the time.
“Yes. Give it to me, Roman. Make it all better,” I order and he does.
He bends down to kiss me. He bends down to lick the peanut butter ice cream off my mouth and eat it himself. To keep kissing me until I forget everything else.
The ice cream, my hormones, the fact that I’m heartbroken.
When he plays with my lips and my body, he makes me forget about my heartbreak.
Which means nights are better for me.
The time when all heartbroken and lovelorn girls cry in their pillows, I cry different kinds of tears. I cry in his arms, his body covering me.
Ever since we had sex a few weeks ago, Reed has been insatiable.
He has been a fiend.
It’s like something has been unlocked inside of him, years of pent-up desire, years of lust, and he doesn’t know what to do with it.
My gorgeous villain has no clue what to do with me, with the fairy that he’s finally captured.
So he does everything.
Whatever he wants to do. Bite, suck, fuck, love.
Some nights he makes me come — once, twice, three times — with his mouth between my legs and his large hand covering my swollen belly. As if to make sure that our baby is safe and sleeping while at the same time reveling in the fact that he did this to me.
That my body is his wonderland, his playground, and he’s changed the landscape of my bones and muscles.
When he touches me like this, I don’t feel fat. I don’t feel ungainly and awkward.
I feel beautiful.
He makes me feel beautiful with his hand on my belly.
After he’s satisfied, when he’s finally had his fill of my pussy, he emerges from between my legs, all naked and glowing, my juices running down his chin, his stubbly throat, his muscular chest.
He settles himself between my spread and languid thighs before giving me what I crave the most.
His cock.
He enters me in one easy stroke and why wouldn’t he? He’s made my pussy all wet, pounded it with his tongue, trashed it with his mouth so much that she opens herself to him easily now.
Like a flower. A daisy.
He pounds her with his big cock, beats her up, looms over me, his beautiful muscles tightened and standing up. His face is doused in lust, his wet-with-my-juices lips pulled back and his teeth showing and snapping like he’s really an animal.
Part human, part wolf.
I’ve always thought that, and it has never been clearer than when he’s fucking me like this.
All beautifully and tenderly and savagely.
Lovingly.
And I come.
I come so easily these days. So viciously and violently.
It’s like as soon as he touches my pussy, I don’t stop coming and he takes advantage of that. He keeps fucking me, he keeps making my pussy come as it flutters and ripples around his rod.
And then it’s his turn.
To come, I mean.
Some nights he fills up my pussy so that I flow with him. So that I feel him leaking out of me as I toss and turn in the bed, as I go to school the next day and sit in class with sticky, wet panties.
But some nights he likes to come on my body.
On my tits that he loves so much.
Or my swollen belly.
God, he loves my swollen belly. He’s always touching it, rubbing it. And he likes to come on it too.
He likes to kneel over my prone, satisfied body, all sweaty and panting, and jerk his cock until he lashes his cum on my belly, the muscles of his abdomen straining, his biceps flexing.
When he’s done, I rub it all over my skin like his cum is one of those rare body oils that I love so much and he watches me with hooded, villainous eyes.
His pregnant, captured fairy rubbing his scent all over her skin.
So even if I manage to break free from him, he can smell me in the night, follow my trail and bring me back to his evil lair.
So yeah, nights are easier.
Because at night, it feels like we’ll never be apart. When he cuddles with me after it feels like love.
Other times though, I try to keep myself busy.
With school, with b
aking, with my large family of friends and brothers.
Who all come over when I finally get my acceptance letter from Juilliard.
I thought it would never come and that it was too late.
Everyone already knows what they’re doing after graduation, including Wyn, who also got her acceptance letter to one of her dream art schools in New York. Salem is going to California for youth soccer camp and to be with her Arrow. And Poe, well, she is still deciding what her next move will be after she kills her guardian.
Anyway, after I get my acceptance letter, I decide to invite everyone over for a little get-together.
All my brothers, Tempest and my St. Mary’s friends, who all got day passes via Conrad, even Salem and Poe. We’re all gathered out in the backyard, against the backdrop of woods and dangerous cliffs.
And it’s a happy occasion, or at least, it’s supposed to be.
First, there are my brothers and Reed.
As I said, they have thawed toward him slightly. But still, all of them together in one place is not without some glares or awkward pauses and sarcasm. All courtesy of Shepard and Ledger, my two rowdy brothers. Reed doesn’t care or looks like he doesn’t. He keeps his cool and his barbs to a minimum.
Then there’s Tempest, whose usually laughing gray eyes appear sad. Not a lot though — I bet she’s trying to hide her sadness from her own brother, Reed; I would do the same thing for my brothers if I were her — but I can tell.
And I can also tell that it’s because of Ledger.
How he’s hardly paying her any attention and how all his attention is on my St. Mary’s group of friends, especially my quiet, dreamer friend, Wyn.
I know Tempest and I haven’t talked about him in years because of our no brothers rule. But I can tell now that her crush on my idiot brother hasn’t gone anywhere.
You know what, I’m going to give Ledger a piece of my mind as soon as I get a chance. First, he needs to be careful of Tempest’s feelings. And second, he needs to leave Wyn alone; she’s innocent and sweet as opposed to his player ways.
And sad.
Yeah, Wyn is sad too.
Again, not a lot but I can tell. I don’t know what’s bothering her and she doesn’t tell me — absolutely refuses to tell me — when I ask. But I know it can’t be art school anymore; she already got in, as we all knew she would.
A Gorgeous Villain Page 46
