33. Vian
VIAN
My suspicion is confirmed, erasing my anger. She’s pregnant. Otherwise, she would have taken the test just to spite me.
It takes everything in me not to shout at the top of my lungs, happiness spreading through every desolate chamber of my heart. I am a father. She is carrying my baby. I got her pregnant. It’s irrelevant when it happened or that it isn’t how I envisioned it. I am simply delighted that it did.
It’s been three days, and I notice her taking another prenatal vitamin. The secrecy threatens to sabotage my joy. I wished for us to be in a good place, looking forward to our future together.
“For my anemia.”
“For your anemia,” I say, glancing at her belly.
How far along is she? Is everything all right?
She wishes to pretend, and I let her. Her emotions are all over the place, and I just want to be there for her like a silent sentinel—protecting her, caring for her, and tending to her needs.
I imagine her round belly when she won’t be able to hide the evidence. I planted the seed of love, and she’s growing my obsession with each passing second.
That’s why I keep my mouth shut, not revealing the involvement of her father, whom she put on such a pedestal, I would love nothing more than to drag him down. He doesn’t deserve her complete trust and unwavering love.
Now that she’s pregnant, I don’t know how the truth will affect her, so I swallow the bitterness down and rely on our connection.
The peace between us is frail, but I won’t rest until she accepts me back. Until we become a family. We’ll overcome the past and build a titanium foundation strong enough to face the future.
I make sure she gets all the healthy food, lulling her into dozing on my chest during the day. I know the sun does her good, and at night, I stay awake with her, following her like a shadow until she tires and falls back asleep—showing her she’s not alone in this.
She does all the hard work, growing our baby, and I support her by attaching myself to her side.
We’re on the terrace, watching the sunset, and soft music plays in the background as we sit on the chaise lounge.
I massage her feet while she asks, “You haven’t had anything to drink at all.”
I think she knows that I know. That’s the thing. Our connection runs soul-deep.
“Do you want something to drink?” I test her back, causing an instant reaction.
She glares at me. “I don’t like the hard stuff.”
“I also have champagne and Merlot.”
“Not in the mood.”
“Me neither.”
Silence falls, but not for long. She’s chatty tonight. Maybe it’s because we’re running out of time.
“You won’t succeed. I won’t let you in,” she says vehemently, as if she wants to convince herself more than me.
“There’s still time to test that. I assure you, not even an army could stop me. I will search for you anywhere in existence, throughout the afterlife. There’s no place you could go where I wouldn’t find you.”
“Psycho stalker.”
I chuckle and lift her leg, kissing each toe to test my theory. She sucks in a breath, eyes glazing over. My wife has been watching me more intently lately, and that look is pure desire.
She’s horny, and that puts her in a mood, so I let her stew some more until she snaps.
“Stop touching me,” she mumbles but doesn’t pull her leg away.
I continue to stroke her, loving nothing more than to take her, but she must give me something, anything.
She’s stubborn, this woman of mine. But so am I.
Staring at the darkening sky, she puffs out a breath, the sound ringing with her craving for my attention. I ignore her, which only makes her squirm and sulk some more.
“Is there something you need?” I ask, trailing a finger over her leg and up to her thigh as I skim the hem of my shirt.
“Nope,” she says, popping the p.
She’s so adorably cute, I stand no chance.
She has started wearing my shirt and a thong for the second consecutive day, looking like fucking mine. It takes every bit of willpower not to maul her.
Zara wants me to crack, and it would take just a flick of my fingers to undress her.
I adjust in my shorts, my cock so painfully hard I groan in frustration.
She bats her lashes at me in a coy, fake-as-fuck expression. “Is there anything bothering you?”
The minx, this cruel woman who gets off on playing with me.
“No,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Hmm, you look so disheveled, husband.”
She wants to play? I am the right man.
I pin her with a knowing stare. “I think you want to get fucked, wife.”
She gasps, her feigned shock adding to the seduction game between us. “If you were the last man on earth, I still wouldn’t fuck you.”
I crack my neck, anger coiling around my insides, turning me into a fucking beast.
“You better believe I’d be the last man alive because I would never permit another one to breathe near you.”
She undoes the shirt, one button at a time, driving me wild with desire, each inch she exposes turning me feral and shattering my composure.
She trails a delicate finger down the valley of her breasts to her belly button, meeting my gaze unabashedly.
“We women have an incredible capacity for getting away with things.”
