Chapter 3: Mirror, Mirror
The front door clicked shut, and Shane padded into the bedroom with two paper bags crinkling in his arms. The lamp cast its warm halo over the bed, but his eyes went straight to the mirror on the closet door. Astrid stood before it, her silk robe hanging open, both hands tracing the proud swell of her belly.
She didn't hear him at first. She was frowning, muttering under her breath as she turned slightly, examining her profile. Her fingers pressed into the taut skin, then slid up to cup her heavy breasts, full and aching with the weight of the pregnancy.
"Enormous," she whispered. "I'm absolutely enormous."
Shane set the bags down on the dresser, the crinkle of paper loud in the quiet room. Astrid's head snapped up, and her cheeks flushed a deep rose. She clutched the edges of her robe, trying to pull it closed, but her belly made the gesture clumsy.
"You're back," she said, her voice breathy with embarrassment. "How long were you standing there?"
He crossed the room slowly, closing the distance with unhurried steps. His hands settled on her hips, and she felt the cool air from outside still clinging to his jacket. She tried to turn, but he held her gently in place.
"Mirror's got a good view," he murmured, his reflection meeting hers in the glass. "I could watch you forever."
She scoffed, but her voice had gone thin. "Shane, look at me. I can barely see my own feet anymore. The deli guy probably thought you were fetching provisions for a whole football team."
Shane's dark eyes moved over her reflection, slow and deliberate. What began as soft adoration, a loving sweep across the curve of her cheek, her swollen belly, sharpened into something else. His gaze darkened, and she felt the shift in the air between them.
"You've never looked more beautiful," he said, his voice dropping to a husk that sent a shiver down her spine.
Astrid's breath caught. A flush crept up her throat and spread across her chest, washing the pale skin of her décolletage with pink.
"Shane," she started, but the protest died on her lips when his hands slid up.
His thumbs hooked under the silk of her robe and pushed it wider, baring her fully to the cool air. Her breasts, heavy and sensitive, felt the draft, and her nipples tightened into hard points. He cupped them, his large palms warm against her skin, and she let out a shaky moan.
"Shane, the pickles," she breathed, leaning back into him, her body making the decision her mind still argued with. "You drove thirty minutes."
"They can wait." His breath ghosted over her neck, warm and stirring. He pressed his lips to the curve of her shoulder, trailing soft kisses along the column of her throat. His fingers kneaded her breasts with a patient, knowing rhythm. "I didn't drive all that way for pickles, Astrid."
She saw herself in the mirror, saw the picture they made. Her robe pooled around her elbows, one breast completely bare in his grip, her belly a proud, full curve between them. His chest pressed against her back, his arms a cage of muscle and warmth that she had no desire to escape. The woman in the mirror looked wanton, glowing, absolutely full of life.
"I feel so…" she started, her voice catching as his thumb rolled over her nipple. "I'm just so big, Shane. I don't feel like me anymore."
He watched her face in the mirror, reading every flicker of emotion across her features. "You feel more you," he said, his voice thick. "Nothing about you has ever been more real."
His hands slid down, one tracing the heavy swell of her belly. She felt the baby shift inside her, a familiar flutter that echoed through the taut skin. Shane's breath hitched, and he pressed his palm flat against the spot where the movement had been.
"She's awake," he murmured, wonder threading through the heat in his voice. "She knows her mama's getting some attention."
Astrid laughed, a ragged, unsteady sound. "She knows I'm being thoroughly distracted."
He met her eyes in the glass, a slow smile curving his lips. "Exactly the plan." His hips pressed against her back, and she felt his hardness through his sweatpants, thick and insistent against the curve of her ass. "Thirty minutes of driving in the dark. I had time to think."
"About pickles?"
"About you." His hands slid down her belly, over the round swell, and then lower, parting her robe completely. The cool air hit her thighs, and she gasped as his fingers found her slick, wanting heat. He spread her open, gliding a finger through her wetness with a slow, teasing stroke. "About getting home to this. About how much I want you. Every time I look at you, Astrid, it gets worse."
She was already soaked, her body betraying her in the most shameless way. Three months of hormones and want and this impossible hunger for him. She could feel his smile against her neck as he dipped one thick finger inside her, curling up with expert precision.
"Fuck," she breathed.
"That's the plan," he said, thumb circling her clit. "Right here. Right now."
She gripped the edge of the dresser, using it for leverage as he worked her open. Each stroke of his finger made her knees weaken, and she watched the wet, vivid image in the mirror, her robe hanging open, her husband's hand buried between her thighs, his other arm wrapped securely around the full weight of her belly.
"I need you," she whimpered. "Shane, I need to feel you."
