27. Viktor
VIKTOR
Six Weeks Later…
Harper’s been stuck on the couch for the better part of ten minutes, trying and failing to get herself upright without tipping the bowl of ice cream balanced precariously on the arm of the cushion.
“Don’t laugh,” she warns, catching my expression from the doorway.
“I’m not laughing.”
“You’re laughing internally. I can tell.”
“I would never.” I lean against the doorframe, watching her attempt a second strategy involving the couch cushion as leverage. “Though for the record, this is objectively very funny.”
“Traitor.”
I cross the room and offer her both hands, and she takes them, letting me pull her up with the particular gracelessness that twenty-two weeks apparently requires of even the most determined woman.
“Thank you,” she says, steadying herself against my chest once she’s fully vertical. “This entire process has been humbling in ways nobody adequately warned me about.”
“You’re allowed to ask for help before you’re stranded on a couch for ten minutes.”
“I like proving I can do it myself first. Then I ask for help.” She presses a hand to the small of her back, wincing slightly. “The baby’s decided my spine is a personal enemy tonight.”
I guide her toward the bedroom without asking, and she lets me, too tired to argue. I have her sit on the edge of the bed while I work my thumbs into the muscles along her lower back, applying slow pressure exactly where she needs it.
“You’re good at this,” she says, voice already softening.
“I’ve had practice. You complain about the same three spots most nights.”
“I do not complain.”
“You narrate your discomfort in vivid detail. It’s not quite complaining, but it’s adjacent.”
“There’s a difference.”
“There isn’t, but I’ll allow you the distinction. It’s good for morale.”
She laughs, and the sound steadies me, quiets whatever’s been slightly unsteady in my chest since I walked in and saw her struggling on that couch
Her body’s changed so completely these last months that some nights I still catch myself staring, not out of anything but genuine wonder, the way her stomach’s grown round and undeniable, the way she moves now with a careful weight she never carried before.
I remember the first photograph Dimitri handed me, months before any of this, a woman laughing at something out of frame, someone I convinced myself I was only marrying for practical reasons.
That woman feels like a different person from the one asleep beside me most nights, or maybe I’m the one who’s different now, seeing her clearly for the first time instead of cataloging her from a folder.
She’s building an entire person inside herself, and some nights the size of that fact still knocks the breath out of me if I let it.
“You’re staring,” she says, without opening her eyes.
“I’m allowed to stare at my own wife.”
“You’ve been staring more than usual lately.”
“You’re growing our child. I find that reasonably worth staring at.”
She opens her eyes at that, warmth passing between us, and I lean down and kiss her.
“Come here,” she says, tugging at my shirt.
“You’re exhausted. We don’t have to.”
“I want to. Exhausted isn’t the same as not wanting you.” She pulls me down beside her, and I go, careful of the way she has to shift and settle now, nothing about tonight requiring the urgency that used to define us.
“Tell me if anything’s uncomfortable,” I say. “I mean it.”
“I will. I promise.”
I keep working the tight muscles along her lower back until her shoulders finally drop and some of the tension leaves her spine. When I ease off, she lets out a long breath and leans back against the pillows I have already stacked for her.
“Better?”
“Much. You have unfairly good hands.”
I help her shift so she’s sitting more upright, one pillow behind her and another supporting her side. The curve of her stomach is a bit full. I rest my palm over it for a moment and feel a small answering push from inside. The sensation still stops me every time.
She watches my face and smiles. “Active tonight.”
“I noticed.”
I undress her slowly, careful with how she has to lift her hips and shift her weight. The shirt first, then the soft bra she has been living in for weeks. Her breasts are fuller and more sensitive than they used to be.
I support their weight with my hands for a moment before setting the fabric aside. When I ease her leggings and underwear down, she has to lean on my shoulder to step out of them. None of it is graceful. None of it needs to be.
Once she is bare, I take my time looking at her. The stretched skin of her stomach, the dark line that has appeared down the center, the way her body has grown round and undeniable. I do not hide the way I look.
“You’re staring again,” she says, but there is no complaint in it.
“I know.”
I help her settle back against the pillows, so she’s half-reclined and supported. Then I stretch out beside her and begin touching her with the same unhurried attention I gave her back.
My hands move over her shoulders, her arms, the new weight of her breasts. I keep the pressure light where she is tender. When my mouth follows the path of my hands, she makes a soft sound, and her fingers slide into my hair.
After a while she reaches for the hem of my shirt.
“Off,” she says quietly. “I want to touch you too.”
I sit up enough to pull the shirt over my head and toss it aside. Her hands settle on my chest, then move lower. There is nothing rushed about the way she explores.
When her palm presses over the front of my pants and finds me already hard, she looks up at my face.
