Chapter 45
Chapter Forty-Five
Vesper
He peels the boxers off, dragging them down his thighs, and his cock springs free—hard, flushed, the tip already wet. My mouth waters. My pussy clenches, still fluttering from the orgasm.
I reach for him.
“Wait,” I say, voice hoarse. “Don’t grab a condom.”
He freezes, hovering over me.
“You sure?” he asks, voice suddenly gentler. “We don’t have to—”
“I’m sure.” I meet his eyes, hand cupping his jaw. “We got tested—you during your physical and me while I was at the doctor. We’re both all clear. And I’m already pregnant.”
His breath catches.
“Are you asking me to fuck you raw?” he asks, tone low and reverent, like I just offered him a prayer.
“Yes,” I whisper. “I want to feel you. All of you.”
Monty’s mouth crashes into mine—hot, deep, desperate. His tongue sweeps against mine like he’s already inside me, fucking me with his mouth first. Like he wants me to feel him everywhere before he even moves.
He breaks the kiss only to drag his mouth along my jaw, down to my throat, where he licks and bites softly—possessive, hungry, home.
Then his voice—low and raw at my ear.
“Tell me how you want it, baby.”
I shiver.
His hand finds my thigh, pushes it open farther.
“Do you want slow?” he breathes. “Do you want to feel every inch of me sliding in until you can’t take it?”
He rocks his hips against me—his cock hot and thick between my folds, not pushing in yet, just waiting.
“Or do you want me to take you now?” he growls. “Fast and deep until you’re sobbing my name, begging me not to stop?”
My breath catches in my throat.
He’s right there. His cock thick and hot, pressed between my folds, waiting. Not demanding. Offered.
And I could beg.
I could cry for it, plead for him to wreck me, but I want something else.
Something that’s going to ruin me softly.
“Slow,” I whisper, voice ragged. “Please . . . I want to feel you stretch me. I want all of you. Every inch. I want you to take your time—like I’m the only thing you need.”
Monty groans—low and guttural—like I just said the exact thing he didn’t know he was waiting to hear.
His forehead drops to mine, his breath shallow and broken.
“You have no idea what you fucking do to me,” he says, his voice rough and wrecked.
Then he shifts—just enough to line himself up. The head of his cock brushes my entrance, and I feel everything tighten. Not from fear. From need.
His hand finds mine. Fingers threading.
And then—
He pushes in.
Slow.
Inch by inch.
The stretch makes me gasp, my knees falling wider, my back arching to take more of him. I feel everything. Every thick inch of him sliding into me like he belongs there. Like I’ve been waiting to be filled this way my entire life, and didn’t know it until now.
His eyes stay on mine. Dark. Blown wide. Wrecked.
“That’s it, baby,” he breathes, his voice fraying at the edges. “Taking me so fucking well. You feel how tight you are? How good you feel wrapped around me?”
I nod, but it’s useless.
My mouth’s open, but no sound comes out. I can’t speak. Can’t move. I can only feel—his cock stretching me open, claiming every inch of space inside me like he’s laying bricks in a foundation we’ll build the rest of our lives on.
He slides in until my breath stutters, until the stretch steals the air from my lungs.
“You’re perfect like this,” he murmurs, lowering his mouth to mine. “So soft. So warm. So fucking mine.”
I whimper—caught between the praise and the fullness, the way his words hit the raw, open place inside me that always believed I was too much or not enough.
But here?
Here, I’m his.
He pulls out just enough to make me ache, then pushes back in—slow, deep thrusts that make the bed creak and my legs tremble. Each movement is worship. A promise. A claim.
“Gonna fuck you slow, just like you asked,” he groans, his pace dragging, his eyes never leaving mine. “Want you to feel every stroke. Want you to know what it means when I come inside you.”
My breath stutters. My pussy clenches around him hard.
Yes. God, yes.
He leans closer, lips brushing my ear.
