9. Chapter 9
Five Years Later
The tripod goes first.
I clock it in my peripheral — three thousand dollars of carbon fiber tipping in slow motion because my wife's ass knocked it sideways while I had her pinned against the equipment shelf. It cracks against the studio floor hard enough to make my twenty-year-old self grieve.
I don't stop kissing her.
"That sounded expensive," Wren mumbles into my mouth.
"It was."
"Are you going to—"
"No."
She grins against me, hooks her fingers through my belt loops, and drags my hips to hers.
Or as close as they get with seven months of our second kid between us.
She's enormous. She's luminous. She's wearing one of my old flannels with nothing underneath because she came downstairs from studying to allegedly ask about aperture settings for Monday's intermediate class — and I caught her nipples through the fabric and we both knew the question was bullshit.
That was eight minutes ago. Since then I've swept the shooting table with one arm, sacrificed a reflector panel to gravity, and learned that pregnancy has made her so responsive that dragging my teeth along the side of her neck buckles her knees.
I learn this because her knees buckle.
"Whoa —" I catch her, one arm hooked under her ass, the other bracing the shelf. A box of lens filters rattles overhead. "Easy."
"Don't you easy me." She's already scaling me, one leg wrapped around my hip, her belly tight and warm between us. The baby kicks. Square into my stomach. Hard enough I feel it through my shirt.
"Your son has opinions."
"My son can wait." She scrapes her teeth across my bottom lip. "Daddy's busy."
Five years. Five years of that word in her mouth and it still fires straight down my spine into my cock.
I've loved every minute of our life. After she got her undergrad, we moved into the bigger house here I'd been building for a year. It's set back on ten acres, no neighbors, five bedrooms and I'm thinking of adding on.
Her mother…my ex is, well, let's just say we have a quiet truce. She comes to holidays, loves the grandkids and has remarried and lives five hours away.
It works.
"What does Daddy's girl need that couldn't wait until Nora's nap was over?"
"Daddy's girl needs to come on something thicker than a highlighter, which is what I was eyeing upstairs when the endocrine system got boring."
"You were going to fuck yourself with a highlighter."
"The chisel-tip kind. The thick one." She rolls against my thigh and her breath trips. "I made a responsible choice and came to find you instead. You should be thanking me."
"Now, that's my good girl." I bunch the flannel at her lower back and pull it taut, watching the fabric strain across her belly, her breasts, then unbutton it because I need her now.
"Grant. Forty minutes until Nora's nap ends and the monitor —"
"Is in my back pocket. I know." Her breasts hang heavy, laced with blue veins, the nipples dark and beading with milk.
The first time this happened, I wasn't prepared for what her milk would do to me.
I'd like to claim it was tender and some soft reverence of her new motherhood role.
It wasn't. Something in my hindbrain went feral and never came back. "Get on the table."
She hoists herself up, and parts her thighs pregnant and bare and wet, splitting herself open for me in the middle of our studio at two in the afternoon because she has never once in her life known how to be anything less than catastrophically honest.
I step between her legs and palm her belly. My son rolls under my hand, shifting. I press my mouth below her navel and feel him move against my lips.
Then drag my eager mouth upward.
The first pull of her nipple floods my tongue, and Wren's fist knots in my hair. "Oh fuck." Her hips buck. "I love that you found this kink."
I seal tighter. Milk, sweet and warm, and the sound out of her, this furious, wrecked little moan that has zero delirium in it, punch straight into my hard-on.
She yanks my hair. "The other one is leaking. It's jealous."
I switch. The second my mouth closes over her left nipple I draw deep and that familiar haze comes over me.
I'm milk drunk.
I slide my hand between her thighs and she jolts the second my fingers land. She whimpers against my temple when I push two fingers in and curl, and she clenches around my knuckles.
"Please, Daddy." She rocks into my hand. "I've been thinking about you all morning. Couldn't focus. Kept rereading the same paragraph about glucocorticoids and picturing your cock."
"What about it?"
"That I want it." She bites my earlobe. "That I always want it. That being this pregnant turns me into someone who can't sit through a chapter without squeezing her thighs together and it's going to tank my GPA."
"I'll write you a note." I curl my fingers, press my thumb to her clit, and she cries out, grabbing the table's edge. "Dear Professor, please excuse Wren's grades. Her Daddy keeps fucking her stupid and she can't retain information about the endocrine system."
"I love you. God, right there — don't stop —"
She's still trembling when she grabs my jaw and hauls me into a kiss. Deep and filthy, tasting of her cream. "I need you inside me," she says against my teeth. "Now. Please."
