17. LAYLA
Seventeen
LAYLA
I’m three months pregnant and Soren has lost his damn mind.
It’s not even visible yet, my belly is still flat, my clothes still fit. But he knows. He can smell the change. And he has become absolutely feral.
This morning, I woke up to him kissing my stomach. Not my pussy. My stomach. He spent twenty minutes pressing soft kisses below my navel, murmuring things I couldn’t hear, his big hands cradling my hips.
“Soren,” I finally said, running my fingers through his hair. “It’s three in the morning.”
“I know.” He looked up at me, eyes so soft I almost cried. “I just wanted to say good morning to our baby.”
“The baby is the size of a pea. It can’t hear you.”
“It can feel me.” He pressed his ear to my stomach. “I can feel it. The life. It’s there, Layla.”
I didn’t argue. I just held him while he talked to my belly.
Then he moved lower. And suddenly his mouth was between my thighs and I was gasping.
“Soren…”
“Hush, wife. Let me take care of you.”
He ate my pussy like it was his religion. Slow, deliberate, worshipful. He made me come twice before he even thought about his own pleasure.
Then he crawled up my body, pushed inside me, and fucked me with a tenderness that made me cry.
“I love you,” he whispered with every thrust. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”
I came with tears streaming down my face, my pussy clenching around him. He followed, flooding me, his forehead pressed to mine.
“Thank you,” he breathed. “Thank you for this. For our baby. For loving me.”
“Thank you for loving me back,” I whispered.
Now, at breakfast, he won’t let me lift a finger. He feeds me himself, bites of egg, sips of juice. His hand is constantly on my stomach, my back, my thigh. The advisors watch, uncomfortable. I don’t care.
“Your Majesty,” one says, clearing his throat. “The trade delegation…”
“Can wait,” Soren says, not looking away from me. “I’m having breakfast with my wife.”
“But the treaty…”
“Can. Wait.”
He turns back to me, his expression softening. “More juice?”
“I can pour my own juice, Soren.”
“I know.” He pours it anyway. “But I want to. Let me take care of you, Layla. Please.”
How can I say no to that?
So I let him feed me. I let him touch me. I let him love me.
And when breakfast is over and the advisors have fled, he lifts me on the table and fucks me slow and deep while the morning sun streams through the windows.
“Gonna take care of you every day,” he promises, his hand on my belly. “Gonna love you both so fucking hard.”
“You already do,” I gasp, clenching around him.
“Not enough.” He pounds deeper. “Never enough.”
He comes with a groan, flooding me. I follow, my pussy milking him.
After, he carries me to our chambers, tucks me into bed, and curls around me.
“Sleep, wife,” he murmurs. “I got you.”
I do sleep. Safe. Warm. Loved.
Pregnant with his child. Carrying the future of two kingdoms. And happier than I’ve ever been.