by Cara McKenna
Or maybe that was just hormones.
“Ready?” he asked.
She nodded.
He sank deep, slowly. No cramps met the intrusion and she stroked his neck and his hair, sighed her pleasure. He dropped low, resting his forehead against hers and merely holding there for a time, that wild body tame and patient. She let her hands wander his chest and ribs to settle on his hips, and she tugged.
He gave her his cock in smooth, steady strokes, silent at first, until a soft shudder of a moan filled the air between them. She shivered, melting, pussy welcoming him deep.
As he found a pace she studied his face, the tendons in his neck, the shapes of his chest and arms, a rush of startling clarity making it feel as though they were standing in the broad light of day. This is a man who would absolutely defend and protect my child. The truth of that thought struck her in a deep, visceral place, vibrating on a wholly animal wavelength.
She changed beneath him, hands gripping him tight, thighs hugging his hips, urging him to go faster, deeper, to make it rougher. Not so much as a twinge this time.
“Feel okay?” he whispered.
“I need you.”
“You get me.”
“Harder.”
“How hard?”
“Ninety percent.” They spoke of his capacity for harshness in percentages sometimes, a hundred equaling the way he got when they role-played. Tonight she wanted his strength and aggression, but no playacting. Brash possession, and a chance to wallow in it as his lover, not his victim.
He pressed hard into her, forcing her legs wide and making her feel the obscene weight of his body. Something lit up inside her, feeling his power. She hadn’t had a chance to wonder how the pregnancy might change his attraction to her, if he’d still be comfortable being this way, being rough. She’d hate to feel as though she couldn’t be what he needed, couldn’t grant his darkest wishes. It deepened that ravenous sensation inside her, curled her fingers into claws against his skin and had her breath coming in gruff gasps.
She raked her nails up and down his back. “You feel so good.”
“You like me deep?”
“Yeah.”
“Need it faster? Slower?”
“Faster.”
He gave her that, their bodies meeting with sharp smacks. “Touch yourself.”
“Not yet. I want to go crazy first.” A couple times she’d come from nothing more than the fucking, but nearly always she needed her clit touched. Until then, the thrust of his cock was an exquisite tease and she lost herself in the friction, the slide and thrust, the impact of his hips. More even than the physical stimulation, his voice was setting her on fire. His exhalations were rhythmic grunts, soon lengthening to moans.
“Fuck me,” she whispered, mouth right at his ear.
“Take my cock, girl.”
Girl. Not honey, now. He was slipping deeper into his kink, and she welcomed the shift.
“Get on top,” he ordered.
He moved to sit and she straddled him, feeling his guiding fist as her sex sought his cock then claimed it, deep.
“Yeah. Ride me.”
She sat up and leaned back, adjusting until she had the right angle. She took him smooth and slow, feeling magnetic with those blue eyes watching every undulation. All that wildness she objectified in him, it was coursing through her now. She felt powerful and ferocious, owning this man, and as not a single drop of wine had been drunk, she couldn’t blame her brazenness on alcohol. This was something even stronger, something mammalian and ancient and hot as sin.
He looked hypnotized, lost in the spell her body was casting. Her excitement mounted, gathering deep and low against the slick friction. She’d only come a couple of times this way, without touching her clit, and it had turned her inside-out.
“Lay back.”
He did and she dropped to her palms, seeking the right pressure, chasing that hot, angry hum in her cunt. Her eyes roamed his skin, the faint sheen of sweat on his clenched abdomen, the knitting of muscle between his pecs and along his ribs. All at once her hips were driving, this sex feeling like an out-of-body experience.
His gaze was electric, nailed between them. “Yeah, use that dick. Fuck me.”
She buried her face against his neck. “You feel so good.”
“Love the way you fuck me, honey.”
Honey. So close. “Say my name.”
“Laurel.”
Pleasure burst open inside her. “Yeah.”
“You gonna come on me?”
