Chapter 34 Least Seductive Phrasing Available in the English Language
Least Seductive Phrasing Available in the English Language
Christa
Iwake up choking on air.
My heart is racing like it’s trying to escape my chest, skin prickling, duvet twisted around my legs. For a few seconds, I don’t know where I am. The room feels too small. Too quiet. My hands shake when I press them to my stomach, grounding myself in the solid, undeniable curve of it.
The baby kicks. Once. Sharp and real.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
It was a dream. Just a dream.
But the feeling clings. Thick. Heavy. The kind that doesn’t evaporate just because you’re awake now.
I sit up, breathing slowly, counting in my head the way I’ve been told to. In for four. Out for six. Again. And again.
It doesn’t help.
The thought of being alone in this room feels unbearable. The thought of lying back down even worse.
So I get up.
I pad across the flat, bare feet silent on the floor, moving on instinct rather than logic. I don’t knock. I don’t think. I just push open Geoff’s door and slip inside like this is already allowed.
He stirs as soon as I touch the bed.
“Christa?” His voice is thick with sleep, already reaching for me. “What’s wrong?”
I crawl under the duvet and curl into him, pressing my forehead against his chest, wrapping myself around the steady warmth of him like it’s the only thing anchoring me to the room.
He doesn’t hesitate. One arm comes around my shoulders, the other settling over my back, holding without squeezing, breathing slow and even like he’s lending me his calm.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
My chest aches at how easily he says it.
“I had a nightmare,” I whisper.
He brushes his hand up and down my arm, small, grounding movements. “Do you want to tell me?”
I hesitate. The images flicker back, unwanted. White walls. Silence. The feeling of being watched and judged and found wanting.
“About the pregnancy,” I say finally. “About what happens when the baby’s here.”
He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t reassure. Doesn’t rush in to fix it.
So I keep going.
“I dreamt I couldn’t do it,” I say, voice low. “That I was doing everything wrong. That everyone else knew what they were doing and I didn’t. That I was already failing before it even started.”
His hand stills briefly, then continues, steady as ever.
“That sounds terrifying,” he says quietly.
The simplicity of it almost undoes me.
“I woke up and my heart wouldn’t slow down,” I admit. “And all I could think was, what if I can’t do this? What if I’m not enough?”
He shifts slightly so I’m more comfortable, my cheek pressed over his heart, the rhythm strong and sure beneath my ear.
“You don’t have to be anything right now,” he says. “You don’t have to solve the future at two in the morning.”
I let out a shaky breath. “I’m scared.”
“I know,” he says.
No judgement. No dismissal. Just acknowledgement.
We lie there in the dark, his hand moving in slow circles on my back, my breathing gradually syncing with his. The fear doesn’t vanish, but it softens, like it’s been seen and decided to quiet down for a while.
“I’m here,” he adds after a moment. Not dramatic. Not promised. Just true.
I nod against his chest, eyes finally closing, my body unclenching inch by inch.
Geoff exhales softly above me.
“This is probably my mum’s fault,” he murmurs. “All that advice. She’s very thorough. You’ve been emotionally assessed, nutritionally audited, and gently scolded.”
I snort, the sound muffled against him.
“I’m serious,” he says, voice warm now, half-smiling. “She does this thing where she asks sensible questions and, suddenly, you’re reconsidering your entire life at midnight.”
I lift my head just enough to look at him in the dark. “I love your mum.”
He huffs a laugh. “Of course you do. Everyone does. It’s deeply inconvenient.”
“She’s kind,” I say quietly. “And loud. And bossy in a way that feels like being wrapped in a blanket.”
“She weaponises care,” he agrees.
I settle back against him, fingers curling lightly into his T-shirt. “She made me feel like this wasn’t something I had to do perfectly. Just… do.”
He goes still for a second, then his arm tightens around me, just a fraction.
“That’s her,” he says. “She has a very specific talent for cutting through nonsense.”
