by Lexi Whitlow
He stands up and puts his papers on the table next to him. “Prove it.”
I stand and go to him, putting aside my laptop where I’m expecting my acceptance any day. “With pleasure.”
“Not that we want to go jump starting anything…” he says. But he’s already got me in his arms, hands wandering up to my breasts. His knuckles brush against my nipples, making them as hard as little bullets.
“I wouldn’t mind a jump start, if you can handle all of this.” I gesture to my body, and we dissolve in laughter. My belly is shaped like a watermelon, but Matthias grabs my ass like he always has, mouth meeting mine and melting into it, tongue glancing against my own.
“I can handle it,” he growls. “Plus you just taste so good right now, I don’t think I can ever quite get enough.” He raises my gauzy white shirt and lowers his mouth to one nipple, sucking on it through the lacy fabric of my bra. A white-hot bolt of energy sears through my center, straight to my sex. I can feel myself growing wet, ready for his fullness.
“You want to taste me?” I murmur the words, almost purring in his ear.
“That I do.” I feel his hands sliding in the waistband of my jeans, pulling them down with my panties in one fluid motion. I step out of them, and he motions for me to sit on the sofa, commanding me with his movements like he always does. And just like the first time, I submit exactly how he desires, spreading my legs for him. Unlike our first night together, however, there’s no blushing, no embarrassment in the distance between us.
Instead, he kneels and slips two fingers deep into my sex, working my g-spot while he looks into my eyes. “Take off your shirt and your bra, Mal.”
I do as he says, eyes locked on his. He moans softly as he watches me, and I try to catch my breath, panting and inching forward as he taps against my most sensitive place inside time and time again. “Oh fuck,” I moan. “You’re going to make me come.”
“One of my favorite things about my pregnant wife,” he says, lowering his mouth close to my clit, his warm breath sending shivers up and down my spine. “Is how very sensitive she is. How easily I can make her come and keep coming. All night. You like it too, don’t you, lieverd?”
“Oh God, yes. Yes I do.”
“Tell me, Mal. Do you want me to eat you or fuck you?”
My head swims. His voice is rich with longing, and I can hear him unzipping himself. The thrumming desire intensifies when he starts to stroke himself. “Both,” I whimper.
“Good,” he breathes. “Good choice, mijn schat.” His lips meet my skin, sucking and nibbling, pulling, tongue moving in quick, methodical circles. In ten seconds—maybe less—I’m coming hard and shaking against his face, begging him to fuck me in a senseless, babbling string of words.
Gently, he flips me around so my hands and head rest on the sofa, grabbing my breasts and then my hips. He doesn’t bother to undress himself but instead, slides his hungry cock between my legs, groaning with intense relief as he buries himself deep inside. His breath quickens, and he moves so that every time he fills me, he drives deeper. I reach back to my own clit, stroking myself closer and closer to orgasm as he fills me. My muscles tighten, and I come again. My pleasure washes over me, slower and deeper this time, spreading through my sex and into every cell of my body. I cry out his name and shudder against him. Sensing my release, he increases his speed, letting his muscles tense and let go as he comes inside of me, filling me to the hilt with the warm rush of his essence.
Later, when we’re both dressed again and making dinner, we can’t help smirking at each other and kissing like newlyweds. I guess we are still that—even though we’re expecting a baby any time.
“That was definitely nicer than going out,” I say, rolling out fresh pasta for the boiling water on the stove. Matthias works on his new specialty, a delicate red sauce with tomatoes and olives. The man may never have cooked for himself before moving in with me, but he’s figured out he has a talent for it. And I have no problem with that at all.
As we eat and talk about school and money and all the baby things in the back room, the anxiety we both felt about our acceptance letters starts to fade away. When it’s nearing midnight, we fall into bed, folding into each other’s arms. Matthias delivers on what he promised, too—he keeps me up far later than he should.
