Chapter 35 It Just…Happened
It Just…Happened
Geoff
Christa comes down slowly.
Her breathing evens out first. Then her body softens, weight sinking into the mattress like she’s finally let go of something she’d been holding too tightly. Her eyes flutter open, heavy-lidded and unfocused, then find me.
There’s a small, dazed smile on her lips.
Her hand drifts between us.
Unthinking at first. Just movement. Contact.
She stills the second she realises.
Her fingers curl slightly, testing, and her eyes flick up to mine, dark and curious.
“What’s this, Geoff?” she whispers.
The question lands low and quiet. Not teasing. Not challenging. Just… wondering.
My pulse thuds.
There’s no pretending. No deflecting. Not with her hand already there, not with my body responding in a way that feels instinctive rather than forced.
I swallow.
“That,” I say, my voice rougher than I mean it to be, “is me being hard.”
Her breath catches. Just a hitch. Enough that I feel it against my skin.
“Well, hello,” she says.
Her hand doesn’t move away. If anything, it settles more deliberately now, warm and sure, her thumb brushing lightly, exploratory, like she’s learning something rather than taking it.
The sensation shoots straight through me.
“I wasn’t planning on it,” I add quietly. “It just… happened.”
She smiles then. Slow. Intimate. The kind of smile that feels like a decision.
“I like that it happened,” she murmurs.
Her fingers tighten just a fraction and I have to close my eyes for a second, grounding myself in the feel of her, the scent of her, the weight of her leg still draped over mine.
“Is this okay?” I ask, the question leaving my mouth before pride can stop it.
She leans in, forehead resting against my chest, lips brushing my skin. “More than okay.”
Her hand moves again. Not rushed. Not greedy. Just confident, curious, like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me.
My breath stutters.
“This feels… different,” I admit.
She hums softly. “Good different?”
“Very,” I say. “The best kind.”
She shifts closer, her body aligning with mine in a way that makes everything click into place. Her mouth finds my jaw, then my neck, kisses slow and unhurried, like she’s got all the time in the world.
I slide my hand down her back, holding her there, feeling the warmth of her, the reality of her.
Just want. I. Want. Her.
Her lips brush my ear. “We don’t have to rush.”
I smile into her hair. “I don’t want to.”
She pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes dark and intent.
“Me neither.”
Then she kisses me again, deeper this time, and there’s no mistaking where this is going.
Not urgency. Choice.
And fucking hell, it feels good.
I exhale sharply as her tongue flicks over my pulse point, her teeth grazing just enough to make my cock twitch in her grip.
“Can’t help it,” I manage, my voice rough. “You’re… fuck, Christa—”
The words die as her fingers slide into my pyjama trousers and close properly around my hard dick, her thumb swiping over the head, collecting what’s already there. She hums, low and approving, clearly pleased. Her free hand slides under my T-shirt, nails scraping lightly over my stomach.
“Mmm. Beautiful,” she rasps, pulling back just enough to search my face. Her pupils are blown, dark eyes almost black, the small silver stud in her nose catching the low light. “Say it.”
My pulse is hammering. I don’t look away.
“You’re fucking beautiful.”
Her laugh is dark and satisfied, her grip tightening just enough to make my hips jerk forward.
“Not me, you absolute prat,” she murmurs, thumb circling slowly, deliberately. “Look at you. All flushed and hard and mine.”
Mine.
The word lands heavy, stealing the breath from my lungs.
It shouldn’t do this to me. I should be the one undone by her, by the curve of her body, the softness, the life growing beneath her skin.
But the way she’s looking at me, like I’m something she wants to devour, something worth claiming, makes my chest tighten painfully.
She shifts closer, her belly pressing against my side. When my hand drifts up, fingers spreading instinctively over the curve of her bump, I feel it. A faint flutter. Real. Alive.
She gasps, grip faltering for half a second before she recovers, her movements slowing, becoming deliberate.
“Fuck, Geoff,” she breathes, forehead dropping to my shoulder. “When you touch me like that—”
“I know,” I murmur, mouth finding her ear. “I feel it.”
She shudders, arches into me, fingers tangling in my hair and pulling just hard enough to sting.
“Less talking.”
Her mouth crashes into mine. The kiss is filthy. Tongue and teeth and heat. She tastes like mint and something uniquely her. My hands move without permission, one fisting in her hair, the other gripping her thigh, fingers digging into soft flesh.
She whimpers into my mouth, hips rolling against me, friction building until it’s almost unbearable.
“I want you,” she pants. “All of you. Inside me.”
My brain completely gives up at that point. We both shed the last of our clothes. Touching her naked body is like the best feeling in the world. That is, until she shifts, climbing over me, straddling my hips, her weight settling in a way that makes my cock ache.
Skin on skin.
Heat everywhere.
