22. Cat #3
“You wrote ‘Contact is established.’ You lost romance privileges.”
He laughs, real, bright, and helps me down. We shed the rest of our clothes in a clumsy ballet of careful elbows and stolen gropes. His cock stands thick against his stomach; I give it a teasing stroke that makes his knees dip, then point at the claw-foot.
“In. Sit. I’ll-”
“You’ll hurt your back climbing-”
“I will sit on your lap like a queen with a praise kink. Move, Moretti.”
He climbs into the empty tub, no water, just enamel and intention, and settles with his back against the curved end.
I follow, facing away, and he guides me down with both hands on my hips, slow, until I’m straddling his thighs and the blunt head of him nudges my entrance.
His palms slide around to cradle my belly from behind.
“Ready?” he asks against my spine.
“Been ready since the tactical approach. Put it in me.”
He sinks me onto his cock in one controlled drop. The stretch punches a filthy moan out of both of us. I grip the tub rim. He steadies my hips. For a second we just breathe, joined, ridiculous and perfect in a dry bathtub in the early evening.
“You feel-” he starts.
“If you say ‘like destiny’ I will divorce the romance page.”
“Like hot silk and bad decisions. Move when you want. I’ll match.”
I move. Rolling my hips, using the rim for leverage, fucking myself on him while he steadies me at the hips. Every downstroke makes him curse. Every upstroke makes me see stars behind my eyelids. The tub is cold against my shins; he’s burning hot inside me. The contrast is insane.
“Talk dirty,” I demand. “Worse than your manuscript. Earn the lock on this door.”
“Christ.” His forehead presses between my shoulder blades.
“You want filthy? Fine. I’ve jerked off thinking about this bathroom.
About bending you over this tub and licking you until you soaked the enamel.
About fucking you from behind while you watched us in that blurry mirror, your tits bouncing, your belly round, my hand between your legs making you come until you got mean about it.
” His hips thrust up to meet me. “I want to paint your insides. I want you walking back to that desk dripping me. I want-”
“Keep going-”
“I want to ruin every room in this farmhouse with you and then do the barn for variety.”
I laugh and moan at the same time, an unhinged sound. My clit throbs untouched. I grab his hand from my belly just long enough to shove it lower. “Rub. Don’t you dare stop holding me with the other one.”
He obeys, one palm firm on the underside of my stomach, fingers of the other circling my clit while I ride him hard enough that the tub’s claw feet squeak against tile.
Sweat slides down my spine into the place where we’re joined.
My thighs burn. Pregnancy weight makes this work, but the angle is devastating, and when I come the second time I do it loud, head thrown back, clenching around him in pulses that drag a broken Italian curse out of his throat.
“Cat, fuck, can I-”
“Come. Fill me up. Do it.”
He bucks up into me twice more and breaks, groaning into my shoulder, cock kicking as he empties himself deep. His arm bands around my belly through it, protective even mid-orgasm, and the tenderness of that paired with the filth of everything else makes my eyes sting.
We slump together in the empty tub, breathing like we’ve run from something.
His softened cock slips out of me; wetness follows, messy on his thighs and mine.
Neither of us moves to clean it. Outside the locked door, the farmhouse ticks and settles.
Inside, I turn my head and find his mouth for a kiss that tastes like laughter and exertion.
“Editorial revision,” I pant. “Your lived erotica is significantly better than your written erotica.”
“I’ll take the note.” His hand strokes idle circles on my belly. The baby kicks him, offended or entertained. He waits with his palm still until the movement passes, smiling to himself.
I elbow him weakly. He kisses my temple.
Eventually we extract ourselves from the tub with all the grace of two people who just committed crimes against farmhouse plumbing aesthetics.
He runs a warm washcloth over my thighs without being asked, gentle on the sensitive skin, lingering on my belly with that same gentleman worship that somehow coexists with barn threats and mirror filth.
He hands me my shirt and steadies me while I pull my leggings back on. By the time he finds his own clothes, I’ve tucked the folded page safely into my pocket again.
“Bed after this?” he asks, wringing the cloth.
“Bed after this. Sheets. Horizontal. Maybe round three if your prose recovers.”
“My prose is retiring. My mouth is available for consulting.”
I unlock the door with fingers that still tremble, grin at him over my shoulder, and lead us toward the lavender-and-woodsmoke sheets waiting down the hall, wrecked, sticky, married in the ways that matter more than paperwork.
We fall asleep there with the terrible romance page on the bedside table.