45. Arsen
45
ARSEN
My cock is straining in my pants as I drive us back to the house in silence. My hand drifts up and down Laila’s thigh, and I can make out her blush even in the darkness.
We don’t say much. There isn’t anything left to talk about.
When we get to the house, I stop her trying to get out of the car herself and take her into my arms instead.
“I can walk!” She shoves weakly at my chest, but I don’t miss the way her hand fists in the collar of my shirt.
“I’m shocked you can move at all with all that stubbornness weighing you down.”
“Hello, Mr. Pot? I’m Mrs. Kettle. Pleasure to meet you.”
The house is dark as we make our way upstairs. She opens the bedroom door, and I kick it closed behind us.
We’ve made it all this way, but the bed is too far. The couch is closer. I set her down there before I step back and start to undress myself.
I ditch my jacket and shirt, and her pupils dilate, black eating away the periwinkle. As I drop my pants, her gaze follows unapologetically.
Her tongue darts out from between her plump, pink lips, and she reaches for me. But I catch her hand and shake my head.
“What are you doing?” she whines.
“I’m going to make you comfortable if it’s the last thing I do.” Clad in only my boxer briefs, I peel the straps of her dress down her arms, letting the material bunch around her waist.
She curls her arms around her body, trying to cover herself.
“No.” I encircle her wrists and gently pry them away. “I want to see all of you, roza .”
“There’s a lot to see these days,” she mutters.
“You’re carrying my child,” I remind her. “Nothing could be more beautiful.”
She meets my eyes, and there’s a flash of determination there as she slips further down the couch. She kneels in front of me, her mouth perfectly aligned with my erection.
This wasn’t the plan, but…
“That mouth, roza ,” I growl, running my thumb along her lower lip. “It would look so good wrapped around my?—”
Before I can finish my sentence, she swallows my cock whole.
“Fuck.” I curl my fingers into her golden waves, guiding her mouth deeper. She runs her fingers up and down my chest as she sucks, her nails trailing over the grooves and lines of my scars.
It would be so easy to finish like this. But this isn’t supposed to be about me. This is about her—giving her pleasure, making her feel good.
But I’m losing the plot beneath her silky tongue.
“Laila…”
She looks up at me, eyes bright, and I want to give her everything. “I want more,” she pants when I pull out of her mouth.
I trace the curve of her cheek. “We have all the time in the world for more. Now, turn around.”
She listens obediently, flicking her waterfall of gold hair over her shoulder as she grabs the back of the couch. I grip her hip, teasing myself against her center again and again until she’s rocking back against me, wordlessly begging me for what she needs.
So I give it to her.
I slide into her with one easy thrust, and we both sigh.
“Good,” she breathes, arching her spine. “This feels good.”
I have to practice true restraint as I wrap her hair around my fist and fuck her slowly, drawing every dirty, helpless sound in the book out of her. When she plants both palms on the wall above the couch and starts pushing back against me, meeting me mid-thrust, it’s my turn to groan.
We move faster and faster, crashing together harder and harder, until neither one of us can hold off anymore.
She clenches around me, collapsing as she cries out. I grip her hips and follow her over the edge.
When I withdraw, Laila sprawls out on the couch. This time, she makes no attempt to cover herself. I clean her with a tissue and then collapse alongside her.
“How are you feeling?”
She smiles dreamily as her eyes flutter closed. “Comfortable.”
I sit down next to her, drawing her legs onto my lap. “You?—”
“Oh!” Laila gasps suddenly, her eyes popping open.
“What’s wrong?”
“I…” She looks down the length of her body. “I don’t think I got all the…”
She spreads her thighs, and there’s a puddle of water forming between them.
“Oh, God,” she gasps. “Did I just…?
“It’s okay, Laila.”
“It’s not okay! This is humiliating! I just peed myself! Right in front of you! And—” She goes quiet, her mouth wrapping around a silent groan as she grabs her bump. She’s barely breathed her way through the pain before she’s trying to get up. “I’ll get a towel. I’ll wash the upholstery so you don’t?—”
“Laila,” I interrupt, cupping her face between my hands, “you did not just pee yourself.”
“Then what the hell do you call that?” She flings a hand at the puddle on the cushion.
“I call that the start of labor.”
She blinks fast, flustered. “What?”
“Your water just broke.” I fold my hand over hers, both of us staring down at her bump. “It’s time to meet our girl.”