Not devouring her demands my entire strength, my muscles straining, ready to snap from the pressure. “Oh, baby, try, but I will kill him and fuck you in his blood to remind you that even if you fucked the entire male population, I would still own you.”
She clamps her mouth shut, straightening on the chaise lounge sofa, and I crawl on top of her, caging her in.
“I will find a man to erase your claim on my body,” she says, arching up, exposing more of that delicious nakedness I am aching to lick, taste, nibble.
“Now you’ve fucked up, baby.”
I grip her hair and tug her over the back of the sofa, and with the other hand, I take myself out, stroking myself. “I will wash your mouth with my cock and fuck your throat sore so you never spew such bullshit again.” I roll my lower lip between my teeth. “You won’t forget this lesson.”
Zara bites her lip, her pupils swimming in a pool of desire, giving me a look of pure satisfaction.
She thinks she won. She won’t think that by the end.
I am too afraid to fuck her, not wanting to harm our baby, but her mouth and ass are fair game. My fucking her mouth is not for her; it’s for me, to teach this woman of mine a lesson.
I grip the base of my hard cock and slap her cheek, then the other. It’s longer than her face and so thick it barely fits my fingers.
“Apologize,” I say, sounding hoarse, so fucking hot for her I might come from one lick alone.
A mischievous gleam sparks in her eyes. “For the truth? Never.”
I’ve tried, so I click my tongue, tsking. “Bad girl. And bad girls get punished. Open.”
She shakes her head and purses her lips into a tight line as if that will keep me out.
Smirking, I dig my fingers into her cheeks and force her mouth open.
I press the tip to her lips. “Take it like the good girl you can be. If you bite, I will bite every inch of your skin.”
Apprehension and arousal swim in her eyes, they liquefy into pure heat, making me lose my damn sanity.
Then I thrust in one go, going past her gag reflex and burying myself in her throat.
Her eyes pop up. Face flushed and eyes tearing up, her lips kiss my groin and her neck swells with the indent of my cock.
I caress along the shape and wrap my fingers around her throat. “My cock is buried in your throat. Sass me now. Tell me how you will let another man have what is mine,” I groan, muscles pulled taut from the exquisite pleasure.
Panic mixes with lust, my cock making it harder for her to breathe, so I pull out, only the head remaining in her mouth. “Breathe through your nose. This is for my pleasure, not yours.”
I fuck her in long thrusts and she chokes and slobbers on my cock, her neck and face redden, her hand reaching for her pussy, but I thrust harder, my cock slipping back into her throat. Her hands instantly go to my ass, digging her nails into my flesh.
She mumbles around my cock. I am convinced she curses me out.
“Only good girls get permission to come,” I groan, pulling out to the tip.
This won’t be an easy or short lesson.
She drags in a lungful of air, her face teary and swollen. She looks drugged as she clenches her thighs and I slap her tit. “Look at you, desperate for my cock. Craving a release. I might reconsider it if you tell me who the fuck you belong to.”
“Myself.”
I give her throat a little squeeze. “Wrong fucking answer.”
Her eyes blow up and before she can say something else, I shove my cock back in one hard thrust. Teasing her gag reflex, I bury my length in her throat––taking my pleasure while it demands everything in me not to come.
I give her another breather and, like the smart woman she is, she gulps the much-needed air and doesn’t give me attitude. She’s fucked, and she knows it. I won’t stop until she accepts and admits the truth.
“Whose are you?”
She glares at me, saliva rolling down the corners of her mouth, her chin wet with spit.
“Silence is not the right answer either.” I shake my head and push back, alternating between slow thrusts and hard ones, from a gentle to a frantic rhythm.
She’s a mess. A beautiful, horny, and wet mess, opening her mouth to suck and lick me as she squirms beneath me, craving friction to ease the pressure.
“That’s my good girl.” I caress her hair, praising her.
Her teeth graze my cock, and it sends a zap of pleasure and pain through me, electrifying my insides.
I warned her.
Cupping her breast, I pinch her nipple, and she cries out, panting heavily as I fuck her mouth until my balls grow heavy with my impending release.
The intense pleasure shoots straight from my marrow, and I pull out, erupting all over her face and chest.
“I don’t need to hear you say it to know that you are mine.”
She doesn’t want to accept facts. Fine. It won’t be long until she explodes and gives me what I desire. Sexual frustration is something she’s not used to.
Letting her stew, I move to my side of the chaise, my knees still weak from my release, hearing her heavy breathing and her teeth gnashing together.