Chapter 23 Melody #2
"I love you, Melody. I love you more than I ever knew possible." He pulls back, and I stare into those hauntingly beautiful green eyes. I hope our baby gets his eyes. "I can't believe you're pregnant."
"Wanna make sure it sticks?" I give him a lopsided grin.
"Do—are you sure? Are you ready?" His cock stands at attention, tenting his ridiculous hospital gown.
"Please, babe?" I whine. "Take that thing off—you're overdressed."
"Yes, ma'am." He rips at the flimsy ties and tosses the (drenched) garment to the floor with a splat.
For the first time in however long, I get to see him.
All of him. Every painstakingly detailed tattoo, every flexed muscle, every tiny freckle that decorates his skin like the stars decorate the nighttime sky.
The scruffy beard is new, but I'm not complaining.
It makes him look… less polished. More rugged. It suits him.
I run my hand through the coarse hairs of his beard. "Keep this, will you?"
"Anything for you, darling." He nuzzles the crook of my neck with his nose, inhaling deeply. "God, I missed your smell."
"My smell?" I giggle. "Babe, I just showered."
"I know. But under the cheap soap, there's you."
Primal desire heats between my legs. I may not be the most eloquent woman, but I find myself wanting to try. Dante always knows what to say to make me feel at ease—and ready to climb him like a goddamn tree. "My good boy."
He stiffens against me, his cock even harder. "What did you say?"
"I called you my good boy, babe. Isn't that what you are?" I slip my hands around his waist and pull him tight. He sinks his teeth into my shoulder and lets out a pained moan.
"I am," he groans. "Please, love, let me show you."
We stumble back into our shared hospital room, and he quickly shoves the visitor chair under the doorknob. I've never thought of antiseptic as an aphrodisiac scent, but I don't give a single fuck. I'm about to have my husband devour me like I'm his last meal.
Rushing over to the bed, he gently lays me down with reverent hands. He seems to be trembling as I lie back, spreading my legs wide. With his lower lip trapped between his teeth, he eye-fucks me while trailing a fingertip down from my breast to my throbbing cunt. I need him. I need him in me.
"Actually, fuck that," I announce. "You wanna show me you're my good boy? Fuck me. Sink that cock in me, Dante."
His eyes light up, and he smirks. "Are you sure, love?"
Before I can say another word, he drops to his knees and wraps his lips around my clit.
His tongue flicks at the sensitive bud, ever so gently, but it's exactly how I love it.
He slips a finger inside me, curling it in a come-hither motion, and he's already got me clutching at the thin, scratchy sheets.
"Fuck, Dante!" I gasp, writhing under his touch. "God, you're such a good boy. You're so good. You're the best. Fuck, I need you."
He surfaces, his black beard glistening with my arousal.
The smile he gives me is sinful. I don't have any tattoos, but I'm contemplating getting his face tattooed on me somewhere.
With that exact expression. I want to look at it every day.
I want to look at him every day. That smile is full of love, hope, and deep desire.
"Tell me what you want, love. You know I'll do it for you." He gently pumps his hand in and out of my soaking pussy, savoring every tremble he pulls from me. The admiration in his eyes nearly has me shattering already, but he pulls his fingers away once he feels me tightening around them.
"Fuck me, Dante," I command. "Fuck me like you used to. Fuck me like you hate me. Fuck me like you need me."
Fear flashes in his eyes when I say "hate me", but it quickly fades to intense lust. He pushes my knees apart, further and further, until I'm completely splayed out before him.
Every inch of me is on display, but I don't care.
I want his eyes on me. I want him to see every stretch mark, every cellulite dimple—every insecurity I used to hide.
I'm no longer hiding. Hell, I haven't hidden from him. I know I'm a hot bitch, but I also know I'm fat. Even with Ella's starvation techniques, I'm still thick. And my husband loves me for it.
"God, you're incredible," he whispers in reverence. My husband's tattooed hands trail up my thighs. I can't rip my gaze away from the rich black tattoos that cover his fingers. Goosebumps erupt all over me, and I almost forget that I gave him a demand.
"Incredibly needy." I glower. "Weren't you supposed to be doing something about that?"
My heart swells as he laughs his rich laugh, smiling down at me with adorable little crinkles in the corners of his eyes. I missed that laugh. I missed that smile.
"You're right, love—of course, you are."
"Say that again," I whisper.
"You're right. You are always right, darling love."
"Good boy. Now fuck me about it."
The instant the words leave my mouth, he lines up his cock to my sopping cunt and thrusts barely an inch deep.
I feel myself stretch around him—it's heaven.
It's divine. He's divine. I've thought about this moment every night—sometimes awake, sometimes in my dreams—while we were imprisoned by Ella.
I replayed moments like this in my head near-constantly in jail. In prison.
I'm never letting go of him.
"I put a baby in you," he grunts, thrusting deeper. "I'm going to do it again. Over and over—until you beg me to stop."
"Promise?" I whisper.
"Oh, my love. I promise."