She nodded, eyes squeezed shut, lips pressed to his throat. She tried to say yes, to say his name back, to say anything, but all that came was a mewling, frightened yelp of a moan, as all at once she was bearing down on release.
“Yeah, come on my dick. Use me, Laurel.”
She did. He was everything—a hard cock, a gorgeous body, the man who shocked and comforted and irked and supported her, all of it feeling so starkly plain, sweet and bestial, at once a Valentine and pornography. The pleasure spiked, leveled, spiked, leveled, and she chased the orgasm so hard she thought her hips might seize up, but then—
“Oh God. Oh God.”
“Come on, honey. Do it.”
She already was. A shrieking, shuddering possession of a climax, like the kind she got through her clit, only tripled. Time slipped away as she rode the sensations—more a bucking bronco than a soothing ocean tide—and she didn’t know what she said, what he said in return. She was aware only of their bodies and, in time, the feel of his arm in her grip, and the sight of his skin beneath her raking nails. She pulled her hand back, half expecting blood. But no, merely marks.
“Jesus.”
He smiled, looking so amused and so patient, sprawled beneath her. “Good?”
“Crazy.”
“Glad to hear it. Turn over.”
She did, legs like noodles. He pushed inside, gruff, one hand on her hip and the other splayed across her lower back. In seconds flat it was rough again, so right and essential. With every thrust he tugged her hard to him, feeling ten feet tall behind her, unspeakably strong. She wanted more of him, more of every fucking thing about this man.
She arched her back. “Hold my hair.”
He gathered it in a fist.
“Yeah.”
“You need another?”
“I won’t be greedy.”
“Bullshit. You take what you want.” If men could have multiple orgasms, he’d said once, sex would take a fucking week.
“Touch me, then,” she said. Unwilling to give up that cruel hand in her hair, she rose up on her knees. She held her breath, waiting until she felt those rough fingertips on her clit, the contact like a whip crack.
“Light,” she panted. “Light, to start.”
“Love when you get bossy,” he teased, hips punishing.
He gave her exactly what she needed—the barest whisper of friction at first, then a little quicker, a little more pressure as her nerves recovered. She got lost in the feel of his body owning hers—his hard belly against her ass, the filthy, exquisite intrusion of his cock. Got lost in the mean tug of his grip in her hair and the deft caresses of his fingers on her clit.
She came hard and deep, groaning. His fingers kept on stroking, cock still pounding, and just when she thought the sensation was going to rip her apart, another climax tore through her. She came down from it reeling and sweating and shaking, feeling high. Feeling crazed. She dropped to her hands and knees, muscles spent.
“Now,” he murmured, sounding full of himself, “it’s my turn.”
Those cruel hands claimed her hips, holding her in place as he took his pleasure. She craned her neck for a glimpse of his face. She wanted to drown in that expression, so determined and haughty but desperate behind it all.
This sex felt different. She hadn’t been in her head the way she usually was. Hadn’t needed any tangible thoughts to spur her pleasure, hadn’t wasted a second on insecurities. She’d been a thousand percent locked in her b
ody and connected to his. Possibly the most primal sex of her life.
And why wouldn’t it be? Fraught as their situation was, the biological fact of his would-be child inside her coursed like a drug, like the madness of ovulation times ten.
Behind her, he was coming undone. His thrusts raced and their rhythm faltered; she felt his hands trembling on her hips.
“Fuck, honey.” One palm left her, only to come down on her ass, making her jump and gasp. The spot flared hot and then he was rubbing at it, easing the sting. He pushed her down with his weight and Laurel lay flat on her belly with one cheek on the covers, brought her legs tight together when his knees urged her to. He braced his forearms beside her shoulders, his frantic body spilling heat and sound, feeling like the entire world.
He came with a thundering moan, pressing close, driving deep, falling still and silent after three long, clenching thrusts.
She listened to his breathing, the delicious rush and gasp of his disbelief and satisfaction. She hummed a happy sound, smiling.
