I nodded, unable to form words with him looking at me like that.
His hands started at my knees, palms warm as they slid up my thighs. They paused at the juncture of hip and leg, then moved higher, up over the full curve of my stomach. He traced it slowly, one hand following the other, like he was taking inventory of something that mattered to him.
I let him. Two months ago I might have deflected, might have caught his wrist or made some smart remark to break the tension. But I was past that point now, past the need to hide what this was doing to me. My hands stayed loose at my sides rather than crossing over my chest the way they used to.
“You’re beautiful,” Cruz said, his voice rough. “Jesus, Jax. You’re fucking beautiful.”
I rolled my eyes, but couldn’t hold the expression when his thumb brushed over my nipple and sent a jolt straight down my spine. “It’s just a pregnant belly, Cruz. They’re not exactly rare.”
“Not just the belly,” he said, his hands still moving. “All of it. The way you’re sitting. The way you’re looking at me. The fact that you’re here at all.”
I swallowed. “I didn’t exactly have anywhere else to go.”
Cruz’s hands paused. “You did,” he said. “You always do. That’s what makes you choosing to stay here matter.”
Before I could figure out how to respond to that, his hands slid from my stomach to my thighs, spreading them wider as he leaned forward. “Now,” he said, his breath warm against the inside of my thigh, “about that blow job.”
Cruz got to work with his mouth, starting at the inside of my thigh. He dragged his teeth lightly upward, just enough pressure to make my skin prickle with sensation, and my hand went to the back of his head without me deciding to put it there.
His hair was shorter than it had been when he left, the dark strands just long enough to curl around my fingers.
He moved higher, breath hot against the crease where leg met hip, then wrapped one hand around the base of my cock—already hard just from watching him take in my changed body. He ran his tongue up the underside from root to tip in one slow stroke that made my hips jerk off the couch.
“Fuck,” I breathed, tightening my grip in his hair.
Cruz did it again, unhurried, his tongue tracing the vein that ran along the underside before circling the head. He sealed his lips around it and sank down, cheeks hollowing with the suction. The heat of his mouth was sharp and immediate, almost too much after a month of my own hand.
My head dropped back against the couch cushions. I stopped managing my breathing, letting it come fast and shallow as Cruz worked me with long, deliberate pulls. His free hand moved between my legs, rolling my balls with firm, knowing pressure, the slight tug sending pulses of pleasure up my spine.
He pulled off periodically, dragging his tongue down the shaft and mouthing along my balls, sucking each one in turn while his fist stroked slow and easy. My thighs tensed, then relaxed, then tensed again as he worked his way back up, tracing the same path with the flat of his tongue.
“Christ, Cruz,” I managed, when he sealed his lips around the head again and sucked hard.
My thighs were shaking by then, the muscles jumping under my skin. I tightened my grip in his hair—not directing, just holding on—and Cruz hummed against me. The vibration ran up my cock, a sensation so intense I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from thrusting up.
He took me deeper, his nose pressed to the base, working the back of his throat in a way that made my vision blur at the edges. I could feel every inch of him—the wet heat of his mouth, the slight scrape of stubble against the inside of my thigh, the firm pressure of his hand on my hip holding me steady.
He pulled back to the tip, tongued the slit, gathering the precome there before sinking down again in one smooth motion I felt in my spine. My free hand found the arm of the couch and gripped it hard enough to leave marks.
The one frustration—and it was a big one—was the fact that I couldn’t see a damn thing. My stomach had become a round, solid wall between me and whatever Cruz’s mouth was doing.
I was operating purely on sensation: the suction, the slick heat, his tongue working the underside of my cock on every upstroke, the hand still rolling my balls, the other hand pressed flat against my hip to steady me.
It should have been frustrating. It should have been a distraction. Instead, it pushed everything higher, forcing me to feel instead of watching, making every touch sharper, every sensation more immediate.
Cruz found the angle that made my toes curl into the cushion and stayed there, working it with the kind of precision that came from knowing exactly how I liked to be touched. His free hand slid from my hip to my stomach, palm flat against the curve, feeling the movement underneath as the baby shifted.
That was it—that touch, that connection, the reminder of what we’d made together—that pushed me over the edge. I came with my fingers clenched in Cruz’s hair and a sound I wouldn’t want anyone else to hear, my back arching as much as it could with the extra weight I was carrying.
Cruz pulled off and stood in one motion, his eyes fixed on my stomach. There was something in his face that made my chest tight—possessive and unguarded at the same time, like he couldn’t hide what he was feeling even if he wanted to.
He tore his pants open, not bothering with the button or zipper, and wrapped his hand around his own cock. He was already hard, the head flushed and wet at the tip. He stroked himself fast and purposeful, his gaze locked on the full roundcurve of my belly—his child inside it—a growl threading into his breathing.
I watched him, still loose and wrung out from my own orgasm, and didn’t look away. There was something raw about the moment, something that felt more honest than any conversation we’d ever had.
Cruz came with a low, rough sound, striping my stomach and chest with hot spurts, his hand still working through it, jaw tight with the intensity of it. He stood there a moment afterward, chest heaving, looking at what he’d done with an expression that made no attempt at subtlety.
“Jesus,” he said, when he’d caught his breath. “I didn’t mean to—“