“Look at you,” she purrs, hands sliding up my chest. “All mine.”
I buck up into her, the friction almost undoing me.
“Yours,” I agree, voice wrecked. My hands slide to her waist, holding her there. “Let me see you.”
She bites her lip, eyes fluttering closed as she rocks against me.
“Slow,” she says, guiding me. “I want to feel it.”
I force myself to obey. Touch her like this. Take my time. When I finally slide my cock into her warm pussy, I nearly come undone.
“Fuck,” I breathe. “This feels incredible. You are incredible.”
Everything after that blurs into heat and sound and the way her body responds to mine: shifting under my hands, moving with me like we were built for the same rhythm.
The way she opens to me, the way every movement seems to draw us closer together, feels less like discovery and more like remembering something we somehow already knew.
When she finally comes apart, gripping me, crying out my name, she takes me with her, my control snapping completely. All goes black when the orgasm hits me and I wish the moment would last forever.
I hold her through it. Through the shaking. Through the aftermath. Through the quiet that follows, heavy and intimate and real.
This isn’t just sex.
It’s the way she looks at me afterwards. The way she sees me.
And the realisation, settling deep in my chest, that I don’t want to go anywhere at all.
I wake up before I mean to.
Christa is curled against me, warm and solid, her back fitted perfectly along my chest like this is a position we’ve practised. My arm is draped over her waist, my hand settled where it decided to stay overnight.
I don’t move.
I wait for the familiar rush. The post-event analysis. The spiral.
Nothing happens.
She shifts slightly, makes a soft sound in her sleep, then tucks herself closer without opening her eyes. Like this is expected. Like this is safe.
Eventually, she wakes completely, blinking slowly, hair everywhere. She looks up at me and grins without hesitation.
“Morning,” she says.
“Morning,” I reply.
We lie there for a moment. No scrambling. No sudden politeness. Just ease. Her leg hooked over mine. My hand still warm at her waist.
“You okay?” I ask.
She nods. “Yeah. You?”
“Yeah,” I say, and mean it.
Her stomach growls.
She exhales. “Okay. Breakfast is happening.”
“Excellent decision,” I say.
She stretches carefully, already mentally lining the day up.
“Before we do,” I say quietly, “can we talk for a minute?”
She stills.
Just a flicker. But I see it. The way her shoulders tense, the way her eyes search my face like she’s bracing for impact.
“Okay,” she says. “About what?”
I take a breath. Keep my voice steady. No speeches. No declarations. Just truth.
“I’ve been wondering,” I say, “if maybe we shouldn’t… give this a chance.”
Her brow furrows. “This?”
“Us,” I say. “Whatever we’re calling it when we’re not calling it anything.”
She watches me carefully. Not pulling away. Not leaning in either.
“What do you mean by a chance?” she asks.
I run a hand through my hair. “I mean, we’re already having a baby. We already live together. We’re already friends with a lot of benefits.” I huff a small laugh. “Very good benefits.”
Her mouth twitches.
“I just mean,” I continue, “we already do the hard bits together. The practical stuff. The listening. The showing up. And the sex is… well. Clearly not a problem anymore.”
She lets out a breath. Then another.
“And you’re saying what?” she says carefully. “We try being together?”
“I’m saying we stop pretending we’re not circling the same thing,” I reply. “And see what happens if we walk towards it instead.”
There it is. Out in the open. No fireworks. Just honesty.
She looks down at the duvet, fingers worrying the edge.
“What if it doesn’t work?” she asks quietly.
The question isn’t dramatic. It’s scared. And fair.
“Then it doesn’t,” I say. “And we deal with that. Like we’ve dealt with everything else so far. Grown-ups. Together.”
She swallows. “What if we mess it up?”
I shift closer, not touching yet. Giving her space to breathe.
“We might,” I say. “I’m not brilliant at this. You know that. But I also know that not trying because it might hurt feels worse than trying and finding out.”
She nods slowly. Processing. Considering.
“And this wouldn’t be,” she gestures vaguely between us, “a dramatic thing.”
I shake my head. “God no. I don’t have the energy.”
That earns me a quiet laugh.
“I’m not asking for promises,” I add. “Or labels tomorrow. Or some big announcement. Just… a chance. Deliberately. With our eyes open.”
She looks back at me then. Really looks.
“And if I say yes,” she says, “we do this properly?”
“Yes,” I say. “At the pace we need. With space to be scared. And without pretending we’re not already invested.”
There’s a long beat.
Then she nods.
“Okay,” she says softly. “We can try.”
Something in my chest loosens. Not relief exactly. More like alignment.
I smile. “Good.”
She exhales again, tension easing from her shoulders. “Right. Now breakfast is really happening.”
I grin. “Excellent follow-through.”
We get out of bed together and it feels inevitable rather than dramatic. And for some reason it means more.