We lie there in comfortable silence, the dark holding us instead of pressing in.
“Still,” he adds after a moment, “if she’s the reason you’re having nightmares, I’ll lodge a complaint.”
I smile, eyes closed. “Don’t you dare. She also fed me.”
He groans softly. “She does that too. No one leaves hungry. Or unexamined.”
I laugh quietly, the last of the tension easing out of me.
“I feel better,” I say. And it’s true. Not fixed. Just steadier.
“Good,” he murmurs. “That was the aim.”
His hand continues its slow, grounding circles on my back. His breathing stays even. He doesn’t shift, doesn’t rush me, doesn’t ask if I’m okay again like he’s ticking a box.
I drift, hovering on the edge of sleep, held in place by warmth and familiarity.
“There is,” I murmur, barely louder than his breathing, “one thing you could do for me.”
He hums. “I’m listening.”
I switch on the bedside lamp and tilt my head back just enough to look at him. “A little bit of… licky licky.”
There’s a beat.
Then he laughs. A real laugh. Warm, surprised, the sound vibrating through his chest where my cheek rests.
“You realise,” he says, still amused, “that is the least seductive phrasing available in the English language.”
“Still effective,” I mumble.
“Debatably,” he says, and then he’s moving, careful and deliberate, turning me gently onto my back without anywhere near squashing my tummy, like it’s a manoeuvre he’s been quietly practising in his head.
He kisses me.
Not rushed. Not hungry. Just a soft, lingering kiss that feels like being reassured rather than claimed. His hand cups my jaw, thumb brushing my cheek, like he’s anchoring me to the moment.
“Mmm,” I say when he pulls back a fraction. “That’ll do.”
He smiles against my mouth. “I suspected.”
He kisses me again, slow and sweet, like sleep can wait and nothing bad exists outside this room.
I’m still in my softest pyjamas. Thin cotton shorts ride up my hips, tank top twisted just enough to expose the curve of my baby bump. Not that it matters. Geoff doesn’t care about the fabric. He cares about what’s underneath.
His fingers hook into the waistband of my shorts, tugging them down just far enough, and I lift my hips without thinking, helping him, already wet and aching.
The first drag of his tongue is slow, deliberate, like he’s taking his time, like he’s decided this deserves attention.
I gasp, my back arching off the mattress.
“Fuck—”
The word breaks into a moan as he does it again, this time flattening his tongue against my clit, pressing just hard enough to make my thighs tremble.
His fingers follow, two of them sliding inside me without warning, and I choke on a cry, nails digging into the duvet. He curls them just right, finding that spot that makes my vision blur at the edges, and I’m already babbling, voice thick and desperate.
“Geoff, don’t stop—”
My hips jerk up, chasing more, and he groans against me, the vibration sending another wave of heat through my body. His free hand clamps down on my hip, holding me still, firm enough to bruise.
I love it. I love the way he takes, even when he’s on his knees for me.
He hums again, low and approving, his mouth sealed around my swollen nub now, sucking just hard enough to make my toes curl. My fingers find his hair, tangling in the dark strands, holding him there like I’m afraid he’ll disappear.
The sounds I’m making are embarrassing. Wet, needy little whimpers.
Broken yeses when he does something particularly devastating.
I don’t care. Not when his tongue is swirling like that.
Not when his fingers are moving slow and deep, his thumb pressing at my entrance like he’s testing how much I can take.
Then he pulls back just a fraction, breath ghosting over my soaked pussy lips, and I whine, my body already missing his mouth.
“Mmm.”
The sound rumbles in his chest, satisfied, like he’s just tasted something exceptional.
“That’ll do.”
His voice is rough, smug. I can hear the smirk in it before I see it, the curve of his lips, the dark glint in his eyes when he lifts his head to meet my gaze.
I should be embarrassed. I really should.
But, the way he’s looking at me, like I’m something precious, something his, makes my chest tighten.
