by Hart, Staci
I reached for his belt, ready to let something else loose, but his hips backed away with his lips. Down my body he moved, kissing a trail across my neck, my collarbone, my sternum. Broad fingers unbuttoned my shirtdress and untied the sash at my waist, exposing my torso, then my stomach, then my hips completely.
He skimmed the eyelash lace at the edge of my bra, sweeping the curve. My breasts ached, heavy and swollen. My bra barely contained them.
“You always surprise me, Kate,” he said just before his lips brushed the swell of the breast currently residing in his palm. His voice was rough, low, rumbling.
“What did I do?” I asked.
“This bra is not at all practical.” He smirked, his dark eyes flashing a glance up at me.
“No, but it’s pretty and French, and I love it.”
“So do I.” His fingers hooked the edge and pulled until it rested outside the curve. His skin was hot against mine as he cupped the weight and squeezed, bringing his lips to the tight peak of my nipple.
My lids fluttered closed with the sweep of his tongue, my back arching, hands cradling him to me.
Control, his over mine. And I didn’t want it back, not until he’d taken his fill and given me mine.
It was a strange, bodiless sensation—to feel the need to do nothing. I didn’t have to lead. I didn’t have to flip him over and do what I needed to do. I didn’t have to put his hands where I wanted them—he knew where they belonged. And that afforded me the luxury of lying boneless beneath him with nothing to think about but what I felt.
And I felt everything.
The slickness of his tongue drawing my aching nipple deeper into his mouth. The weight of his body pressing me into his bed. The contained strength of his hand testing the weight of my breast. His breath, noisy and puffing against my tingling skin.
His free hand hooked my hip, squeezed with savage ownership, slipped into my panties. Fingertips grazed the warm center of me, dipping gently into my flesh, slicking itself before brushing my swollen, aching clit with a simultaneous flick of his tongue against my nipple.
I moaned, wriggling under him. My fingers unwound from his hair, moving for his belt again. And this time, I wasn’t taking no for an answer.
The metal rattled, my hands rushing to unfasten his pants before diving inside. I found him hot and hard and heavy, the tip weeping and slick. My thumb slid across it, spreading the bead across the velvety skin of his crown, fingering the ridge, the notch, the slit.
Impatient. I was impatient, the tiger let loose and unable to be caged again. I mewled my frustration, shifting to get my hips closer to his, but with his mouth still paying homage to my breast, he was too far away.
He wanted to take his time. It was clear in the way he teased me, slipping nothing more than the tip of his finger into the heat of my body. He tried to move, tried to take his lips to the place where my thighs met.
But that was not what I wanted there.
He chuckled against my breast when I urged him up my body again.
“If I only get you once a week, I intend to enjoy you fully, Kate.”
I groaned, rolling my hips to force his finger deeper, but I was denied once again.
“We didn’t decide how many orgasms of yours I get every week.” He circled my clit with his thumb, dipping that teasing finger in again.
“As many as you want,” I breathed, the sound touched with a hint of something I could only call a whine.
“Well, in that case—” He slid his finger into me, all the way to the knuckle.
I flexed into him with a groan that started deep in my chest and hung in the air for a long, heavy moment. He squeezed. I squirmed.
Because it wasn’t enough. I’d thought it would be. But nothing would be enough, not until he did what I truly wanted.
“Fuck me, Theo,” I whispered.
His entire body reacted, tightening and curling around me, in me. His pants were gone with barely a shift. Then my panties. My dress was shucked off my arms, then my bra in a blur between kisses. And then we were naked, a hot tangle of arms and legs, hips and lips locked together. We rolled once, putting me on top of him, my hair falling around us like a curtain, filtering the golden lamplight. The kiss didn’t stop, not until I backed toward his crown, fitting the tip of him at my core.
In a flash of motion, I was underneath him again, legs spread far enough to ache. I couldn’t protest, couldn’t tell him I wasn’t able to come like this. His lips gave me no quarter, bruising and brash. And his hand slipped between us to guide his cock to the threshold of my body.
With a forceful flex of his hips, he thrust into me, the kiss breaking with my gasp. But only for a second. His hand slid to my neck as he pulled out, grasping my jaw with splayed fingers. He kissed me again as he slammed into me hard enough to jostle my breasts.
I was pinned beneath him, held in place by his rocking hips, his hand on my jaw, his lips against mine, unable to move and unable to care. With every thrust, his body rolled, slow and deliberate, pressing and releasing my aching clit with every motion. A series of motions, faster, then slower, the rhythm building with the heat of my body. I was combustible, the pressure setting a tingling across my skin, burning in my chest, shrinking my awareness to the orgasm rising within me.
I was helpless against it. Against him.
Control.
Mine was gone completely.
I came with a thundering rush, a stopping and starting of my body that shook every atom, every molecule that I was composed of. It was blinding, the intensity stopping time and space in my brain, stretching out a moment of both disconnect and awareness, of release and relief.
I realized only on the fringes of consciousness when he came, the slap of skin rising, and at the apex was a moan so deeply masculine, so powerfully possessive, my body squeezed, tightening around him as he swelled inside of me.