“Mm.” He kissed her cheek, squeezed her tightly with his arms and legs. His cock was going soft, slipping from her along with the warm spoils of their sex.
“Turn over,” he said again.
Laurel rolled onto her back and he grabbed a washcloth from the little plastic bin on the shelf where the lube—and formerly the condoms—lived. She tidied herself and he lay beside her. She watched his ribs rise and fall, rise and fall, and breathed them both in.
“No cramps, huh?”
She dropped the towel over the edge of the bed. “Nope.”
He turned onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow. “Is it just me, or was that fucking intense?”
“It’s not just you.” She glowed to know he’d felt the same way. Pleased to imagine it had felt even a fraction as mind-altering to him as it had to her. “That was like… I was going to say an out-of-body experience, but actually I mean the opposite. Like my brain checked out and my body was… I dunno, but it was crazy. Crazy hot. Crazy good.”
“That’s what I like to hear.”
“Maybe your pheromones are, like, turbo-charged, because of…you know.”
“Maybe I’m just fuckin’ great in the sack.”
She rolled her eyes and tapped his chin and lips with a clumsy finger. He kissed it, then caught it between his lips, suckling. She smiled, charmed and spent and blissed out beyond reason.
“I propose we fall asleep ASAP,” she said, “to maximize the orgasm haze and minimize the chance of lying awake and thinking too hard about stuff.”
“There’ll be plenty of time for that tomorrow.”
She nodded, mushing her hair into the tangled covers. “My thoughts exactly.”
“You go first,” he said, meaning the bathroom.
She took the invitation, padding naked through the apartment. Strangely, she didn’t feel cold at all. At least not until she stepped into the bright and whirring bathroom, only to spot the fateful pee-wand on the sink’s edge.
Still a plus sign. Still a hell of a question, demanding a fuck of an answer. Just like that, the haze was gone, sucked away by the shower fan. And Laurel knew she’d be lucky to sleep a single wink, tonight.
6
“Now you’re definitely sure about this?”
Flynn glanced at the girl in his passenger seat—a year or two younger than Laurel, plump, with a plain, expressive face and a vinyl purse shaped like a cheeseburger.
“Positive,” he said.
It had been a week since the appearance of the little blue plus sign, and whether Laurel’s roommate knew she was pregnant, Flynn wasn’t sure. He doubted it. Laurel held things back, held things in, even from her friends. Plus Anne hadn’t said anything to suggest she knew, and unlike Laurel, she wasn’t the type to withhold.
Anyhow, this mission had to do with a different—if no less monumental—uncertainty.
“This is so exciting,” Anne said, shaking her mittened fists before her, all but vibrating. “I’m so honored you tapped me for the job.”
“I’m relieved as fuck you said yes. I don’t have the first clue what sort of a ring she’d want.”
Nor did Flynn have the first clue if Laurel would say yes when he proposed. He only knew that he was certain, and ready, and that the decision felt right.
They’d been living with the unanswered question of the pregnancy for what felt like eons, and though he ached for a decision, he knew better than to rush her. Plus he felt nearly comfortable with the ambiguity, now. And steeled more than ever in his commitment, whether they wound up raising a kid together in nine months or five years or never. His mind was made up, and he’d always defaulted to action over navel-gazing.
At this very moment, Laurel was at his sister’s place, helping get ready for a party to celebrate his niece’s graduation from vocational college. It was a Sunday and he’d told Laurel a white lie—said he’d picked up an overtime shift for the afternoon and that he’d catch up with them all later. No doubt with a tiny velvet box burning a hole in his jacket pocket.
“You came to the right woman,” Anne said with gravity.
“You sound confident.”
“I bet Laurel and I have watched the past four Bachelor and Bachelorette finales together.”
“That a TV show?”
“It is! It’s the best TV show there is. And at the end of every season a chick gets proposed to, and there’s always a bit where the dude—or dudes—pick out the engagement ring. They show them perusing a few different designs, and we judge the crap out of every one.”
