Pushing her knees to her chest, I climbed up from the floor and over top of her, entering her smoothly with one sure stroke.
She cried out, and I damn near just cried.
I’d never felt anything better than being inside of her, skin on skin, all that wet, loving warmth. If I’d known how good it would be, I probably would have tried to get her pregnant earlier—like, the first night we were together.
She moved her hips to meet mine, and as much as I tried, I just couldn’t help myself. “The report is in, honey,” I told her, my voice jolting with each stroke. “Your cervix is in tip-top shape.”
“Shut. Up.”
I laughed and leaned down to touch my mouth to hers. She licked and nipped at it, and I got off on the fact that she loved the taste of herself on my lips so much.
“Come on, baby,” I taunted, trying to push her there faster, desperate for her to come because my orgasm was coming up my spine like a goddamn NASCAR driver.
“Oh yeah, oh yeah, oh…yes!” she chanted as she finally let go. I shot my load immediately.
Her gaze followed me as I took her in—messy hair, soft, sexy eyes, and nearly bruised lips. Her tits were out and peaked and so fucking inviting, I buried my face right in the middle of them.
Fuck me, she is so fucking hot.
She laughed, and the rumble from her chest made me tingle all over.
“I love you,” I told her. She pulled my face from her tits and looked me right in the eye.
“Okay, fine. Supercock can be my cervix’s personal doctor.”
My wink rang out like a shot in the air, and her answering smile nearly knocked me on my ass. “That’s Dr. Supercock to you now. After that many years of schooling, he wants you to use the title.”
The stark contrast of black ink and Thatch’s tan skin glowed in the barely there moonlight. Obviously a little sliver of white showing in the dark night sky rather than the bright circle of a full moon, it illuminated our room just enough that I could make out all of the planes, ridges, and valleys of muscle on my man.
He slept while I thought, an endless loop of unavoidable realities trickling through my mind.
Over the next six months, I’d be traveling all over the place, filling up my schedule with enough photo shoots to supply a year’s time. It was insane, but it was a means to an end. A way to fulfill all of my obligations and still have the freedom to take a minimum of four months off for maternity leave, six months if I was lucky.
Finances weren’t my motivation for the crazy work schedule. I was fortunate that money wasn’t an issue for me or my future child. My soon-to-be husband had more money than he knew what to do with, and my photography career had padded my savings nicely, even allowing for a hefty chunk of cash to be invested.
When I found out I was pregnant, my first thought had been, “Holy shit, that idiot knocked me up!” followed by a pregnancy test bouncing off of Thatch’s big head. My second thought, having occurred when he fell to his knees and pressed his lips to my belly, was “I love him and his Supercock for giving me the greatest gift I’ve ever been given.” And the third thought had occurred a few days later, during a photo shoot for one of the most elusively picky magazines in the country: “I want to be able to have both, a family and my career.”
It was that third thought that had driven me to reschedule the photo shoots I would end up missing when I went on maternity leave. It would have been easier to let them go, not to worry about missed opportunities or what-ifs, but when I really thought about it, I knew I didn’t want to lose what I had worked so hard to achieve.
But now, lying in our bed, with Thatch sound asleep beside me, I was wondering if this ridiculous work schedule was the right choice. I’d already been traveling more, knowing I needed to front-load the extra work as much as possible, because the bigger I got, the harder everything became. But the more time I spent away from Thatch, the more I hated being away from him.
Hated. It.
Lonely nights spent in hotels without his big body wrapped around me like a second skin while his head utilized my boobs as pillows were getting old real quick. He was my rock, the one person I could trust with everything. The man who could fuck me senseless and pleasure my puss-ay in ways I never knew were possible. The man who let me get all kinds of filthy in the bedroom—but never failed to treat me like a fucking princess.
It was hard being away—for days on end—from that kind of man.
Nearly impossible, to be honest.
I ran my fingers through his thick hair, and he moaned softly in his sleep. His eyelashes fluttered ever so slightly, as if he might stir and wake up, but sleep still kept its hold over him.
It was these moments, the quiet, peaceful moments in the middle of the night, that I’d find myself watching him like a creepy little stalker and just savoring him. My man. My best friend. The giant who’d managed to fill all the voids I hadn’t even known were there until he barreled his way into my life. The man who’d managed to knock down all of my walls and love me for me.
God, I fucking loved him.
I loved him—and our tiny little baby—more than I had ever loved anything in my entire life.
Emotion filled my eyes, and I brushed a few rogue tears off my cheeks. For fuck’s sake, I felt like I was always crying. Or about to cry. Or thinking about crying. Or yelling at Thatch for making me cry, even though he had most likely done nothing wrong.
Pregnancy not only made me horny, but it also made me insanely sensitive.
Lately, I’d been a fucking mess over anything and everything. It was exasperating, and sometimes, there wasn’t any rhyme or reason for the tears. I mean, all it would take was one Folgers’s “Coming Home” commercial, and I’d be two hiccupping breaths away from doing my best impression of that time Kim Kardashian lost her diamond earring in the ocean.
My stomach growled into the still apartment, damn near echoing off the walls, and I glanced over at the clock. Right on schedule, the numbers 1:00 a.m. glowed bright into the darkness of our bedroom. About a week after I found out I was pregnant, every night between the hours of midnight and two, my body had to let its hunger be known.
Word to the wise, pregnancy hunger is on another level of hungry.
Imagine a long workday where you haven’t had time for lunch, and by the time three o’clock hits, you’re five seconds away from either reenacting The Walking Dead and gnawing your own arm off or considering rummaging through the breakroom fridge without giving a single fuck about eating someone else’s food. Now, take that scenario and go into it without eating for about three days. Yes, my friends, that is pregnancy hunger.
A starving pregnant woman should be considered a danger to national security because fuck only knows what we’re liable to do if someone doesn’t keep us well fed with our outrageous cravings. But we should also be given a free pass because we’re the miracle of life, goddammit.
Add some virginity and the baby Jesus and take away my propensity for using the word fuck and I might as well be the Virgin Mary right now.
Literally, the miracle of fucking life.
My stomach rumbled and grumbled again, and I groaned. The last thing I felt like doing was participating in actual movement. While I stared up at the ceiling, perturbed and contemplating how I could teleport a plateful of peanut butter crackers and a glass of strawberry milk into my lap, Thatch shifted his arm from around me, wordlessly got out of bed, and shuffled into the hallway in nothing but his underwear.