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“Heathcliff was so swoon-worthy,” Amara’s voice from the door had him turning his neck to see her standing there, clad in one of his shirts.
Amara usually preferred wearing silk lingerie to bed, but one night when her gowns stopped going over her growing breasts, she had tossed them aside in a fit of pique, marched into his closet, grabbed his shirt, and put it on, claiming ‘these won’t outgrow me’.
He let his eye rove over her appreciatively; watching his large shirt hide her breasts and the small bump underneath, her hair braided to the side, falling over one shoulder, her beautiful eyes on his. He liked her in his shirts.
He put the scraper down as she entered the room, hitting pause on his phone to stop the book, and pulled her forward between his legs. Unbuttoning his shirt leisurely, keeping their gazes locked, he saw her pupils widen in the dark green orbs, her breathing picking up. She was horny, and she’d come to him.
They had visited the gynecologist twice over the last few weeks. On the most recent visit, Amara had confessed to being more aroused, more sensitive than usual. The doctor had simply told her it was natural, and sex was safe, and she should indulge herself as long as her hormones cooperated. It had been after that conversation that Amara had hopped on the bed for an ultrasound and Dante had seen their baby for the first time. It had been a blip, a tiny little bean on the black and white screen, and it had made something so powerful, so visceral rush through his system it had left him shaken. That was the moment the loss of their other child had hit him hard. Suddenly, that baby had become real too. He had seen that same joy and loss reflected on Amara’s face, seen her struggle with her tears and lose the battle, and they had left the room, changed.
Dante parted the sides of the shirt, breaking their gazes to look at the little bump on her belly, stretching the scars on the sides of her stomach over her skin, rounding from the edge of her panties, and it hit him again.
That was his warrior child, inside his warrior woman.
Cupping the bump with both hands, the size still small enough that it fit the span of his fingers, Dante smeared the wet clay over her skin, marking both her and their child.
He pressed his lips to her tummy, feeling her hands come to his hair.
“You’re going to be the most adored little
princess in this whole world,” he murmured softly to his baby, still not knowing if it was a girl or a boy technically, but knowing in his heart it was a daughter. “Daddy already loves you so much.”
“Daddy Dante,” Amara murmured in the voice he loved so much. “I like the sound of that.”
“Be careful,” he looked up at her breasts, feeling their heaviness in his palms. “It’ll take me a second to make you dirty.”
Her nipples pebbled, the visual enough to send blood rushing to his cock, constrained in his jeans. Fuck, he loved how her body responded to his words, his voice, his everything. It made him feel like the luckiest bastard on the planet.
Without another word, he took some wet clay on the side in his hands, smearing a thin layer of it over her breasts. He knew the cold clay would stimulate her, but it would be the immediate drying that would prickle her skin, make her nerves tingle everywhere it was spread.
Her quick intake of breath told him the coolness had hit her. Dante held back, watching, mesmerized as the thin layer dried over her peaked nipples, heaving with her little gasps. He stood up, pushing his shirt over her shoulders, letting it pool around her bare feet, leaving her clad in simple black cotton panties. The light from the rising sun hit her naked body, illuminating her perfection, her scars, her flesh, showing him the rivulets of moisture in the rapidly drying clay.
He wet his hands again with the argil, spreading it over her shoulders, hearing her shuddering breaths as he walked around her.
“I’m going to stand behind you, Amara,” he leaned down to whisper in her ear, knowing it triggered her sometimes.
She nodded, her eyes closed, feeling his hands upon her flesh. Fuck, she was perfect.
He circled behind her, looking at the skin on her back, three thin strips of acid-burned flesh scarred diagonally across one hip to one blade. She probably didn’t realize he had matched the structure of his back dragon tattoo to match her back scars, from one hip to one shoulder. If anyone looked at their naked backs together, they would see symmetry – a dragon breathing fire across her back in mirrored structure, side by side.
He bent to kiss them, before straightening, smearing the clay in his hand over them.
“Dante,” she whispered, a tremor going down her spine, the vibration right under his fingers, and he continued to spread the clay all over, watching the layers dry, the scars immortalized in them.
Scooping more clay, he pressed up against her back, feeling the wetness smear over his chest, and spread his fingers over her stomach, ensconcing her bump generously with the argil, before moving it back up over her breasts. He plucked at her nipples, kissing the side of her neck, and felt her arch in his hands, her ass pushing into his hard cock. He pushed back, nestling himself between her cheeks over layers of their clothing, and her breathing stuttered.
His Amara was a breather. She moaned occasionally, screamed rarely because of her damaged vocal cords, and spoke sometimes, demanding his attention in the middle of sex. But she breathed – soft, slow, hard, fast, short, long, and so on. Dante had learned her breaths to learn her responses and anticipate her needs. He had spent years tracking the changes in them, understanding what each variation meant. He had memorized her like his favorite song.
That stutter in her breath meant she was getting close to coming.
Dante let go of her nipples and began circling his wet fingers around them, close but not close enough. “Can you come just like this, dirty girl?” he whispered into her neck, pressing his cock into her ass as she stood on her toes.
“Please,” she begged softly, her breasts heaving in his palms, her head falling back over his shoulder, her hands coming to wrap around his neck, thrusting her heavy tits higher.
Dante sucked on her neck, taking both handfuls of her stunning breasts and squeezing them, before plucking her nipples again, extending them out, the clay on her drying over her skin, definitely adding to the sensation.
“Oh god, Dante,” she mewled, her lips quivering as he continued his ministrations, humping her ass, pinching and pulling her nipples, and sucking her neck.
Her breath got shorter and shorter, her panting loud in the silent room surrounded by his sculptures, and Dante knew she was close. Opening his mouth, he nipped at the side of her neck, before biting down on her skin, hard enough to give her a hickey, and pinching her nipples hard.