"Give me a second, baby." He pressed his nose into her hair, drinking her in. His fingers kept their rhythm, coaxing her higher, tighter, until her thighs trembled. "You're so wet for me. Look at you."
She looked. Her thighs glistened, his hand shining with her slickness, and she felt no shame about it. Months of pregnancy had stripped away pretense, leaving her raw and achingly open. She wanted him to see her exactly like this.
He withdrew his hand, and she whined at the loss. But he was already shoving his sweatpants down, freeing his cock, thick and hard and flushed dark. He stepped close, pressing the length of it against her slick fold, sliding up and down through her wetness, teasing entrance without giving her it.
"Shane," she demanded, grinding back against him. "Quit teasing and fuck me."
He chuckled low in his throat. "Can't argue with that."
One hand gripped her hip, steadying her, while the other held the heavy weight of her belly, protective and possessive. He pushed inside her slowly, inch by excruciating inch, and she felt every bit of it, the full, hard stretch of him filling her completely.
"God, baby," he groaned, forehead pressing into her shoulder. "You feel so fucking good."
She reached back, gripping his hip, her nails digging into firm muscle. "Move. Please, Shane. Please."
He pulled back and drove into her, a slow, grinding thrust that pressed against her deepest spot. She gasped, her knuckles whitening on the dresser. The baby fluttered inside her, a tiny kick against the hand he had wrapped around her belly, and Shane laughed, a sound torn between surprise and wonder.
"She's cheering you on," Astrid said, her voice strained with pleasure.
"She's got good taste." He thrust again, harder this time, and the dresser rattled against the wall. "Just like her mama."
The mirror showed everything. Her body arched, his hips driving, the rhythm growing tighter and more frantic. His free hand abandoned her belly and came up to cradle her again, cupping and squeezing as he pounded into her with deep, punishing strokes.
"Look at you," he rasped, voice ragged. "Gorgeous. Fucking gorgeous, full of our daughter, taking my cock like you were made for it."
She was close, the pressure building like a storm behind her eyes. He reached over her belly, finding her clit with a slippery thumb, circling roughly in time with his thrusts.
"Come for me, Astrid," he coaxed, breathless. "Let me feel you come."
The orgasm ripped through her, sudden and violent, her walls clenching around him as she cried out, the sound raw and shameless in the quiet room. Her body shuddered, back arching, and he followed right behind her, slamming in deep with a guttural groan and spilling hot inside her. She felt every pulse of him even as aftershocks dimpled her spine.
He held her close, breath ragged against her neck, his arm wrapped securely around her and their daughter, both of them braced together.
"I love you," she whispered to his reflection.
He pressed a kiss to her temple. "I love you too. And I got your goddamn pickles."
He held her close, breath ragged against her neck, his arm wrapped securely around her and their daughter, both of them braced together.
"I love you," she whispered to his reflection.
He pressed a kiss to her temple. "I love you too. And I got your goddamn pickles."
Astrid laughed, but the sound was already fading. The warm pulse of their release was still rippling through her, but something else was rising, a restlessness that had nothing to do with her body's aftershocks. She turned in his arms, facing him properly, and her tongue darted out to wet her lips.
"That's the thing, Shane." Her voice came out low, almost sheepish. "I don't want pickles anymore."
He blinked, a slow smile spreading across his face. "You just sent me thirty minutes across town for spicy pickles, and now you don't want them?"
"I want them somewhere." She pressed her palm against his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart. "But I want them on you."
His smile flickered into something else, a sharp, heated interest. "On me?"
She nodded, her eyes dropping to his still-half-hard cock, slick with their combined wetness. "I want to taste them off you. I've been thinking about it since you left. The whole time you were gone, I was lying in bed, and I kept thinking about the way your mouth tasted when you came home from that game, about how much I miss taking you in my mouth, and now with the pickles..."
She trailed off, the words tangling in her throat as a flush crept up her cheeks. The pregnancy had made her brazen in ways that still surprised her, but this felt different, more revealing.
Shane's jaw tightened. He held her gaze for a long moment, then stepped back, toward the dresser where the bags sat. He pulled out a jar of the spicy pickles, the glass cool in his fingers, and the deli receipt fluttered to the floor. He unscrewed the lid, and the sharp, vinegary scent of brine and chili filled the air.
"Show me," he said, his voice dropping to that husky register that made her thighs clench.
Astrid approached him, the silk robe still hanging open around her heavy curves. She took the jar from his hands and fished out a spear, glistening with juice. The spicy scent hit her nostrils and her mouth watered, but she didn't bring it to her own lips. Instead she brought it to his.