Thrust and throb, slower and slower, our consciousness returning by breath, by heartbeat, by kiss on slow, deep kiss. I was surrounded by him, caged by his body with blissful submission. They were two words I’d never have set next to one another. Submission and dominance had delivered me an orgasm that taught me something very important.
My sexual experiences paled in comparison to what Theo could give me.
He kissed me slowly, one hand framing my face, the other in my hair, his body braced by his forearm bracketing me in. I was surrounded, helplessly, hopelessly sated and slack.
A heavy sigh left me by way of my nose—my lips were otherwise occupied.
He broke the kiss, eyes smoldering and lips sideways. I didn’t realize I was smiling back until his thumb grazed my bottom lip.
“You’re beautiful, Kate.”
“So are you,” I said, my gaze tracing the hard lines of his nose and lips and jaw for confirmation.
His face tilted as he inspected mine. “I’d say our experiment is off to a good start.”
“Agreed. I’ve never had an orgasm like that.”
His brows flexed. “How exactly do you mean?”
“In both intensity and position. I wasn’t aware that I could have one any way but with me on top.”
The smug expression on his face had me shaking my head at him, but I was still smiling. Smiling and blushing with feverish heat.
“You know, flattery will get you everywhere,” he said.
“But I mean it. That was impressive enough to outshine any man I’ve slept with.”
“I’d like to find every one of them and tell them a thing or two.”
“Like how to be better in bed?”
“No—how stupid they were not to fuck you right when they had the chance. Because now, you’re mine.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but he kissed me before I could.
By the time he was through, I’d forgotten what I was going to say. I didn’t think I could have told you my address in the moment.
“Now,” he said, moving down my body with that ridiculous smile on his face, “if you�
��ll excuse me, I have to collect enough orgasms to last me a week.”
I laughed, sliding my hands into his hair as he kissed down my body. For a lingering moment, he paused over my stomach, his hand trailing across the flat, skimming the skin under my belly button, his lips tender, pressing to the place over where our baby resided with reverence. But then he moved on, taking his time somewhere else, collecting his dues, as promised.
Part II
Second Trimester
14
Batsignal
Katherine
13 weeks, 1 day
The click of hangers on my new-to-me closet rack was a tick of a metronome that matched the beat of electronic music playing from my portable speaker.
The contents of my closet were mostly black—skirts and dresses, pants and blouses and sweaters. Black was easy—everything matched. Every once in a while, if I was feeling adventurous, I’d throw in a little color, and I did have some dresses I’d bought on impulse while shopping with my friends. But mostly, I wore them to the club to dance, and even those were essentially neutral. The most risqué color I owned was red, which I’d defaulted to more and more lately.
Theo liked the red. And anytime I was rewarded with The Look, it reinforced the decision to wear it.
It fascinated me, the way I wanted him. Relationships were so often a source of depletion, a drain. A commitment. But with Theo, I never felt exhausted the way I did with most people. With him, I actually felt replenished.
It staggered me to recognize the fact. I hadn’t known spending time with someone could actually fill me up rather than just draw on my emotional energy, of which I had very little. So I hoarded what I had and thus kept to myself. My friends, of course, were an exception, but I had low limits, and we’d been friends so long, they never took it personally if I bowed out of anything—plans, dinner, even sharing air in the living room—which afforded me the freedom to honor what I needed, when I needed it.
But with Theo, I found my situation reversed—not only did I feel recharged, but I craved more.
It was, I believed, because he placed no demands on me. And so, I felt safe in his presence, knowing he wouldn’t withdrawal from my emotional piggy bank, only deposit.
And against all odds, I was excited to be moving in. Moving in meant more Theo time, and more Theo time meant more refilling my tank with his affection.
I frowned. Was I refilling his tank, too? Was I taking without giving? He seemed to be content, but I only saw what he chose to show me.
I made it a point to ensure I was repaying him. Somehow, I’d find a way.
My attention drifted back to the closet in my new room. It was almost the same size as the one at home, which made organizing easy enough. When I scanned the spread, I frowned again, pulling a blouse out of line to flip so it was facing the right way. I noted with a content sigh that all the hangers were evenly spaced and in perfect order.
I consulted the checklist I’d written out yesterday, which now only existed in my mind. Every word was clear as day—I could see the words being formed as I’d written them down. It was the only way I could remember anything lately.
Pregnancy brain was a real thing, and I’d been afflicted.
Clothes were put away in the closet and drawers, although I had to reconfigure my plans for the dresser. On opening the top right drawer, where my underwear was slated to go, I found it full.
Full of black French lace and a note: I see London, I see France. Couldn’t resist. Hope they fit.
I thumbed through the frippery with my throat all tight and my eyes stinging like I was going to cry. Over panties, of all things.
Really, pregnancy was for the birds, if birds were mammals.
Per my list, my next task was the bathroom, and I headed that way, feeling oddly cheerful. My stress over moving had been dissuaded largely by the prospect of Theo’s steady presence and the simple joy of organizing and cataloging my belongings. I enjoyed the methodical order, the action soothing in its own right.
