"Oh, God," she groans, the sound guttural. She rocks faster against me, and the head of my cock presses deep inside the walls of her swollen *. "Not Kate…"
"What do you want me to call you, Kate?" I ask, teasing, knowing full well what she wants me to call her. It's what she loves for me to call her now, despite the fact that it started as a joke, a demeaning term that somehow turned into a term of endearment.
"You know," she whispers. Her slick wet * clenches tighter around my cock.
"Then tell me how much you love my cock inside you," I whisper. "How much you love me bare inside your sweet *."
"Oh fuck, Caulter," she says, riding me harder. Her hand reaches down between her legs, and although I can't see what she's doing, I know she's stroking her clit, bringing herself to the brink as she bounces on my dick. But I'm not going to let her come, not so easily. Not until she tells me what I want to hear.
"Tell me you love my cock," I say. "Stroking you inside, fucking you."
"Oh God, Caulter," she says. "I'm so close. I love your cock bare inside me. I love feeling you when you come inside me."
"Fuck, Princess," I say, calling her by the name I know she wants to hear. It never fails to push her over the edge. "Come for me, Princess."
And she does.
Before I even finish the phrase, she comes, screaming her orgasm with abandon, not the way she used to have to be careful, in her Senator father's house in New Hampshire when we were sneaking around and hiding from everyone.
Now she yells her orgasm, loud enough to shake the fucking walls, and I feel my balls clench tightly before I let go, filling her up with my hot seed.
Afterward, I pull her tightly against me, brushing aside her hair and burying my face in the side of her neck as I breathe in her scent. She smells like everything that's right with the world, like sunshine and warmth and flowers.
That's probably the lamest thought any guy has ever had, but it's true. Everything about her is right, and when she's close to me like this, her breath coming in long deep gasps, I know there's nowhere else on earth I'd rather be but here with her.
"Nice chair." Her words break the stillness between us.
"Do you agree now that it's a classy gift?"
"Something like that," she says.
"Classy as fu –" I start to say, but she interrupts me.
"That's going to wind up being the baby's first word."
"We're in the bedroom," I say. "It doesn't count."
"Mm-hmm," she murmurs, her breath long and low.
"You know, this chair is good for lots of other positions," I point out helpfully.
"Oh, is it, now?" she asks.
Since she asked, I take the opportunity to show her.
Later, Kate breathes in deeply, her head snug on the pillow next to me, my hand lingering protectively on her belly. We're supposed to be at a cake taste-testing appointment in twenty minutes, something that's apparently uber-important, but Kate fell asleep after we broke in the new chair twice. With how exhausted she's been lately, I felt like it was better to be late to the appointment and let her sleep.
The past few weeks, she's been tossing and turning at night, more and more uncomfortable as her belly gets bigger. She also has nightmares now, although she says she doesn't remember what she dreams. But I hear her mumbling in her sleep, her forehead scrunched up, and she wakes up in a panic, her hand over her chest.
She says it's nothing.
I mentioned it to Ella a few weeks ago. Over the last couple of years, things have dramatically improved when it comes to Ella. When Kate and I got engaged in Bali, Ella made it happen, insisting I use her private plane to fly her there. And over the past year, Ella has been Ella – irresponsible, dramatic, and flighty – but more involved with Kate and I.
She blows into our lives more now that she's been on set filming a television show in New York, a crazy whirlwind of drama and excitement and "Oh my God, you're getting married, you must let me help with the wedding planning and who's your obstetrician and never let the child call me grandmother, I'm simply not old enough to be a grandmother, for God's sake!"
Kate likes having her around.
A few weeks ago, Ella told me she had nightmares when she was pregnant, too -- something about the hormones.
"Darling," Ella says, waving her hand dismissively the way she does when she considers something self-evident, "Kate is not having pre-wedding jitters. That girl is head-over-heels for you. Now, pre-baby jitters, maybe. Oh! My trainer has the number of a woman who can come cleanse her chi, get rid of the bad energy."
"Kate is not going to let someone come clean her chi, Ella," I say, shaking my head.
"She doesn't even have to know," Ella protests, digging in her purse for her phone.
"I think Kate will know if someone starts waving sage leaves around her belly, mother," I say.
"That's not even how it works."
I laugh at the memory, and the movement jostles Kate beside me. When she stirs, she makes a little moaning sound before looking me, groggy, a half-smile on her face. "Mmm. You let me sleep. That was such a nice nap. What time is it?" she asks.