I unbutton the flannel shirt. Slowly. She watches my hands. Her breathing changes. seven months pregnant and the chemistry between us has not diminished by a single degree. If anything, the pregnancy has amplified it. Something about the fullness of her, the roundness, the visible, undeniable proof that I am inside her in the most permanent way possible, turns a dial in my brain that was already set to maximum.
The shirt falls open. Her belly is round and taut and her skin is stretched tight and marked with faint silver lines that she hates and I worship. Her breasts are full and heavy, spilling out of the maternity bra she's been wearing, and her nipples are darker than they used to be, larger, more sensitive. She gasps when the fabric brushes them.
I press my mouth to her belly. Kiss it. Feel our daughter shift inside.
"Hi, baby," I murmur against her skin. "I'm going to need you to close your ears for a little while."
Wren laughs.
She pulls me up by my collar. Kisses me. Deep and warm and tasting like warmth and happiness, and I love this woman with such a staggering, consuming, irrational intensity that the wordlovefeels like calling the ocean a puddle.
"Lie down," she says.
Something in my chest catches fire.
I lie down on the center of the bed. She climbs over me, and the logistics of this are different now than they were in the early months. She has to adjust. Shift her weight. Find the angle that accommodates the belly and gives her the leverage she needs. I watch her work it out with that cute crease of determination between her brows. The same crease from the first morning she rode me, when everything was new and she was learning my body the way I'd already learned hers.
She knows my body now. She knows it the way she knows the layout of this house, instinctively, navigating by feel. She knows exactly how to unbutton my shirt. Exactly how to undo my belt. Exactly how to wrap her hand around my cock and stroke once, firm, from root to tip, and watch my eyes roll back and my jaw clench.
"You like that," she says. Not a question.
"You know I like that."
"I like watching you like it."
She strokes again. Slower. Tighter. Her thumb sweeps over the head, spreading the precum in a lazy circle, and my hips lift off the mattress.
"Wren."
"Mm?"
"Fuck me. Now."
She grins. That grin. The one that started appearing around month three of our marriage, when she realized that she has power over me, real power, the kind that no amount of money or muscle or reputation can compete with. The power of a woman who knows that the most dangerous man in the city will do anything she asks if she asks it with that grin.
She rises up on her knees. Positions herself. And with one hand on my chest and the other bracing the bed, she sinks down onto me.
Her eyes flutter. Her lips part. Her belly brushes against mine as she takes me deeper, and the visual of it, my wife, heavy with my child, her body opening to take me inside her while our daughter grows inches away from where my cock is stretching her, does something to me that goes beyond arousal. Beyond desire. Beyond any word that exists for what happens when obsession and love and biology converge in a single, devastating moment.
"Fuck," I breathe. My hands find her hips. Her thighs. The curve of her belly. I can't stop touching her. I need to touch all of her at once. "Wren. You feel..." I don't finish. I can't. Language is insufficient.
She lifts her knees an repositions her feet so they are in front of her, then she leans back giving me a glorious view of her cunt swallowing my cock whole. Then starts to move. Slow, rolling rocks of her hips that drag her along my length with the practiced confidence of a woman who has been riding her husband for eight months and knows exactly what she wants.She's not the clumsy, experimental girl from that first morning anymore. She's sure. She's powerful. She takes what she needs.
And what she needs, apparently, is to absolutely destroy me.
Her pace builds. She rocks harder, bracing her hands on my thighs behind her, and the angle changes and I hit deep, deeper than usual, and she gasps and her inner walls clamp down on me and I grip her hips hard enough to leave marks.
"Careful," I manage. "The baby."
"The baby is fine. The doctor said we can--"
"I know what the doctor said. I was there. I asked fourteen questions and she looked at me like I was insane."
"You are insane." She grinds down on me. Hard. A deliberate, rolling grind that drags me against the soft spot inside her and makes her moan out loud. "You're my insane husband who kills people and then eats me out like it's a religious experience."
"It is a religious experience."
"Shut up and let me fuck you."