He picked up the pace again and I stopped being able to form words or thoughts or anything resembling a coherent response to stimuli. I was just sensation—his cock deep inside me and his fingers on my clit and his chest warm against my back and his mouth at my ear saying things that I was going to think about for the rest of my natural life.
"You're going to be so pretty when you're pregnant," he said, rough and low. "Going to take such good care of you. Watch you get round and full and know it's mine." His hips snapped and I gasped. "Everybody who looks at you is going to know."
"Gage—"
"Say you want it."
"I want it." Immediate. Desperate. "I want all of it. I want your baby I want to be full of you I want?—"
"Good girl," he said. "Good girl."
I came again.
This one was deeper than the first, slower to build and longer to break, and I cried out into the quilt and my arms gave out and I dropped flat and he went with me, his weight over me, still moving, still deep, his forearms bracketing my head.
"Stay with me," he said.
"I'm here," I managed. Barely.
"Good." His hips kept moving, slower now, grinding deep. "Because I'm close."
I turned my face to the side so I could breathe. "Then?—"
"I know what you want." His hand slid under my hips, tilting them up slightly, changing the angle, and I felt him even deeper and made a sound about it. "There."
"There," I agreed, breathless.
"That's where it's going," he said. "Deep as I can. And you're going to stay right here after."
"Yes."
"You're going to stay at this angle and let it take."
"Yes."
He groaned. His rhythm broke—three hard deep strokes and then he buried himself and held, and I felt it, felt him, felt the heat and the pulse of it filling me up, and his forehead dropped to the back of my neck and he made a sound I was going to hear in my dreams.
Neither of us moved.
His hand was still under my hips. Holding that angle. Deliberate.
I understood. I stayed.
The ceiling fan turned.
"Good," he said, rough and quiet. "Stay just like that."
His other hand spread flat on my lower back. Gentle pressure. Like he was sealing it in.
I should have felt clinical about it. That had been my fear, in the six hours before he knocked—that this would be functional. Procedural. Two people with a contract doing a thing for a reason.
It did not feel procedural.
It felt like being claimed.
It felt like being wanted in a way I had stopped expecting to be wanted, by a man who hadn't performed a single second of it, who had walked into a fertility clinic in a surgical mask and sat down next to my spreadsheet and looked at me like I was a solution he hadn't known he was looking for.
“Want you to keep that pretty ass in the air, gorgeous,” he breathed, then kissed the side of my neck. “Gonna get you a pillow to hold you up—then I’m gonna make sure every fuckin’ drop stays inside you.”
