After His Vow (Knocked Up and Locked Down #2)

Chapter 1 Mia

ONE

MIA

A dozen camera shutters snap like beating wings. I blink slowly against the flashes, my eyes burning. I hate this part of our life—the one where I have to be someone I’m not.

A reporter shouts over the barrier to ask what designer I’m wearing, another fires a question about my heels. I ignore them both, keeping my hand on my hip, poised.

The perfect wife.

But inside, I’m squirming. My thighs twitch as the vibrations flutter along the walls of my pussy.

Oh, fuck.

I lick my suddenly dry lips, my smile faltering for a second before I slide it back in place. The lights are too bright and too hot. My skin is on fire. My nape is sweaty, beads trickling between my breasts.

I try to focus on the swarm of photographers, on the step and repeat banner behind me, on the camera flashes. But the device pulses so hard I swear I moan. My pussy tries to clamp around it, unsure whether to hold it in or push it out.

Am I breathing too hard?

Am I flushed?

Am I about to orgasm in front of the media?

Focus, Mia. Breathe.

But I can’t. Because my panties are soaked. They have been from the second I walked into the building. From before that, if I’m being honest. As soon as I climbed into the limousine and Jensen told me to part my thighs, I knew exactly how this evening was going to play out.

The vibrations of the egg inside me increase and my back almost bows. Stars spill across my vision and my lungs hitch.

Oh, my word.

I’m grateful for the noise, for the hum of journalists, paparazzi, and guests because this time I do moan, low and guttural.

I bite my lip, vainly trying to hold back any more sounds as the egg trembles against my inner walls.

He’s doing this on purpose. Asshole. He enjoys knowing I’m barely keeping it together and that he has control of my body.

I like that too, but I swear if he makes me come in front of all these photographers, I’m going to smother him with a pillow when we get home.

I cast a discreet glance along the banner to where he’s waiting.

Jensen Rivers, CEO of Novariv, tech genius, billionaire, and my husband.

He still makes my heart race the same way he did when we were fifteen. The gangly awkward boy he was then is buried under broad shoulders and a face so handsome it should be illegal to look that good.

He has brown eyes that are easy to get lost in, dark hair he keeps short, and a thin covering of stubble over a jaw that could cut glass.

The suit he’s wearing costs more than we had to live on in a month when we were barely married.

Back then, the thought of spending money on luxury would make me laugh.

Now, he’s standing there with shoes imported from a top Italian designer and a price tag that makes my eyes water.

Even his watch cost over three thousand dollars. I know, because I bought it for him on our last anniversary.

My breath hitches, and not because of the device inside me this time.

It’s the Jensen effect.

His lips twitch as our eyes lock. I shoot him a look, one that promises pain later if he dares to touch the app again.

That’s my first mistake. Issuing a silent challenge is like waving a red flag to a bull when it comes to my husband.

And, of course, he purposely slaps his thumb against the screen, and the vibrations bite along my already sensitive walls.

Son of a—

I nearly drop to my knees. Don’t fucking scream. I clamp my teeth together, my jaw tight as I try to concentrate on wrapping up the last few photographs so I can escape.

I’m about to leave the step and repeat area when a man at the barrier shouts, “When can we expect to see the pitter-patter of tiny Rivers feet?”

I forget about the toy vibrating inside my body, just for a second.

The feminist urge to burn everything to the ground surges.

But I bring it under control, swallowing down the words that sit like acid on my tongue.

“Do you ask everybody when they’re planning on starting a family, or just the women? ”

He flushes. Good. Choke on that, jerk.

The female journalists surrounding him shoot daggers in his direction. It’s not the first time I’ve been asked that and I doubt it will be the last either. It’s none of their business when we start our family. Vultures.

“My readers want to know.” He tries to defend his question.

I give him a smile that does not reflect in my eyes. “I’m sure your readers would be far more interested in the two million dollars my gallery has given to domestic violence shelters. Or maybe the half a million put aside to teach children art across low socio-economic backgrounds.”

He shrinks further into himself.

I let him off the hook, shaking my head, and leaving the bright lights behind me.

Jensen taps his phone and the vibrations inside me slow, the walls of my pussy loosening a little.

As soon as I’m close, it disappears into his pocket and his hands land on my hips.

He stares at me like his world begins and ends with every breath I take.