“Come closer,” she says.
I shift so I am kneeling nearer to her, close enough that she does not have to strain. She works my belt open and pushes the rest of my clothes down. I help her get them out of the way. When I am bare, she wraps her hand around me and strokes once, slow and sure.
“You don’t have to,” I tell her.
“I know. I want to.”
She guides me a little nearer and leans in. The first touch of her mouth is warm and careful. She takes her time, learning what she can manage comfortably with the size of her stomach between us.
I keep one hand on the headboard and the other lightly in her hair, not directing, just steadying. Every few moments I check her face.
“Still okay?”
She pulls off long enough to answer. “Yes. Stay still for me.”
I do. She takes me deeper in slow increments, one hand wrapped around the base, the other braced on my thigh. The wet heat of her mouth and the focused way she works me make it hard to keep my breathing even.
I talk to her in a low voice while she does it, telling her how good she feels, how much I love watching her like this, how careful I will be with her afterward. She answers with small sounds around me and the steady rhythm of her mouth.
When the need starts to climb too high, I ease her back with a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Enough,” I say. “I want the rest of you.”
She lets me go and settles back against the pillows, cheeks flushed, mouth a little swollen.
I lean down and kiss her, tasting myself on her tongue, then help her shift onto her side.
I arrange the pillows again, so her stomach is supported and her upper body is comfortable.
Only when she is fully settled do I stretch out behind her.
“This position still good?”
“Yes.”
I lift her top knee and rest it over my thigh, opening her carefully. My hand slides between her legs and finds her already wet. I stroke her slowly, watching her face over her shoulder, until she is breathing deeper and pressing back against my hand.
“Ready?”
“Yes. Just… go slow.”
“Always.”
I guide myself to her and push in with careful, shallow thrusts at first, giving her body time to adjust around me. The angle is different with the size of her stomach. I stay mindful of depth and pressure, one hand braced on the bed and the other resting over the curve of her belly.
When I am fully inside, I stop and simply hold her against me, feeling the heat of her and the occasional small movement under my palm.
“Okay?” I ask against her shoulder.
“More than okay.” Her hand covers mine on her stomach. “You can move.”
I begin with long, measured strokes, keeping the pace moderate and the depth controlled.
Every few thrusts I check in with a quiet question or a shift of my hand to make sure nothing is starting to ache.
She answers with soft sounds and the way she presses back to meet me.
The entire time I stay focused on her breathing, the tension in her shoulders, the small adjustments that keep her comfortable.
There’s no hurry in any of it. Only the steady, careful rhythm of giving her what she asked for while making sure her body stays easy the whole time.
I keep the same rhythm, watching every shift in her breathing and the small sounds she makes. When her top leg starts to tire, I pause and help her adjust, sliding an extra pillow under her knee so the angle stays open without strain. She settles again with a quiet sigh.
“Better?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
I resume the slow strokes, one hand still spread over the full curve of her stomach.
Every so often I feel a faint push from inside against my palm.
The reminder keeps me careful. I stay shallow enough that nothing presses too hard, deep enough that she still feels full.
Her hand covers mine on her belly and stays there.
The pleasure builds gradually for both of us.
There’s no sharp climb, only a steady accumulation.
I talk to her in a low voice while I move, telling her how good she feels, how much I love the way her body has changed, how I will never get tired of being the one who gets to touch her like this.
She answers with soft sounds and the way she presses back to meet each thrust.
When I feel her start to tighten around me, I slow even further, holding her steady through it.
“I’ve got you,” I tell her. “Take your time.”
She comes with a long, quiet shudder, her body gripping me in slow waves.
I keep moving through it just enough to draw the feeling out, then let myself follow.
The release is deep and controlled. I stay buried inside her while it finishes, forehead resting against the back of her shoulder, breathing hard but still supporting most of my weight so nothing presses on her stomach.
We remain joined for a long time afterward.
I don’t pull out until she shifts slightly, signaling she’s ready.
Even then I move carefully, helping her roll onto her back against the pillows.
I reach for the water glass on the nightstand and hold it while she drinks.
Then I settle beside her again, one arm under her neck and the other resting over the curve of her belly.
A small movement pushes against my hand. I leave my palm there.
“Active again,” I say quietly.
“She likes when you’re close.” Harper’s voice is already heavy with sleep. “Or he. We still don’t know.”
“Either way.” I press a slow kiss to her temple. “I’m not going anywhere.”
She turns her head enough to look at me for a moment. Her eyes are soft and tired.
“That was exactly what I needed,” she says.
“Good. That was the only goal.”
She lets her eyes close. Within a few minutes, her breathing has evened out into sleep.