“So what’s she into? Laurel?”
“Simple, for sure. Anytime they show a ring with loads of crap on it she’s all, like, ‘Gross.’ So definitely a solitaire, or maybe a solitaire plus a couple tiny diamonds on the sides. But not slathered in gaudy diamond frosting, you know?”
“All right. So gold, or…?”
“Have you ever seen Laurel wear gold jewelry?”
He frowned, drawing a blank. “I have no idea.”
Anne shook her head in his periphery. “You’re such a guy.”
“What gave me away?”
“She’s a silver girl, all the way. So that means either white gold or platinum. Whichever your budget can handle.”
“I figured it was most important to get her the biggest diamond I can afford.” He wasn’t rolling in it, but he lived simply and worked hard and had a respectable hunk of savings to his name; you had to when you didn’t boast some cushy gig with a 401K.
“Don’t get anything gigantic,” Anne said. “It has to fit a woman’s frame.”
“Her frame?”
“Oh my God, you’re so lucky I’m here.”
“Clearly.”
“Plus you can get a big diamond, but one with some flaws in it, for the same price as a smaller one that’s closer to perfect.”
“Oh.” Shit, there was more to this than he’d realized. Better to have Anne explain than get taken for a ride by the salesperson. Like the opposite of Flynn taking his sister’s car to the shop for her.
“Personally, I’d say go somewhere in the middle. A little flaw or two is fine. I mean, it’s not like people walk around wearing jewelers’ monocles, right?”
“Right.” A jeweler’s what now?
“And it has to be a conflict-free diamond, obviously.”
“Obviously.” Crickets chirped between his ears.
“What shape, do you think?” Anne talked a mile a minute, but today Flynn welcomed it. It didn’t allow his own nervous mental commentary to get a word in edgewise, even if these questions had him feeling less prepared by the minute.
“Shape? They’re just, like, round, aren’t they?”
“Usually. But there’s loads of other options too. Square and oval and marquis and emerald and radiant—oh, radiant is really classy.”
“Jesus, am I qualified for this? I’ve only got a high school diploma.”
“I’ll hold your gigantic hand. Have
you guys talked about marriage much?”
“Not…explicitly,” he said. Not at all, in fact. He’d made the mistake of teasing Laurel about it way back when they’d first been hooking up, and it had weirded her out so much he’d not dared mention the M-word since.
“So this is going to be a complete surprise.”
“Pretty much.”
“Why now?”
He kept his eyes glued to the road through the watery flakes pelting the windshield. “It just hit me.” Like a fist to the face. And he’d recovered from the resulting daze without a doubt in his mind.
“You know how you’re going to propose?”
“Not really.” Again, not at all.
“When?”
“Not sure. When it feels right.” In the next week or two, he imagined, some time when it was just the two of them. Before she decided about the pregnancy, he hoped. He wanted her to know where he stood. Wanted her to know that if she kept it, he was in this. And that if she didn’t, it didn’t change how he felt for her, how serious he was… Though now he thought about it, maybe it would make her decision harder, if he proposed first. Maybe that was too much pressure, like a big fat sign she’d take to mean he wanted her to have the baby.
And is it? Fuck if he even knew—
“You nervous?”
He cracked a smile. “Terrified.”
“Ha! This from the guy who volunteers to get assaulted every weekend. For free.” Anne had come along to the fights with Laurel once and spent the entire night wincing and shielding her eyes with her purse. “For free,” she said again, throwing her pink wooly hands up in disbelief.
“For fun.”
“You know what’s super fun? Bar trivia. Badminton. Getting drunk and trying on all the clothes in your closet.”
“Your closet, maybe.” He exited the highway, taking them onto a neglected route trimmed with tired strip malls. When they reached the plaza, he was relieved to see the jewelry store was nicer-looking than most of its neighbors. He parked and shut off the engine, sat holding the wheel and staring blankly between his fists.
