Chapter 6 Millie #2
Hard and clenching and loud, my face in the quilt, his name in my mouth, my whole body shaking with it, and he worked me through every second—fingers and cock and hands and mouth hot on the back of my neck—until I was trembling and oversensitive and trying to pull away.
He didn't let me pull away.
"Again," he said.
"I can't—"
"You can." He slowed his hips but didn't stop. Let me catch my breath. His hand moved from my clit to my hip, stroking. Patient. "You can give me one more."
"Gage—"
"One more," he said. "Then I'll give you what you came here for."
I pressed my face into the quilt.
"Okay," I said, muffled.
He built it slower this time. Like he had all night, which he did, which I was only now fully understanding.
Long deep strokes, his hand moving back to my clit with that same focused attention he brought to everything, and I felt myself climbing again despite every protest my body was making about sensitivity and overstimulation and the general state of affairs.
"That's it," he said, low. "There you go."
He picked up the pace again and I stopped being able to form words or thoughts or anything resembling a coherent response to stimuli.
I was just sensation—his cock deep inside me and his fingers on my clit and his chest warm against my back and his mouth at my ear saying things that I was going to think about for the rest of my natural life.
"You're going to be so pretty when you're pregnant," he said, rough and low. "Going to take such good care of you. Watch you get round and full and know it's mine." His hips snapped and I gasped. "Everybody who looks at you is going to know."
"Gage—"
"Say you want it."
"I want it." Immediate. Desperate. "I want all of it. I want your baby I want to be full of you I want—"
"Good girl," he said. "Good girl."
I came again.
This one was deeper than the first, slower to build and longer to break, and I cried out into the quilt and my arms gave out and I dropped flat and he went with me, his weight over me, still moving, still deep, his forearms bracketing my head.
"Stay with me," he said.
"I'm here," I managed. Barely.
"Good." His hips kept moving, slower now, grinding deep. "Because I'm close."
I turned my face to the side so I could breathe. "Then—"
"I know what you want." His hand slid under my hips, tilting them up slightly, changing the angle, and I felt him even deeper and made a sound about it. "There."
"There," I agreed, breathless.
"That's where it's going," he said. "Deep as I can. And you're going to stay right here after."
"Yes."
"You're going to stay at this angle and let it take."
"Yes."
He groaned. His rhythm broke—three hard deep strokes and then he buried himself and held, and I felt it, felt him, felt the heat and the pulse of it filling me up, and his forehead dropped to the back of my neck and he made a sound I was going to hear in my dreams.
Neither of us moved.
His hand was still under my hips. Holding that angle. Deliberate.
I understood. I stayed.
The ceiling fan turned.
"Good," he said, rough and quiet. "Stay just like that."
His other hand spread flat on my lower back. Gentle pressure. Like he was sealing it in.
I should have felt clinical about it. That had been my fear, in the six hours before he knocked—that this would be functional. Procedural. Two people with a contract doing a thing for a reason.
It did not feel procedural.
It felt like being claimed.
It felt like being wanted in a way I had stopped expecting to be wanted, by a man who hadn't performed a single second of it, who had walked into a fertility clinic in a surgical mask and sat down next to my spreadsheet and looked at me like I was a solution he hadn't known he was looking for.
“Want you to keep that pretty ass in the air, gorgeous,” he breathed, then kissed the side of my neck. “Gonna get you a pillow to hold you up—then I’m gonna make sure every fuckin’ drop stays inside you.”
He did as he promised, reaching for a pillow—still nestled inside me, getting into an odd angle that made me arch and sigh and clench. His chest rumbled, satisfied, as he tucked the pillow under my hips so they were elevated.
Only then did he pull out.
But…that didn’t mean he was done.
I gasped when I felt him gather up the arousal that had leaked out of me and push it back in—deep as he could, his fingers thrusting inside me toward my cervix. I stretched my arms out and gripped the sheets, pushing against his fingers, fucking myself on them.
Then he was actually finished.
Laying down beside me…kissing my throat.
“You want me to stay or go?” he whispered.
I turned my head on the pillow and looked at him.
He was propped on one elbow, watching me in the low light, his hair a mess and his jaw loose in a way I hadn't seen it before. He looked younger like this. Still older than me—still devastatingly, inconveniently older than me—but softer.
More human.
I wanted him to stay so badly I almost said it directly.
I did not say it directly.
"I mean," I said, "shouldn't we try a few more times tonight? To be thorough?"
Something shifted in his face.
"Thorough," he said.
"The contract doesn't specify a daily limit."
"No," he agreed. "It doesn't."
"And it seems like—statistically speaking—more attempts would increase the probability of—"
"Millie."
"—successful conception, so really it's just—"
"Millie."
"What."
"Do you want me to stay?"
I pressed my face into the pillow briefly. Then I turned back and looked at him.
"If you think you've got another few rounds in you," I said.
His eyes did something. Slow and dark and warm all at once.
"For you?" he said.
"That was the question, yes."
He looked at me for a moment. That flat certain look, except it wasn't flat at all right now, hadn't been flat since the first second in the bedroom. Something moved across his face that he didn't try to hide.
"At least a few," he said.
My stomach did something embarrassing.
"Okay," I said, trying to sound like this was a reasonable logistical conversation and not like my entire body had just lit back up at the words at least a few.
"Okay," he said.
He lay back down. Pulled me against him, my back to his chest, his arm over my waist. His hand found my stomach again—that flat warm palm—and I covered it with mine again without thinking about it.
Outside, the Hill Country was full dark now, just crickets and the occasional sound from the pasture. The lamp in the corner threw a low warm light. The ceiling fan turned.
"Are you hungry?" he said. "I still owe you a burger."
"I'm hungry," I said. "But I don't want to move yet."
His arm tightened slightly. Just once.
"Okay," he said.