23. SOREN
Twenty Three
SOREN
The palace has an ancient bathing chamber, a relic from the old kings, carved from the rock of the fjord itself. The pool is fed by hot springs, the water steaming and mineral-rich, the walls covered in moss that glows faintly in the torchlight.
I’ve had it prepared for Layla. Candles. Flowers. Soft towels. And me, waiting in the water, already hard at the thought of her joining me.
She enters wrapped in a silk robe, her belly round and heavy, her breasts swollen and leaking slightly. She looks like a fertility goddess. Like everything I’ve ever wanted and didn’t know I needed.
“You did this for me?” she asks, her eyes wide.
“I’d move mountains for you, wife. A bath is easy.”
She drops the robe and steps into the water, hissing at the heat. I catch her hand, steadying her, guiding her down until she’s settled between my legs, her back against my chest.
“This is heaven,” she sighs, her head falling back on my shoulder.
“You’re heaven.”
I reach for the soap, something soft and floral from MeliTar that she loves, and begin washing her. Her shoulders. Her arms. Her breasts, heavy and full, my thumbs brushing her nipples until she gasps.
“Soren…”
“Just taking care of my queen.”
My hands slide lower, over her belly, cradling the life we made. Then lower still, between her thighs. She’s already wet, and not from the bath.
“Always ready for me,” I growl against her ear. “Even when you’re carrying my child. Even when you’re exhausted and sore. You’re always ready.”
“Only for you,” she breathes.
I lift her slightly, positioning her over my cock. She sinks down on me slowly, her pregnant body making the angle different, tighter, somehow more intense. We both groan.
“Fuck, Layla. You feel so good. So perfect.”
I guide her hips, lifting her and lowering her in a slow, steady rhythm. The water laps around us, steam rising, candles flickering. It’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever done. And the filthiest.
“Look at us,” I command, nodding toward the mirrored wall across the pool.
She opens her eyes and looks. Sees us, her, round and glowing and beautiful, riding my cock in the ancient bath. Me, massive and blond and feral, my hands spanning her waist, my eyes dark with lust and love.
“We’re beautiful,” she whispers.
“You’re beautiful. I’m just the bastard lucky enough to have you.”
She laughs, the sound echoing off the stone walls. Then she rolls her hips, taking me deeper, and the laugh turns to a moan.
“Gonna fill you up right here,” I promise, my thumb finding her clit under the water. “Gonna flood this pregnant pussy while the hot springs wash away the evidence. And then I’m gonna do it again. And again. Until you can’t remember your own name.”
“Soren…”
“That’s the one. Say it louder.”
“Soren!”
“Louder.”
“SOREN!”
I come with a roar that echoes through the chamber, flooding her, my cock pulsing deep inside her womb. She follows right after, her pussy clenching around me, her scream bouncing off the stone.
After, we float together, my arms around her, my hand on her belly, our hearts beating in sync.
“I love you,” she whispers.
“I love you too, wife. Forever.”
“Forever,” she agrees.
And in the steam and the candlelight, with the ancient waters cradling us both, I know that I have found my home. Not in a kingdom. Not in a palace. Not in power or war or peace.
In her.
Always in her.