And surprisingly, the change didn’t feel like so much of a change as I’d thought it would.
Maybe it was because I’d been spending so much time here and with Theo. I’d slowly started moving things over after our first step into the grand experiment, which had been a tremendous idea. I applauded myself for deferring to Theo, the relief of not having to decide everything on my own palpable and welcome. His approach was rational, and the exercise of our attraction had in some ways worn us out, like walking a hyperactive dog. The walk would start with a tugging of the leash and end with us panting and splayed out like starfish.
And for a day or two, we’d both be sated. But by the end of the week, we’d be chomping and wild-eyed and slobbering for each other again.
Despite the compounding desire, the rules were effective, comfortable. They gave me exactly what I wanted and needed in a reasonable increment, keeping a level of distance between us that we apparently needed.
I shuddered to think of what would have happened if we’d allowed ourselves to act on every impulse. I suspected I’d have been living here by default—I didn’t think we could stay away from each other. I couldn’t have, not with The Look and that body and those lips always smirking at me. Not with his brain matching mine, point for point, and not with the way he took care of me, cared for me. Respected me.
Little did I know that respect could set fireworks off in my pants.
I finished lining up shampoo bottles and moved on to the box labeled Bathroom Cabinets in neat, tidy marker, the letters uppercase and masculine. Theo’s. Every stroke was certain, confident, deliberate, just like him.
I knelt to pick up the box, and as I stood, Theo walked in. His face immediately twisted into a chastising scowl, and before I was all the way up, he snatched it from me.
I folded my arms, scowling right back at him. “I’m not an invalid.”
“I know you’re not, but the doctor said no more than ten pounds. This is more than ten pounds.” He set the box on the bathroom counter.
“I walked home with more than ten pounds of groceries yesterday and lived to tell the tale.”
That earned me narrow eyes and a flex of his jaw that was almost more enticing than The Look. “It’s like you want to get in trouble.”
“You are not the boss of me, Theodore Bane.”
He rolled his eyes and folded his arms too, but he was smiling small. “Who could ever make you do anything?”
“Oh, you seem to do quite well. You convinced me to move here, didn’t you?”
That smile hitched a little higher on one side. “And to sleep with me.”
“To be fair, I opened that conversation.”
Step one of The Look hit his eyes, triggering the doubling of my heart rate.
He took a step that breached my personal space. “And I closed it.”
I laughed, resisting the urge to reach for him. “Well, it was a good idea.”
“It was, wasn’t it?”
“Thank you, by the way. For the lingerie.”
“Don’t mention it.”
I laughed nervously as he came closer, close enough to feel the heat of his body and smell his soap. “That’s funny. Unmentionables.”
A smirk. “Tried them on yet?”
“N-no. Not yet.” I backed into the counter, grasping the edge.
“Mmm,” he hummed. “I’d like to know how they fit. By the way, it’s been nearly a week,” he said as if I hadn’t been counting. His eyes were on my lips, the anticipation firing nerves across mine, setting them tingling.
“It has.”
His tongue swept his bottom lip, drawing it into his mouth. “It’s been a long week.”
“It has,” I breathed. Kiss me. Kiss me. KISS ME, DAMMIT.
But instead, he took a step back, the look on his face smug and teasing, though under it, I saw his restraint. “Good thing we have rules, Kate. Otherwise, I’d lock that door and fuck you right here on the counter.”
He tu
rned, reaching for another box from the floor, probably so I wouldn’t do it myself. And I stood there, hanging on to the countertop with white knuckles, trying to put my face back together as a burst of imagery of him banging me right here, right now, grabbed my brain’s steering wheel and drove it away like a getaway car.
Theo ripped the box open with his bare hands, the pop and snap of packing tape shockingly masculine. It made me think of him ripping other things. Like panties.
The research I’d done indicated my libido might be heightened because of hormones, which I’d found to be undeniably, frustratingly true. But when he did things like ripping boxes apart and hauling furniture and cooking and smelling like a goddamn man feast and such, it magnified all that sexual frustration by a thousand times.
I sighed, releasing the countertop and turning for the box he’d so unceremoniously ripped from my hands.
He reached into his box, unloading its contents neatly onto the counter, changing the subject to dinner. And I half listened, my eyes occasionally darting to his hands, which were massive and broad, remembering all the things those hands could do, reminiscing about how they felt on my body.
And he was oblivious, going on about the menu as I fantasized about him over cotton balls and Q-tips.
He wouldn’t kiss me because he was following the rules like the gentleman he was.
Bastard.
I realized belatedly that he was watching me as if he was waiting on an answer to an unheard question.
“I’m sorry, I wasn’t listening,” I admitted. “What did you say?”
A smile, sideways and sly. “I said, I was surprised to find you listening to electronic music. I figured you for a Tchaikovsky type of girl.”
“I like electronic music. It sounds like math.”
A laugh. “What were you thinking about just now?”
“The very long week,” I answered.
“Well, you know how to put an end to it.”
“I do, but we still have two more days until it’s officially been a week. We’d be breaking the rules.”