And for what might be the last time for nearly a decade to come, we sleep in until well past breakfast time and make love again before we even get coffee.
I count down the days until forty weeks. It takes me a while to fully wake up, and the number of days dances along in my mind.
“There’s so much time to go,” I mutter.
Matthias helps me up and whirls me around, pulling me into his arms. “But we’re spending it together. That’ll help it go faster, won’t it?”
“You’ve obviously never been thirty-six weeks and one day pregnant before,” I say, laughing.
When we turn on the news, there’s another story on Matthias’s mother.
Without hesitation, he simply turns it off and makes a pot of dark, hot coffee instead.
Addy and Caryn will be here in two days for Matthias’s birthday, and they’re the only part of the Albring family that we care about. The only part we want to deal with. Even if they bring a huge media team in their wake, we’ll be happy to see them.
Emilie will be here after that, to help me in the last weeks of my pregnancy—and to get ideas on her new line of clothing. Hopefully, she’ll remember to bring that bottle of wine.
If only they could all be here when the baby comes…
I touch my growing belly and wonder exactly when that will be.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Matthias
“You ready?” I roll over in the bed and tap Mallory on the shoulder.
“What for?” She grumbles and keeps her eyes closed, pulling the pillow down over her head. At thirty-six and half weeks pregnant, I can’t say I blame her. Not that I’ve ever been knocked up by a prince, but it doesn’t look particularly comfortable at this stage. It does look fucking sexy, I keep trying to convince her. But the whole forward-heavy slow-motion thing—I’m pretty sure she’s done with it.
My heart leaps. A baby. Our baby.
I never knew I wanted this—hell, I actively didn’t want it because of how my parents treated me and Addy for so many years. But now that it’s here, right in front of me, I can’t imagine my life turning out any differently.
“Don’t you remember?” I grin. I know it’ll click in her head when she wakes all the way up. Truthfully, I couldn’t give a single fuck that she doesn’t remember my birthday. It’s never been that important to me—but Addy and Caryn are on their way here. And the media might just be descending on our apartment when they arrive. There’s nothing like gay royalty to stir up a media blitz. As the papers keep saying, it’s very 2016 chic. And a pregnant American girl with a former prince—no, king—well, let’s just say we’re a modern family, even in Amsterdam.
“Remember wha…” Her voice trails off, and for a second, I think I might hear her start to snore again. But her eyes pop open. I bite my lip and pull her into my arms, kissing her before she has time to say something self-deprecating.
“Happy birthday to me… I’m one year closer to thirty. Big twenty-eight. And—”
“Oh shit. Addy and Caryn.” She brings one hand to her forehead and closes her eyes again. Her body is soft and round and naked against mine. On any other day, I’d roll her over gently in bed to see if we could get in a quickie, but I know Mal by now. And I know she needs at least thirty minutes to freak out about what’s happening, and then another thirty minutes to run around the apartment getting ready and trying to tame her curls.
I feel her try to pull away from me, but I just hold her for a second until she stops pulling. “It’s going to be fine. You’re beautiful. They’re easy to be around—decidedly unlike the rest of my family. And the people from the media are all people Addy-approved. I promise.”
&n
bsp; “And I forgot your birthday.”
“It’s six in the morning. I woke you from a deep pregnancy sleep. There’s no reason you should remember what’s happening. I’d be surprised if you did. It’s okay. I don’t care about it. My parents never made a big deal of it,” I say. “So now I don’t either.”
Her face softens, and her arms wrap around my neck in the near-darkness. The only light comes from the gentle glow of streetlights outside. “I’ll be the one who cares about it from here on out. Our families might have been messed up, Matthias. But maybe when I’m not eight months pregnant, I’ll remember better. We can make our own traditions now that we’re together.”
I brush a dark brown curl back behind her ear and kiss her forehead, her skin warm and soft against my lips. “I’d like that. I think we both deserve that, don’t you, lieverd?”