“Cocky bastard,” I manage, voice unsteady.
There’s no heat in it. Not when he’s still got two fingers buried inside me. Not when his thumb is tracing lazy circles over my clit, keeping me right on the edge.
He chuckles, low and dark, then moves up my body, mouth crashing into mine before I can protest. I taste myself on his tongue, musky and sweet, and it should be weird.
It isn’t.
It’s hot.
His kiss is slow, deep, like he’s got all the time in the world. I melt into it, fingers sliding from his hair to his jaw, feeling the rough stubble beneath my palms. His hand stays between my legs, fingers still inside me, flexing just slightly.
I gasp into his mouth.
When he pulls back, his eyes are dark, pupils blown.
“So needy,” he murmurs, thumb pressing a little harder against my aching clit.
I shudder.
He knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
His mouth finds my jaw, tongue tracing the line of it before he nips my earlobe, teeth just sharp enough to make me squirm.
“You’re dripping, Christa,” he growls. “Look at you. So fucking greedy for it.”
His fingers slide out of me slowly, deliberately, and I whimper, hips trying to follow them. He doesn’t let me. Instead, his hand drifts lower, fingertips teasing the edge of my pussy, not quite dipping inside, not quite giving me what I want.
I’m trembling now. Strung tight. Skin hypersensitive everywhere he touches.
His lips find the pulse point beneath my ear, tongue flicking over it before he sucks lightly, and I moan, fingers tightening in his hair.
“Geoff—”
It’s a plea and a warning all at once.
He hums, breath hot against my neck.
He could push me over. He knows it. One more flick of his tongue, one more press of his fingers, and I’d be coming apart beneath him, nails raking down his back, voice raw from screaming his name.
But he doesn’t.
He keeps teasing. Feather-light. Maddening. Mouth moving to the hollow of my throat, teeth grazing my collarbone.
The worst part?
I love it.
I love the way he leaves me trembling. The way he makes me beg without ever making me say the words. My thighs are slick, skin flushed, breath coming in sharp gasps every time his fingers ghost over my clit.
He’s not even trying to get me off now.
He’s just… playing.
And I’m letting him.
His hand slides up my body, palm skimming my ribs before he cups my breast, thumb brushing over my nipple. It’s already hard, aching, and I arch into his touch, a broken sound slipping out of me.
“You’re evil,” I manage.
He smirks against my skin. “You love it.”
And I do.
I love the way he worships me. The way he makes me feel like the only thing in the world that matters. His mouth closes around my nipple, tongue swirling before he sucks hard, and I cry out, back arching off the bed.
Still, he doesn’t stop.
His hand drifts back down, fingers tracing the damp heat between my legs, not quite dipping inside, not quite giving me the pressure I need.
“Geoff, please—”
The word breaks into a moan as his thumb finally presses against my clit, circling slowly, deliberately.
His lips find mine again, kiss lazy, unhurried, like he’s not driving me completely out of my mind.
“What do you want, love?” he murmurs.
He knows. He just wants to hear it.
I should tease him back. Draw this out. Make him beg for once.
I can’t.
“I want you to fucking finish me,” I gasp, hips jerking up. “I want your mouth, I want your fingers—”
My voice breaks as his thumb presses harder, his fingers sliding inside me again, and I’m there. Right on the edge. Coiled tight.
He groans, forehead pressing against mine, breath coming faster.
“Fuck, Christa—”
His fingers curl, his thumb presses down, and I shatter. Heat and pleasure crashing through me, nails digging into his shoulders as I ride it out, voice raw with his name.
Even as I’m still trembling, still gasping, his touch slows. Gentles. He presses a kiss to my forehead, lips lingering, breath warm against my skin.
The moment hangs. Heavy. Sweet.
This isn’t just about the orgasm.
It’s about the way he looks at me. The way he sees me.
And the way I’m starting to realise I don’t want to let him go.