“Better?” he asks, hovering anxiously.
“Much,” I sigh, sinking into the hammock’s embrace. “You spoil me.”
“It is biologically imperative that I ensure your comfort during gestation,” he says matter-of-factly, but the gentle stroke of his fingers against my cheek belies his clinical tone.
“And here I thought you were just being nice,” I tease.
“Nice is an insufficient descriptor,” he sniffs. “I am fulfilling my evolutionary mandate to provide optimal conditions for my mate and offspring.”
“Well, your ‘evolutionary mandate’ feels pretty nice from where I’m lying,” I tell him, catching one of his hands and bringing it to my lips.
His eyes darken at the gesture, pupils dilating in a way I’ve come to recognize all too well. Even after two years, the smallest touches can set him off.
“June,” he says in that low, predatory register that makes my toes curl.
“Riven,” I reply, matching his serious tone but unable to hide my smile.
He moves closer, his massive form looming over me. Anyone else might find this terrifying: a twelve-foot spider with gleaming mandibles and multiple eyes staring down at them. I find it incredibly hot.
“Your heart rate has increased,” he observes, head tilting. “And your pupils have dilated by approximately fifteen percent.”
“Are you going to narrate my arousal, or are you going to do something about it?” I challenge.
His mandibles spread in a smile. “Impatient as always.”
“Hey, I’m housing your offspring. I think I’m entitled to a little impatience.”
“Indeed,” he agrees. “You are entitled to anything you desire.”
He adjusts the hammock, rearranging the silk strands to support my belly perfectly while allowing him access to the rest of me. His movements are swift and precise, the result of decades of working with silk combined with two years of enthusiastic practice with my body.
“Is this comfortable?” he asks, ever attentive.
“Perfect,” I breathe, already feeling the familiar heat building between my thighs.
Pregnancy has made me insatiable, a fact that Riven finds endlessly fascinating and thoroughly enjoyable. He claims it’s the increased blood flow and hormones. I think it’s just that watching him build a nursery web with those powerful legs is basically foreplay.
He moves with deliberate slowness, his hands sliding under the loose silk tunic he made for me, pushing it up to expose my swollen belly and breasts. I’ve never felt particularly sexy while pregnant, but the way he focuses on me—like I’m the most exquisite thing he’s ever seen—makes it impossible to feel anything but desired.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, mandibles brushing against my skin as he leans down to place gentle kisses along the curve of my stomach. “Perfect.”
His hands, surprisingly gentle for their size and strength, cup my breasts, now much fuller than before pregnancy. I gasp at the contact—they’ve been so sensitive lately, every touch a mixture of pleasure and almost-pain.
“Too much?” he asks immediately, attuned to every reaction.
“No,” I assure him. “Just… be gentle.”
“Always,” he promises, and resumes with even more care, his thumbs barely grazing my nipples, sending sparks of pleasure racing through me.
He works his way down my body, removing my leggings with deft movements that hardly disturb my position in the hammock. The silk cradles me perfectly, supporting every inch, leaving me feeling weightless despite the very noticeable weight of our child.
“You’re wearing the underwear I made you,” he observes with satisfaction, fingers tracing the delicate silk panties he wove just days ago.
“I always do,” I remind him. “They’re the only ones that fit comfortably now.”
“They’re also completely soaked through,” he points out, his voice deepening with arousal. “Your arousal response has intensified forty percent since conception.”
Only Riven could make a percentage sound dirty.