"Turn around."
"I'm the size of a parade float. I don't turn around. I execute a three-point turn."
"Then execute it. Hands on the table."
She huffs, but she's smiling then sliding off and bracing her palms on the edge.
The flannel clings to one shoulder, her back bare, her ass canted out to make room for the belly.
Seven months pregnant, barefoot in our studio, milk dripping, her bio textbook probably still open upstairs with a highlighter holding her place — this woman is pulling a master's degree while pregnant while running a business while keeping a two-year-old alive and she still marched downstairs to fuck me on a Wednesday afternoon.
I don't deserve her. I wake up every morning certain of it and every morning I choose to keep her anyway.
I free my cock and line up. She shoves back, trying to take me.
"Ask properly."
"Please, Daddy." Not a shred of hesitation. She said it shy once, five years ago in my kitchen, and every time since she's said it like a woman who knows exactly who she is. "Please fuck me. I need your cock so bad."
I give it to her. Her words dissolve into a sound with no consonants in it.
Christ. Tight, then yielding, then tight again, like her body can't choose between dragging me deeper and bracing for the next thrust. I lock both hands on her hips and hold, buried. My jaw clenches so hard my molars ache.
"Move." She pushes back against me. "Daddy. Move."
Her palm slaps flat on the table. I bottom out, the way her spine dips to shift the angle. Five years of studying this body and I still catch details that wreck me.
I gather her hair in my fist and pull her upright against my chest and she whimpers, reaching back to grip my neck. I palm her breast and squeeze. Milk arcs in the light landing on the walnut table in front of us.
"That's going to stain the wood," she says, and immediately comes.
The clamp, the shudder, the way her breath cuts dead for three seconds before the panting starts. It's all familiar but never gets old. I hold her up and catch her face in the reflection of the dark monitor across the room.
Always the best thing in the frame.
"Good girl. So good for me. Daddy's little secret. Remember, you can't tell anyone what I do to you when I climb in your bed at night, right?"
"Right." She hums, soaking me with a warm gush.
She takes my hand and guides it down. Past her hip. Over the curve of her ass. Presses my fingers against the tight pucker between her cheeks and holds them there. "This. I want you here."
My cock kicks inside her so hard I see spots. "Yeah?"
"You know it's naughty to ask Daddy to fuck your ass. But, I won't tell."
I spread her ass cheeks and gather the saliva in my mouth and spit, reaching under her and cupping her opening with my fingers, gathering her slippery nectar and rub it all on her tight little hole.
I slick my cock with more spit and her natural lube and line up, press the head against her. "Breathe for me, baby girl."
She inhales. The head eases past that tight ring and she gasps, knuckles bleaching on the table's edge.
Another inch and she lets out this low, desperate exhale of relief.
"God, your ass is fucking heaven little girl. You shouldn't make Daddy do these things to you. Now, you have to take it all. You started this, now you're gonna finish it."
"All the way," she whispers. "Give me all of it, Daddy. I can take you."
I bottom out.
"You have no idea what you do to me."
"Show me."
I pull back and thrust. She moans, rocks to meet me, and that's all the permission I need.
"Oh my god. How is it — it's so much. I'm so full." She's babbling, the way she does when her brain cuts out but her mouth keeps running. "Daddy, I can't — it's too — I'm going to —"
I reach around and find her clit. Slippery, swollen, pulsing under my fingers.
Two circles and she detonates — screaming into the crook of her arm, her whole-body locking, her ass clenching around me.
I thrust through it, through the aftershocks, through the way she sobs for Daddy and I follow her over with a groan dragged from somewhere I didn't know I had left.
I come in thick, hot bursts buried in her with my palm on her belly and my mouth pressed to her spine and our son doing somersaults from the ride I'm giving him, and it's absurd and holy and so perfect.
The monitor crackles in my back pocket.
Wren exhales. "Oh my God."
"Duty calls."
I drag all my inches out of her, a seep of my white release dripping from her puckered hole.
"We should clean up before the afternoon class."
"Probably."
"Grant."
"What."
"Your come is running down my leg and I have to go study the endocrine system."
"Those two things aren't mutually exclusive."
She smacks my chest, wrapping the shirt around her and padding her way to the door, my cum slipping down the inside of her calf.
She's still my little girl and a fucking miracle.
I pull my camera off the table and aim.
"Don't you dare."
“I think you need your tail. Your ass stuffed with a plug is always so pretty.”
Click.
She flips me off without turning around.
Click.
That one I'll frame.