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"You'd be a miserable pregnant person," West mused, shaking his head.
"Hey. I'd be fucking resplendent," I shot back, smiling at the snort he let out.
"You bitched for forty minutes two nights ago about your ankles being swollen from work. Your ankles would be swollen for months."
"Maybe I would be one of those 'I am carrying a magnificent blessing and have never felt more beautiful in my life' freaks. No, you're right," I agreed when he showed me a dubious look. "I'd be the one screaming at you to go out and get me pickles and ice cream, and demanding the doctor get the damn parasite out of me already. What?" I asked, smile falling when his face went serious.
"You."
"What?"
"You said you'd be screaming at me."
Shit.
Yes, yes I had.
"I meant like the grander 'you.' The you that can mean anyone," I rushed to cover. Even if the truth was that when I conjured up the idea in my head, it had been him I'd been kicking out of bed, demanding he get dressed and get me my snacks.
It was too soon to think that way. Especially for someone like me. But thinking it, I was.
"Good," he said after a long moment, a long enough moment that it grew tense. "Since I can't fucking stand pickles," he said, smiling.
"What? How can someone hate pickles? Like, all pickles? Or just the sours or the sweets or the half-sours? I'm partial to the half-sour kosher ones you find in the fridge department of the grocery store. I could eat a whole jug of them by myself for dinner."
"All, pretty girl. I hate all pickles."
"Interesting. Any other no-go foods?"
"Fucking mayo."
"Well, that's disappointing."
"Disappointing?"
"That you can't be more original than that. I think like half of the population gags over mayonnaise. "
"Sorry I can't be more original for you, babe."
"You should be. I mean, how do you plan to keep the interest of someone like me if you are so boring and predictable?" I asked, smirking at the challenge I saw rising in his eyes.
That was always a good look on him. He was often so carefree and laidback that I couldn't help but enjoy goading him into something a little more serious.
His arm whipped out, his hand grabbing my ankle, tugging hard until he had me slipping down on the couch cushions, my leg getting lifted to slip over the back of his neck while his other hand slipped up to press against my cleft.
"Like this, maybe?" he suggested, eyes going molten as my hips ground against his touch, begging for more.
"That might work," I agreed, feigning uncertainty.
"Think you like my fingers more than you like me," he said, not sounding mad about it as his fingers flipped up the leg hole of my shorts, into the slip of fabric of my panties, sliding up my slick cleft, finding my clit, rubbing against it almost aggressively.
"They're some of your more persuasive assets," I admitted, exhaling hard when his fingers left me, going up to work free my button and zipper.
"Stand up," he demanded, voice getting rough as he got more turned on.
And, well, I did so love when he got bossy and demanding.
I slid my leg off his shoulder, moving to stand in front of him, but doing nothing else, waiting for him to take charge.
Which was also new.
I liked to control the sex narrative.
I'm sure some shrink would have a field day trying to figure out why that was, why I liked to control men the way I so often did. And why, possibly, I did not want to control this one.
He scooted forward on the couch, arms raising, snagging the waistband of only my shorts, drawing them down my legs. "Step out," he demanded when they hit my feet.
Free of them, he yanked one of my legs up, placing my foot on the cushion to the side of his body as he slid further still, burying his face between my thighs, pressing his tongue against my clit through the lacy material of my panties.
My hands slapped down on his shoulders, steadying myself as my inner thigh muscles started to shake.
His tongue worked me until my chest felt tight, my breathing fast and uneven, before moving down, pressing against the entrance of my body, pushing my panties in slightly: a strange, unexpected sensation. Then, he yanked my panties to the side, his tongue invaded again, fucking me slow and steady until my orgasm crashed through me.
Only then did he pull away, ripping off my panties, pushing my top half down over the arm of the couch, my ass high in the air.
I heard the telltale crinkle, knowing things were safe.
He moved in behind me, yanking my hips up slightly, then slamming deep inside me.
He fucked me hard and relentless, his hand slapping down on my ass, the pain/pleasure combination driving me back up hard and fast, making my hands dig into the material of the cushions, my face burying in a throw pillow I had brought him, trying to muffle my cries.
