Both of us breathing.
The barn quiet around us.
"Feel that?" he said.
"Yes." Barely audible.
"Full?"
"So full?—"
"Good." He pulled back and drove forward and I cried out into the hay. "That's exactly right. Take it." His hand on my stomach slid up, found my breast again, squeezed as he rolled his hips, and I lost whatever composure I had left entirely. "Every drop. Deep as I can get." He kept one arm locked around me, kept me pulled tight against his chest, no space between us, his mouth at my ear. "You're going to be round with my baby, Millie. Right here on this land. And every time I walk into this barn I'm going to think about you exactly like this."
"Gage—" His name came out wrecked.
"I know." He drove into me again, harder, and his hand tightened on my breast, tugging the nipple, and I felt the tension building fast and sharp. "I know exactly what you need. Come on." His other hand slid from my hip to between my thighs, finding the spot that made my vision go white. "Give it to me."
I gave it to him.
It crashed through me all at once—loud and shaking and relentless, my whole body seized up and clenching around him, and he held me through it, both arms locked around me, immovable, murmuring low things against my neck that I couldn't fully parse but felt likemineandgoodandperfect.
He slowed…but he hadn’t come yet. He pulled me up flush to his chest, and I had to hitch my knee up onto the hay bale to keephim deep inside me. He actuallysnarled, then he pulled the neck of my dress—snapping a button, baring my breasts.
Oh my god.
Oh my god.
What had I signed up for?
He spread his hand across my chest—both breasts, just holding them, feeling the weight of them in his palm like he was taking stock of something he planned to keep.
"God," he said. Low and rough. Not performative. Just true.
"Gage—"
"Hold on." He wasn't moving yet. Just looking, over my shoulder, at his hands on me. "Let me?—"
He cupped my tits properly, one in each hand, and squeezed slow, and I felt him twitch inside me at his own doing.
"Perfect," he said. "You know that? These are—" He shook his head against my neck, like he didn't have the vocabulary for it, which was its own kind of flattering. "Perfect."
"They're just?—"
"Don't." He pinched lightly in warning and I gasped. "Don't tell me they're just anything." His thumbs traced slow circles. "I've been thinking about them since the lobby of that clinic. Since you crossed your arms and tried to hide them from me in that lingerie."
I flushed. "You noticed that."
"I notice everything about you." He rolled my nipples between his fingers, unhurried, thorough, and I arched helplessly back into him. "Been noticing since the first time I saw you."
He started to move again—slow rolls of his hips, deep, barely pulling out, just rocking—and kept his hands exactly where they were. Working me. Learning me. His thumbs circling and pressing and occasionally pinching until I was making sounds I'd never made before in my life.
"Gonna be so full," he said, against my neck. "Right here." One hand left my breast to spread flat across my stomach, pressing in slightly, and I understood what he meant—not just right now but later, the fullness that would come later, the visible proof of all of this. "Gonna look incredible."
"Gage—"
"I mean it." His hand pressed a little more firmly against my lower belly, possessive and certain. "Already thinking about it. Already want to see it." His mouth found my ear. "These—" his hands returned to my breasts, both of them, squeezing "—are going to be even fuller then. You know that? Heavy." His hips rolled deeper and I choked on a breath. "Sensitive."
"Oh god?—"