She nestles into me closer, and I take in the vaguely tropical scent of her hair. I haven’t ever been this close to someone before. It feels amazing, a miracle I never expected out of my own life. Maybe in all of the time I spent searching for tourist girls that were good for a night, I was really looking for Mallory. Fate is funny that way—it gives you what you need when you’re least expecting it. Here we are, finally in the arms of people who truly care for us.
I’d always thought having a wife and child would make life far too complicated for a man running from his past—but Mal has made it so much simpler. She gave me the will to stand up to my family, the solution to become the man I wanted to be, and the reason to build a solid foundation for my life.
There’s no man luckier on the continent—I’d be willing to gamble on it.
Mal kisses me again and gets up to shower, her body round and promising, a sign of our future together.
I lie in bed, glancing over to the bassinet and wondering when it might be time to meet our son. Even if I was demoted in my family’s royal hierarchy, our son will still be the richest thing in our lives. I’m sure of it.
After her shower, we both get dressed—her in a purple maternity dress she made herself, and me in my button-down shirt and jeans that might not be fully suitable for meeting a queen. But that queen is my little sister, so I think I’ll be able to get away with it. The sun is coming up, so I make breakfast and engage Mal, talking about meaningless things for a while so she won’t think about the media storm and all the things we’ve been through.
“Is Emilie’s line selling through her website?” I ask, spreading batter for our crepes onto a hot skillet.
Mal smiles and places a protective hand on her belly, her brows furrowing for a second like she’s concentrating on something. “What?”
“I was asking about Emilie’s line—Mal, are you okay?”
“Oh yeah. Just the Braxton Hicks contractions. Pour me a glass of orange juice, will you? I probably need to start getting hydrated so they’ll stop.” She smiles at me, and the pain on her face is gone. “And yeah, I think Emilie’s line is selling really well. She wants me to design a few pieces for it, but something tells me we’ll be busy for the next few months. And then there’s business school to think about.” She shrugs.
“You should. Don’t let what we have ever stop you from what you want to do with your life.”
“Oh, I’m not. I’ll design for her eventually. And I think a lot of women in Europe might like a more fashionable maternity line.”
She gestures to her dress and puts her hand down on her belly again, her face scrunching up for an instant and then going back to normal. At that very moment, a limo pulls up outside of our apartment, followed by five SUVs that probably contain a variety of bodyguards and reporters. The rest of the media will be here soon, so I put our breakfast aside on our breakfast table and grab Mal’s hand.
“They’re here. Early.”
Her face blanches. “I thought they were supposed to come an hour from now. I’m not—I need to eat.” She furrows her brow and grabs a day-old croissant from our counter, nibbling on a few bites before we make our way downstairs to greet our guests.
“Queen Adelaide might be so kind as to take us to breakfast.”
“At a cafe too small for reporters?”
“Bingo,” I say, letting Mal grasp my arm as we walk downstairs together. Her grip tightens as we reach the last step and then tightens again when we open the door.
“It’s nothing,” she whispers to me. “I just need some juice and maybe another pastry—”
Her hand goes to the top of her belly again. When I put my hand just under hers, I can feel how tight the muscles beneath her skin are. “Isn’t this what happens when you go into labor?”
“I don’t know—I think it’s what happens when you have any kind of contraction. And that doesn’t necessarily mean anything at all—” She whispers and then turns to smile broadly, her expression masking her pain and concern. There are already newspeople lining up behind Addy’s car, their camera’s flashing. Spring is already in the air, but it’s still chilly outside at this time of the morning, and Mal pulls into me, shivering. I can’t tell if she’s still having contractions, but I look down and see her hand resting at the top of her belly again. Something in my gut tightens—worry and excitement mixed together in equal measure.
Is thirty-six weeks full term? Or was it thirty-seven? Is she close enough? Or—
Before I have time to think more about it, my sister steps out of her transport, Caryn following behind her. Both of them are dressed in Emilie’s designs, gifts they received from us for their wedding.
