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“Eleven,” she murmurs and I smirk, curling my fingers around her hips. “Good girl.”
I grind against her core, tantalizing us both with pleasure that’s just out of reach. Then I keep my gaze locked on hers as I drive into her, passion crashing over both of us like a tidal wave. Her breath comes out in frantic pants and I can’t help but take my time in devouring her with my eyes—the way her curves melt against the car, desire pouring off her skin. She’s perfect.
I grip onto her hair tightly and she moans deep in her throat when I pull it. “Look at you, Brownie... You fucking love it when I get rougher, don’t you?” I whisper against her neck.
“Yes,” she cries out, pushing herself back into me in desperate need for more. And that’s exactly what I give her, each thrust accompanied by a tug of her hair to make her gasp.
“Oh, yes!” Her cries echo through the trees and our bodies move together in a frenzied rhythm as I thrust harder and faster into her warmth. I feel her trembling in anticipation beneath me and suddenly all I can think about is giving this goddess what she needs, what she deserves.
So I wrap my arm around her waist and muffle her cries with my hand, while slipping the other between her legs to stroke her sensitive nub. The combination makes us both shudder uncontrollably as we draw ever closer to the climax. She’s so perfect and beautiful and everything I’ve ever wanted, and right now all I want is to make sure she experiences all the pleasure I can give to her.
Amanda’s moan reverberates through my palm as I rub her clit but stop my trust.
I lower my head to the crook of her neck and whisper in a teasing tone, “What’s wrong, beautiful?” I move my hand away from her mouth.
“Don’t fucking stop. Fuck me. I’m so close,” she pants.
“Needy, are we?” I laugh in amusement.
“I—” Her voice trails off as a moan escapes her throat when I plunge deep inside her delicious cunt.
“Oh God, yes, just like that. Don’t stop,” she cries out.
There is no way I could bring myself to stop; it feels too good.
Our flesh merges together, and the sight of her brown hair swaying with each thrust has me delirious with pleasure. To push her over the edge, I tug on her hair and increase the power of my thrusts. She comes loudly, screaming my name. And when her walls grip my cock with immense force, I surrender to bliss with a roar of pleasure.
“Sex outdoors is added to the favorite list.” Amanda gasps for air after our mind-blowing ride.
I suppress my laughter as I separate from her body and watch as she dresses herself up. Disposing of the condom, I close the gap between us, taking hold of her hand before planting a kiss on the back of it. “You’re perfect... Now let’s go so the doctor doesn’t wonder where we are.”
My palms aresweaty and my pulse races as I sit in the waiting area of the cardiologist’s office, fidgeting with my hands as nervousness builds inside of me. Amanda reaches over and takes one of my hands in hers, giving it a comforting squeeze. As good as we’re doing as a couple, I’ve noticed the theme, kids, is hanging above our heads. So we’re here to get clarity on the subject.
My pulse races as I consider the words Doctor Wilson might say.
If the news isn’t what we hoped for, will she leave me?
But what if the news is bad and she stays with me by sacrificing her dream of having her own family?These and other possibilities swirl in my mind, making my stomach churn as I cling to the strand of hope that this visit will bring positive news for us.
The door of Dr. Wilson’s office opens, and a couple comes out together with him following behind. As soon as they leave, the cardiologist gestures for us to come inside.
“Good morning.” The wrinkles around Doctor Wilson’s eyes deepen as he smiles and shakes our hands.
“How are you doing, Brian?”
“Good, can’t wait to get my freedom back when it comes to driving.”
He nods. “I understand, but these are the rules after an ICD shock.”
When I nod, he leans forward and props his elbows on the desk.
“So what was it that you two wanted to discuss with me?”
I take another deep breath and break the silence by asking the direct question. “If we wanted children, what are the chances our child would inherit Brugada Syndrome?”
My leg jostles restlessly as the doctor lets out a slight grimace and reaches for the chart on his desk. He steadies himself in his seat before replying. Amanda grabs one of my hands, entwining our fingers together.
“I see... Well, if I were to put it in percentages,” he begins, “your child has a fifty percent chance of inheriting Brugada Syndrome or the predisposition to it.”