“You want that, don’t you?” he whispers. “Want me to fill you up, even though you’re already carrying? You want me to come deep inside this sweet pussy—like I’m planting something that belongs to us too?”
My whole body shakes.
The thought of him coming inside me—of being filled with his seed, not for pregnancy, but for love—makes me moan into his mouth.
“That’s it,” he growls, his rhythm faltering. “Fuck, baby, you’re squeezing me like you want to keep me.”
I do. I want him so deep he stays there. Want him to lose himself in me and never pull out again.
He thrusts again—deep, slow, grinding—and I lose track of where I end, and he begins.
I can feel it building.
The need. The ache. The pleasure curling in my spine and blooming behind my eyes. I’m going to break for him.
And I want to.
Monty’s rhythm slows again—intentional. Controlled. Just enough to keep me on the edge.
Slow enough to make my thighs shake, and my hands claw at his back like I can pull him deeper if I just try hard enough.
But he doesn’t give me more.
Not yet.
He holds there, cock buried to the hilt, and just stays—deep inside me, breathing like he’s hanging on by a thread.
“God,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “I could stay right here forever. Inside you. Wrapped up in all this heat.”
He thrusts once—slow, shallow, maddening.
“You feel that?” he murmurs against my jaw. “That stretch? How you fit around me so fucking tight it’s like your body was made to take my cock?”
I sob.
I’m so full. So raw. Every nerve ending screaming. I need more and he knows it. That’s the problem.
His mouth brushes my ear again. “You wanna come, baby?”
I nod frantically. “Yes. Please.”
“Then say it.”
“I just did—”
He grins, teeth grazing my throat. “No. Say who owns this pussy.”
Oh, fuck.
“Say who’s making you come. Who’s buried so deep inside you, you’re going to feel me all fucking day.”
I can’t.
I can, but the words choke in my throat because they’re too much. Because they’re true.
“Beg for me,” he says, voice softer now. Meaner. Sweeter. “You want this cock? Want me to fill you, slow and deep, until you can’t take another inch? Then fucking beg, sunshine.”
I break.
“Please,” I cry. “Please, Monty. I need you. I need to come. I need you to fuck me harder—fill me. I want you. I want to feel you everywhere.”
He groans—low, primal, broken.
“There she is,” he whispers. “So sweet when she begs.”
He kisses me then—hard, all tongue and heat and claim—and fucks me like I’m his to wreck. The thrusts deepen, his control splintering, each stroke dragging over every swollen, desperate part of me.
“You’re gonna come for me, baby,” he growls, one hand sliding between us to rub my clit in tight, perfect circles. “Gonna soak my cock again, aren’t you? You’re gonna let me make you mine.”
“Yes,” I gasp, too far gone to hold anything back. “Yes, yes, fuck, yes—”
I’m right there.
Right there.
Every muscle in my body taut, every inch of me drawn so tight it’s almost painful. I can’t think. Can’t breathe. All I know is the sound of our skin, the ragged grind of his hips, and the wet slide of his fingers circling my clit like he already knows the exact rhythm that will undo me.
But he slows—just enough to make me cry out.
“Monty—please—”
His mouth drops to mine, not for a kiss but a breath—a single word rasped into the space between us, searing and soft.
“Forever.”
That’s all he says.
Not a sentence. Not a plea. Just a promise I feel in my cunt and my chest and my goddamn soul.
Forever.
And then he fucks me like he means it.
One deep, punishing thrust—his cock driving into me hard and deep, his hand still working my clit—and I come violently.
My body locks. Arches. Shatters.
I scream, sobbing his name as I clench around him, everything inside me spiraling into heat and release and love so big it doesn’t fit inside my skin. My orgasm rips through me, wet and shaking, and I feel it—that perfect flutter and squeeze as I soak him all over again.
He groans my name and grabs my hips like he’s going to stay there. Like he can pour himself into me and live inside that moment forever.
Then he’s coming too—deep and hard, his cock pulsing as he fills me with everything he has.
No holding back.
Just Monty.
All of him.
He doesn’t move right away.