Mal laughs and Addy comes up to her, taking Mallory into her arms.
“I never thought you’d wear the dresses,” Mal says. “But you both look amazing.”
The cameras go wild, snapping pictures of all of us in different combinations.
“Of course we’re wearing the dresses. They are truly fabulous.” Addy takes Mallory’s arm and starts to walk down the street, pulling me and Caryn after her.
“I hope we’re going to a cafe where no one can follow us—we are, aren’t we?” Mal laughs when she speaks, a beautiful sound.
And Addy squeezes her in response. “Certainly. I’m done with caring too much about what other people think. If any one of these people behind us has a problem with it, they can stuff it.” Addy winks at Mal, and I watch as Mallory puts her hand over her belly again. Addy turns back to me. “And happy birthday, big brother. I’m glad I was able to make the trip—though not in time to meet my nephew, right?”
“Hopefully not,” Mal mutters as we arrive at the entrance to the cafe. The reporters are all still following us, some of their faces looking grim as we all stand in front of the cafe and turn back to them.
“Looks like some of them will indeed have to stuff it,” Caryn says, pulling her cascade of red hair back over her shoulder and taking Addy’s hand in hers. The reporters crowd around us before we walk inside, taking pictures and peppering all four of us with questions.
Mal looks overwhelmed, and her face turns pale. I go to stand next to her and wrap my arm around her. “You sure you’re up for this today? I can walk you back to the apartment—”
“I’m just tired and hungry. I think we’ll all be just fine after we sit down.” I can tell that the pain is cycling through her, the waves hitting her over and over now. In our months together, I’ve learned to read her face and all the small gestures of her body. I can tell—things are not quite as they should be.
“Mallory, I’m serious—”
A reporter butts in next to us. “Isn’t it true that Mallory seduced you, thinking she’d get the crown?” The man has an American accent, and that seedy, prying tone to his voice that many of the paparazzi have when they’re trying to goad celebrities into responding angrily.
I ignore him and try to turn back into the cafe. I didn’t know there’d be lowlifes among my sister’s selected reporters. Addy shrugs at me and furrows her brows when she sees the man, as if to let me know he was never approved.
“And isn’t it true you g
ot pregnant to secure your place in the Albring family?” The guy steps in closer, and I suddenly feel like we’re all in a trap, the media storm descending on the lot of us again. We’d all thought it was over, but apparently, no one can get enough of us.
“Listen,” I say, unable to bear it any longer. “Mal had no idea she was even dealing with the Albring family. So why don’t you kindly fuck off—”
Mal leans into me and grips my arm hard. “On second thought,” she says, her voice strained. “I think I might need to go back to the apartment, Matthias.”
“Hey, buddy, don’t you tell me to fuck off—” The American reporter leans in closer and snaps a picture of Mal leaning into me. If she weren’t using me for support, I’d get in my fighter’s stance and slug the asshole in the face.
“Listen, all of you,” I shout, voice booming. “My wife is having some trouble right now, so I need all of you to back the hell off.” I pause. My voice came out angrier than I expected. “Please,” I add, gesturing to Mallory.
This only heightens the frenzy around us, cameras snapping and voice recorders popping on. I growl and start trying to guide Mal back through the crowd. Addy and Caryn give us worried looks. One of Addy’s bodyguards gestures for his team to surround us and hold the reporters away.
Before the team of bodyguards can get in formation, the American reporter closes in and sticks his microphone in Mallory’s face. “I heard you came to Amsterdam expressly to find Prince Matthias and entrap him into this fake marriage?”
Mallory, pain still raging through her, snaps her head up and snarls. “You think this is fake?” She gestures to her belly. “You think the four of us are some kind of piece of fucking performance art? Well—” Mal pauses and then clasps her hand over the top of her enormous baby bump, bending over and groaning in pain. She looks up again. “Then, well—fuck you.”