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“What are you trying to tell me, sweetheart?” Hooking her thigh higher, I change the angle, hitting a spot inside Lucy that makes her howl and claw at the cushions. “Go on, spit it out.”
She glares, but her mouth twitches with humor, even now. God, I love teasing this woman—especially when she gets her revenge by clamping down on my length, squeezing me with her inner muscles until I nearly choke on my tongue.
“Hngh,” I say.
“Spit it out, Darius.”
Rallying, I snake a hand between us and thumb her clit. And when Lucy’s head tips back, when her moan floats up to the ceiling, I know I’ve won this particular battle. “Tell me.”
“I want you to…”
Lucy grunts, burying her face in my throat. And I keep thrusting, rubbing, chasing her higher, even as my back muscles tremble and sweat slides down my spine.
“Yes?”
“Want you to c—” Lucy breaks off, tossing her head, raking my chest with her nails. Little spitfire. “Want you to… to come in me.Please.”
Holy hell.
My gut cramps, sparks zipping down my spine, and as my thumb rubs circles on her nub, I send up a silent prayer that I can last through this. That I can get her there first.
“You first, sweetheart.” Tendons stand out in my neck, and I keep thrusting, plunging deep. “Come for me. Show me how pretty you are when you fall apart.”
The answer: like a goddamn angel.
As though she was waiting for my command, Lucy tenses up, breath seizing. Her channel clamps down on me, twitching and tight, and I can’t wait any longer. Wedging as deep as I can go, I follow my girl over the precipice. Soaring, flying, falling.
I’d follow her anywhere. To the ends of the Earth.
And when I pump her full, flooding her with spurt after spurt, my frantic heart finally settles in my chest. The beast inside me purrs.
Yes.
Lucy is mine. Claimed and filled until she drips.
About time.
* * *
One year later
It’s eight AM on a Sunday, and that means I’m behind schedule. Power-walking down the sunlit street, with launderettes, cafes, and used bookstores passing in my peripheral vision, I clear my throat and walk faster.
There’s no reason to stress like this. Notreally. Lucy won’t care if I bring coffee and pastries to her reading nook rather than waking her with a kiss on the forehead, butIcare, damn it. I swore a private oath.
Besides, bringing my wife breakfast in bed is one of my great joys. And if there hadn’t been an unexpected line at our favorite bakery, if some tourist hadn’t spent forever umming and ahhing over custard tarts and bear claws, I’d already be home—picking flecks of pastry off Lucy’s pajama top, rather than here, zooming around a young mother with a double-wide buggy.
It’s a bright, warm day, and the air is crisp. Away from the city center, we actually get some quiet on Sunday mornings, broken only by the rumble of occasional passing cars and thesmack, bounceof neighborhood kids playing basketball.
My chest throbs with the need to get home already. To see my wife, and deliver her special decaf coffee. To rub her feet, sore and swollen from her third trimester, and reassure her for themillionth time that she doesn’t look like a hippo. That, frankly, I wouldn’t care if shedid.
Lucy is always beautiful to me.
Our building is quiet when I reach it, my steps echoing on the lobby tiles. There’s an ancient elevator, but I hit the stairwell instead, because I can climb faster than that thing rises.
My paper bag crinkles. I’ve brought her almond croissants today, lightly dusted with icing sugar. The pastries seep warmth through the paper, clutched carefully to my chest.
Did Lucy sleep alright?