I get it. It’s the same for me. Jensen has been stitched into my DNA from the first time I met him all those years ago.

Back then we were kids. Barely teens, but even then I knew he was mine.

“You look flustered, sweetheart.” His deep, gravelly voice caresses over my skin like a weighted blanket.

I try to glare at him. I really do. “You’re playing a dangerous game. What if I’d dropped to my knees in front of all those press members, moaning and gasping?” I say the last part quietly, even though no one is close enough to hear.

His hand drifts from my hip to cup the side of my neck. Instinctively, I lean into his touch. I always do. “Then I would have to kill everyone who saw and heard you making those sounds that are only for me.”

Warm breath grazes over my skin as he leans in and presses a kiss to my cheek. He wants my mouth, I can tell. His eyes keep dropping to my lips.

“You’re insane,” I murmur.

“You knew that before you married me, Mia.”

I did, and I wouldn’t change a fucking thing about him.

His cologne fills my nose, and the steady hum of the vibrating egg inside me is almost comforting. Like he’s stroking my pussy without touching me. “How wet are you, my beautiful, talented, amazing wife?”

Wet? My thighs are slick under my dress, like he’s already been inside me and left his mark behind.

“I’m soaked,” I whisper, my eyes darting in case anyone has suddenly drifted close by.

Behind the polite smiles and composure, there’s raw greed simmering inside me.

They’d notice it if they look close enough.

Notice the way my hands tremble and my eyes are heavy.

The way I keep crossing my legs and shifting on my feet.

“I think you enjoy seeing me like this, knowing that I can’t do anything about it. ”

There’s that twitch of his lips again. It’s not quite a smile, but it’s the promise of one.

Jensen’s hands graze along my spine, like he’s mapping the shape of me through the silk of my dress.

“I like knowing I can bring you to your knees without touching you.” A slow, unbearable ache takes root between my legs, followed by a primal want for him to shove up my dress, and spear his thick length inside my body.

“I like knowing that you’re on the edge of coming and I’m the only one in this room who knows it.

I like that your pleasure is in my hands, Mia.

” He leans in and my heart flutters. “If it were up to me, I’d keep your beautiful cunt full of me all day.

I’d cum in you until your belly bulges with it.

Then I’d plug you tight, so not a drop is wasted. ”

I swallow, then do it again as his grip bites into my hips. To the people watching, it looks like a sweet moment between husband and wife. They have no idea the filth spilling from his mouth. But I’m not a passive observer and I like playing him at this game.

So I peer up at him through my lashes. “Then take me home and do it. Fill me up, Jensen. Make me your little cum goddess.”

This time, he smiles. Grins really. That cocky lift of his lips does something to me I can’t explain. “You have to stay. You’re the star of the show tonight.”

I shift on my feet, which is a bad idea, because it moves the vibrating egg inside me and I see stars. Fuck.

I grip his biceps, my legs suddenly weak. My head is spinning as everything below my navel clamps through the surging heat.

“Jensen.” I mean for his name to come out as a command, an order to turn it off, to stop tormenting me, but what I actually give him is a breathy, wanton moan.

He tucks my hair behind my ear, like I’m not standing there, about to fall apart in public. “Just feel it, beautiful. Don’t fight it.”

Someone passes us, heading to the media area. I turn my head, hiding my flushed face. “I can’t…”

Whatever I was going to say gets lost. I clench hard around the egg as my pleasure crests like a violent, sharp wave.

Oh… Oh, fuck.

I cling desperately to him, like he’s the only thing tethering me to this world. Because he is. Because that’s who he’s always been for me. Whether I’m sad or happy, or about to come in front of my guests.

I swallow my orgasm, hiding it behind gritted teeth. I must be leaving bruises on his arms, but all I’m focused on is dragging air through my nose.

This is how I die. Trying to swallow the detonation coiling through me.

I bury my face in his chest, my legs shaking.

Oh, fuck. Oh, shit. I’m nearly there.

Am I panting into his shirt? Am I drooling?

It’s too much, even as it’s not enough. My body is lit up, riding the line between pleasure and restraint.

It rips through me and I choke down my scream as the muscles in my legs tremble. Helpless fucking surrender is all I can do as I come so hard I forget my name. Every nerve ending sparks like electric need and it takes all my control to keep quiet.

Eventually, little ripples pulse through me until the vibrator peters out and then stops.