He stays buried in me, breath hot against my neck, cock still twitching from the last pulse of his release.
The air is thick with us—sex, sweat, something sacred.
My legs tremble around his hips.
And then, just as I start to come back to myself, he whispers—low, reverent, wrecked, “You feel me, baby?”
I nod, too spent to speak. My hands grip his back. My walls still fluttering around his cock, full and aching in the best possible way.
“You’re holding me so tight,” he breathes. “So fucking perfect. I can feel it. My cum—inside you. Exactly where it belongs.”
I moan, quiet and broken.
“I love knowing it’s staying in,” he adds, his voice a rasp now. “That you’ll walk around with me dripping out of you. That your body’s keeping it—keeping me.” He presses his forehead to mine, his next breath softer. “You took me so well.”
I nod again, eyes glassy, breath still uneven.
And then—he shifts.
Slow. Gentle.
His hands stroke down my arms. One finds my cheek. The other cradles my thigh, still hooked around his hip.
“You okay?” he asks, voice different now—quieter. Sweeter. Like we’re the only two people left in the world, and he’s holding me like a secret.
I nod.
And finally, I whisper, “Yeah. I really, really am.”
He stays inside me for another breath.
And then one more.
Like he’s trying to memorize it—the way my body feels still wrapped around him, soft and filled, like he could stay here and never come back up for air.
Then, slowly, Monty shifts.
His hand slides to my hip, his mouth brushing the corner of mine. “I’m going to pull out, baby. Deep breath.”
I nod, too sore and full and blissed out to answer.
And when he does—when he finally pulls out, slow and careful—I feel every inch drag against my walls, and then the slip of him leaking from me, thick and warm.
I moan at the loss. I don’t mean to.
But he groans right with me.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “Look at you. Dripping all over the sheets. You took me so well.”
He sits back on his heels between my legs, just looking for a moment. Like he’s still not over what we just did.
“I should clean you up,” he says, but doesn’t move yet. His palm drags up my thigh, spreading me a little wider. “Or maybe I should watch you leak for a while longer.”
“Monty . . .” I whisper, flushed and still trembling.
He leans forward, kisses my stomach. Then lower.
“You know what this does to me?” he murmurs against my inner thigh. “Knowing I’m still inside you, even after I pulled out? That you let me come inside you, raw and deep and real?”
I shiver.
His fingers part me gently, reverently.
“Don’t tense,” he whispers. “Let me see it.”
I do.
And he groans again, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of my knee like he’s trying to ground himself.
“You’re mine like this,” he breathes. “Ruined. Full. So good I don’t know how I’m ever going to stop.”
Then finally, finally, he grabs the warm cloth from the side of the bed—already damp and waiting. He drags it between my thighs in slow, sensual circles, careful not to press too hard.
“You were perfect,” he murmurs. “You gave me everything.”
He kisses my hipbone. “Thank you for letting me love you like that.”
Then another kiss, lower. “Thank you for trusting me.”
I close my eyes, my body alive with love and ache, pleasure still lingering beneath my skin.
He moves up beside me, wraps one arm beneath my shoulders, and pulls the covers over both of us.
He pulls me into his chest, his hand resting low on my stomach, thumb brushing lazy circles just above where he filled me.
“You’re still so warm,” he whispers against my hair, voice low, already unraveling into something softer.
I sigh. It’s not a protest. It’s contentment. Drowsy and raw and safe.
Safe in his arms, his scent on my skin, his breath slow and steady against my back.
“You okay?” he asks again, quieter now. Not because he doubts it. Because he needs to hear me say it one more time.
“Yeah,” I murmur, lips barely moving. “I’m more than okay.”
“Good,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “Because I don’t want to stop taking care of you.”
My fingers curl against his chest, my lashes fluttering closed.
He’s still murmuring, still whispering praise and promises against my skin, but it blurs—soft, sleepy static against the thrum of my pulse.
I drift.
Full.
Loved.
His . . . and Cally’s.