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“I’m all ready,” I say as Peter comes toward me, his metallic gaze oddly intent. “Should we go so they’re not—oh!”
Before I can do more than gasp, I find myself bent over the bed, my skirt flipped up, exposing my thong. One hard tug from Peter’s fist, and the flimsy piece of fabric tears, leaving me bare to the waist. My heartbeat jumps, my insides clenching with a mix of fear and anticipation, and then Peter is on me, bending over me as his cock presses against my folds.
His entry is rough, borderline violent. One big hand grips my throat, forcing me to arch my back as he thrusts into me, while the other one delves underneath, finding my clit. I’m not wet enough at first, and the savage thrusts burn, his thick cock like a battering ram inside me. Before long, however, his fingers find the right rhythm, and a familiar tension starts to coil in my core. His grip on my throat restricts my breathing, and my nerve endings thrum in agonized pleasure-pain, the lack of oxygen heightening all sensations. It’s too much, too intense, and I drag in shallow, gasping breaths, clutching fistfuls of blanket as he continues to hammer into me, fucking me so hard it feels like I might shatter.
And then I do, the tension cresting in a sizzling wave. White-hot pleasure explodes through every muscle in my body, making my heart feel like it’s bursting in my chest. Shaking, wheezing for air, I collapse onto the mattress as soon as Peter lets go of my throat, and I hear him groan as he pulses deep inside me in release.
For a minute, I can’t think, can only pant weakly into the blanket as he withdraws from me and steps back, but then the significance of the wetness trickling down my thighs dawns on me.
Peter didn’t use a condom again.
Scrunching my eyes shut, I silently curse myself, then Peter, and then myself again. Every other time we’ve slipped up has been at a minimally fertile time, which is why we’ve avoided consequences so far. Right now, though, I’m just about mid-cycle—and most likely ovulating.
“Can you please hand me a tissue?” I ask stiffly, opening my eyes but not moving lest I mess up the new dress. I only brought a couple of outfits with me for this trip, and I can’t afford to get one dirty the first night.
Peter walks toward the nightstand by the bed and returns with a tissue. “Here you go,” he murmurs, patting at the wetness between my legs, and I snatch the tissue from him, finishing the job myself before heading to the bathroom again. My sex is swollen and sore, and my legs are not entirely steady, but all I can focus on is that I might’ve gotten pregnant.
Pregnant with Peter’s child.
I wash myself as thoroughly as I can, even though I know it’s futile. All it takes is one sperm, not the millions that are still inside me. Fighting the urge to cry, I smooth my hair, make sure my dress still looks presentable, and step out of the bathroom.
“Sara…” Peter gets up from the bed where he was sitting again. His jaw is tight, his eyebrows drawn into a frown as he reaches for me, his fingers gently encircling my upper arms. “Ptichka, are you okay?”
“What do you mean?” I frown up at him.
“Did I hurt you?” he clarifies, his face darkened with concern. “I didn’t mean to be so rough. You just looked so beautiful and sexy that I—” He grimaces. “Well, the truth is, I lost control.”
My despair gives way to sudden anger, and furious heat climbs up my cheeks. Beautiful and sexy? Is that his excuse for this?
“Lost control?” Jerkily, I pull out of his hold. “Really? What about every other time you did this? Did you ‘lose control’ then, too?”
His silver gaze fills with remorse. “I did hurt you. I’m sorry, my love. I was rough, and I didn’t mean to be—not tonight, at least.”
“You didn’t hurt me!” My hands curl at my sides. “I mean you did, but I don’t care about that—I came, in case you couldn’t tell. I’m talking about the no-condom thing.”
His features smooth out, his expression turning carefully opaque. “I see.”
“You see what?” I glare up at him, stepping closer until I’m almost treading on his toes. He’s a head taller than me, and much, much bigger, but I’m too furious to care. “Just admit it,” I hiss. “You’re trying to get me pregnant. This was no accident, and neither was every other time we ‘forgot.’”
For a moment, I’m certain Peter will deny it, but he captures my hand in his and presses it against his chest, his eyes glittering like dark glass.
“Yes,” he says softly. “You’re right, Sara. I am trying to get you pregnant.”
