The words land. Deep. I hold his gaze.
“Prove it.”
Something flickers in his eyes. Slow. Deliberate.
“How would you like me to prove that, baby?”
My breath catches slightly.
“By reminding me,” I whisper, “that I’m yours.”
There’s a pause. A real one. Not hesitation. Control.
And then his hand slides up, cupping my face, his thumb brushing along my cheek in a slow, deliberate movement that makes my body react before my mind can catch up.
And when he leans in, this time he doesn’t stop at gentle.
His mouth presses to mine with intention, not rushed, not rough, but present in a way that makes something inside me immediately come alive.
I respond without thinking.
My fingers sliding into his hair, pulling him closer, deepening it, needing more, chasing that feeling that’s been just out of reach since I woke up.
His breath catches.
A low sound leaves him, something rougher than before.
“God…” he murmurs against my mouth, his forehead brushing mine for a second before he kisses me again. “I missed the feel of you.”
And that, that pulls something deeper from me.
Something that’s been sitting under the surface, waiting.
I kiss him harder this time, not careful, not hesitant, and I feel it when something in him shifts, when that restraint loosens just enough to let more of him through.
His hand tightens slightly at my jaw. His body presses closer. And I feel it. That connection. That heat. That certainty. That I’m still his. That I still belong. That I’m still me.
His mouth claims mine with slow, deliberate intent. No rush. Just heat and certainty. When I moan softly into the kiss, he swallows the sound like it belongs to him, one large hand sliding up to cradle the back of my head, holding me exactly where he wants me. His tongue slides against mine in unhurried strokes, tasting, exploring, drawing out every small sound I make until my fingers curl into his shoulders.
He pulls back only far enough to look at me, eyes dark and steady. His thumb brushes my lower lip once, slow, feeling the way it trembles under his touch.
“You stopped feeling like my woman,” he says, voice low, rough at the edges. “I’m sorry for that. You aremine. And I’m going to remind you every day.”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. He shifts us carefully, mindful of the healing wound on my side, easing me onto my back with strong hands that never press too hard. He settles between my thighs, still wearing those grey sweatpants, the soft fabric warm and rough against my bare skin. His body is heavy and solid above me, but he holds most of his weight on his forearms, protecting me even now.
He leans down and presses his mouth to my stomach.
Slow kisses. Reverent. He lingers there, lips warm and open against the faint swell that barely shows at seven weeks. He kisses every inch of the soft skin, tongue tracing lightly, breathing me in like the feel of me under his mouth is somethingsacred. Each press of his lips is deliberate, unhurried, sending little sparks of heat through my belly.
“This baby is a gift,” he murmurs against my skin, breath ghosting hot over me. “We’re going to have a big family. Lots of children. And through all of it, I’ll never stop reminding you, you’re my woman. How much I want you. How much I love you.”
Then he moves lower, kissing a slow trail down my body until he settles fully between my spread thighs. He spreads me open wider with both hands, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin of my inner thighs as he looks at me, really looks, eyes heavy with hunger. He leans in and drags the flat of his tongue through my folds in one long, slow lick, from entrance to clit.
The moan that rips out of me is helpless. He hums deep in his chest, the vibration rolling straight through me, and does it again, slower this time, savoring every inch of my taste. His tongue circles my clit with devastating patience, flicking lightly, then pressing firmer, learning exactly how much pressure makes my hips twitch. He slides two thick fingers inside me, stretching me open inch by careful inch, curling them deep until they stroke that perfect spot inside.
Every moan, every gasp, every shudder of my thighs around his head, he drinks it all in like he’s addicted. He doesn’t speed up. He keeps the rhythm slow and relentless, tongue working my clit in lazy circles while his fingers pump in and out with deep, measured strokes. The wet sounds of his mouth on me fill the quiet room, obscene and intimate. My back arches when the pleasure starts to coil tight, but his free hand presses gently on my lower belly, holding me down, keeping me right where he wants me.
He draws the first orgasm out for what feels like forever, edging me closer, then easing back just enough to make me whimper, until it finally breaks over me in long, rolling waves. My walls clench hard around his fingers, thighs shaking, abroken cry tearing from my throat as pleasure pulses through every nerve. He stays with me through every aftershock, tongue gentling but never stopping until I’m limp and panting, slick coating his chin and fingers.
