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I pull my fingers out slowly, and she watches over her shoulder with dark, dazed eyes as I bring them to my mouth. After sucking her sweet, musky arousal from myself, I push my boxer briefs down just enough to free my cock. Her body is still nuzzled into mine when I slide my thick, aching head through her wetness and push into her.
“Fuck,” I grit, feeling her stretch around me. My forehead drops to her shoulder, a deep groan rattles from my lungs as I sink deeper, slowly filling her inch by inch until I’m buried to the hilt. My hips stutter, my control fraying at the edges. “You feel like heaven, sweetheart. Like you were made for me. Like this pussy was designed to take my cock; to take my cum; to grow my baby.”
“Please,” she whimpers, flexing her hips to drag her over my length.
I move in slow, deep thrusts, dragging my cock over every inch of her sensitive walls. Spreading my hand possessively over her stomach, I hold her flush to me as I fuck her. “Is this what you want?” I growl, my hips grinding against her ass. “You want me to worship this perfect little pussy as I fill it? To make you mine in every way possible?”
Her fingers clawing at the sheets, she chants, “God, yes, Daddy. Please, I need it. I need you—”
“You have me,” I promise, my thrusts becoming harder, more erratic, pleasure building at the base of my spine. “You have all of me. This is yours, sweetheart. Only yours. Forever.”
I shift my angle, reaching deeper, and she cries out, her body tensing as she approaches another peak. She tightens around me, milking me, silently begging for my release even as she chases her own.
“That’s it,” I encourage. “I want to give you everything I am, everything I have. Be a good girl and take Daddy’s seed, sweetheart. Be a good girl, and let me put a baby in you.”
“Oh God, I’m… I’m going to—”
“Come with me,” I command, my own orgasm barreling through me.
She screams my name, her body seizing, her muscles clamping down on me like a vise, and I bury myself as deep as I can go. When my tip hits her cervix, I let go. “Fuuuuuck,” I groan, my hips jerking involuntarily, and my cock twitching as I come. The pleasure is blinding as I pulse inside her, filling her with everything I have.
Both of us are sweating and still panting. I pull her against my chest and hold her impossibly close, my cock still buried deep inside her. Her heartbeat, rapid and wild, slows gradually to match mine. As my cock grows soft, my cum begins to leak from where we’re joined.
“Don’t move,” I whisper against her hair, my lips brushing her temple. “Stay right here. Let me hold you. Let me keep you full.”
She relaxes in my embrace, her hand covering mine where it rests on her stomach as we lie there in the soft morning light. In this perfect, fragile moment, she is mine completely. And I hope she can feel how much I am hers.
Because we started late, the board meeting bled into the late afternoon, dragging on for longer than it should’ve. Every moment since has been spent trying to catch up. One presentation runs into the next, and every time we resolve one problem, another takes its place. Each new crisis with the South Side project has demanded attention before the last was resolved.
I paid attention to the quarterly projections and financial discussions, taking notes and asking questions. I played the dutiful wife, interested partner, and woman who belongs at this table. But underneath, I am chaos, my stomach churning with the secret that I carry.
Every time Vance spoke, his voice sent a flutter through my belly. It has nothing to do with the baby growing there and everything to do with this morning, when he touched me so tenderly and spoke so sweetly.
When the board meeting finally breaks, it’s nearly four o’clock, and I have just enough time to gulp down some crackers from my purse—saltines that I am quickly finding do absolutely nothing to settle my stomach—before I’m pulled into another meeting about the South Side project.
I follow Marcus Chen, the architectural lead, into one of the smaller conference rooms with my tablet clutched against my chest.
“The zoning board is pushing back on the mixed-use designation.” Marcus spreads blueprints across the table with hands that tremble slightly. He’s nervous around me, unsure how to treat the boss’s wife. “They’re citing concerns about traffic flow and infrastructure strain.”
I lean over the blueprints, grateful for the distraction of a concrete problem that requires concrete solutions. “What about the community outreach we discussed? The neighborhood coalition? Have they submitted their letters of support?”
“They have, but…” He trails off, running a hand through his thinning hair. “There’s resistance from the commercial developers on the eastern edge. They want retail-only, no residential. They claim residential units will ‘degrade the commercial viability.’”
“That’s code for they don’t want affordable housing units.” A spark of anger fires through me. “They want high-end retail that prices out the people who actually live there.”
Marcus nods, looking relieved that I agree. “Exactly. And they’re applying pressure through channels that… Well, they’re not entirely above board.”
We spend two and a half hours, pouring over documents, drafting responses, and making calls to city planners and community organizers. I lose myself in the work. The logistics of permits and zoning variances bury my thoughts about the positive pregnancy test in our bathroom trash and whether love can exist in the space between possession and obsession.
By the time Marcus and I finish, the sun has dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in bruised purples and angry oranges. I walk him to the elevator, my feet aching in the heels Vance prefers, and my back stiff from hours of tension.
“Thank you, Mrs. Ashford,” Marcus says, stepping into the elevator. “Your insights on community engagement were invaluable.”
“Please, call me Sophia,” I insist automatically, though I know he won’t. None of them do.
The Ashford Group executive floor is usually a hive of activity—assistants rushing around with coffee, executives in urgent conversation, the constant hum of productivity that defines Vance’s empire. But as the elevator doors slide shut, at nearly eight o’clock on a Tuesday evening, it is stiflingly quiet. Desolate.
I turn toward my office to grab my things when I catch two figures down the. Vance and Melanie are standing outside his office.