She pressed the pickle against his mouth, and he parted his lips obediently, letting her slide it inside. His dark eyes never left hers as he bit down, the crunch sharp in the quiet room, the juice trickling down his chin. Astrid caught the drips with her thumb, tracing the line of his jaw before bringing her finger to her own mouth, tasting the salt and heat mixed with the residue of his skin.
"Good?" she asked.
"Spicy," he said, a challenge curling in his words.
She pulled another spear from the jar and lowered it to his chest, dragging it over his pectorals, leaving a trail of glistening liquid across the olive skin. He hissed as the chill hit him, but he didn't move. She followed the trail with her tongue, lapping up the brine and his warmth, the taste sharp and craving-satisfying but not enough, never enough.
She sank to her knees before him, her belly a heavy presence between them. The position wasn't comfortable, but the look in his eyes made her forget the ache in her back. She dragged the pickle spear down his abs, over the ridged muscle, then dipped it lower, tracing the line of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his sweatpants.
"Astrid." His voice was strained. "What are you doing to me?"
"Satisfying my craving." She pushed his sweatpants down his thighs, freeing his cock. It was already thickening again, rising toward her. She pressed the pickle against the base of his shaft, and he sucked in a breath through his teeth as the cold, vinegary liquid met his sensitive skin. She dragged the spear all the way up his length, then set it aside and leaned in.
Her tongue lapped the brine off him, slow and deliberate, from base to tip. The tang of the pickle mixed with the musky taste of him, and a desperate moan escaped her throat. She wrapped her hand around his shaft, feeling him harden fully in her grip as she drew the tip between her lips, tasting the mixture of salt and spice and him.
"Fuck," he groaned, his hand sinking into her hair. "Astrid, you don't have to..."
Her eyes flicked up to meet his, and she took him deeper. It was awkward with her belly pressing against his thighs, and she had to angle her body carefully, but she didn't care. She wanted him in her mouth, she wanted to swallow every inch of him and feel the sting of the pickles and the heat of his release on her tongue.
He let her work, his hips twitching with restrained need. His fingers tightened in her hair, not guiding, just anchoring himself to reality. She dragged her tongue along the underside, tasting the sharp brine she'd painted on him, and it ignited something primal in her. The craving had teeth.
"Stop," he rasped, tugging gently at her hair. "If you keep going, I'm gonna come, and I want to come inside you."
She pulled off with a wet sound, her lips swollen and glistening. "Then put it inside me."
He hauled her to her feet, none too gently, his hands gripping her hips. She gasped as he turned her, bending her over the edge of the bed. The position put a strain on her back, and she braced herself on her elbows, but Shane was already there, one arm sliding around her front to support the heavy weight of her belly, lifting her slightly to ease the pressure.
"You're the most demanding woman I've ever known," he murmured against her ear as he aligned himself behind her.
"And you love it." She bent forward more, offering herself to him.
"I do." He pushed inside her in one smooth, unrelenting stroke, and she cried out, her walls still sensitive from their first round. He didn't give her time to adjust. He started moving, hard and deep, his fingers digging into her hip as his other hand held her belly cradled against his forearm.
The spicy tang of pickles clung to his skin, and every time he leaned forward, she caught the scent and moaned. His balls slapped against her clit with each punishing thrust, driving her wild. She wanted to taste him again, wanted to feel him come on her tongue, but this was just as good, this fullness, this deliberate possession.
She came with a sharp cry, her body clenching around him as she shuddered into the mattress. He followed a moment later, slamming deep and groaning her name, spilling hot inside her.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. Astrid lay draped over the bed, Shane pressed against her back, his face buried in her hair. The pickles sat forgotten on the floor, the jar still open, the scent of brine and chili mixing with the musk of sex.
"I think," Astrid said breathlessly, her voice muffled, "you're going to need to make another run to the deli."
Shane laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest and into her back. "Whatever you need, baby. Whatever you need."
Shane's laughter faded into a warm, satisfied hum against her hair. He eased out of her slowly, pressing a kiss to the back of her neck before helping her upright. Astrid winced, pressing a hand to the small of her back, and he was already there, palms replacing hers, working the tension out of the muscle with firm, knowing strokes.
"Your back's going to kill you tomorrow," he murmured.
"My back already wants to kill me today." She turned in his arms, looping hers around his neck. "But it was worth it."
He kissed her forehead, then bent to retrieve the fallen jar of pickles from the floor. He capped it and set it on the dresser, then pulled the silk robe back over her shoulders, cinching it gently around her belly. There was a tenderness in the gesture that made her chest ache.
"Come on," he said, steering her toward the bed. "You need to rest. I'll rub your feet."
"You'll do no such thing. You've already driven thirty minutes and fucked me twice. That's above and beyond the call of duty."
"Husband of the year application is in the mail." He guided her down onto the pillows, then stretched out beside her, one hand finding the curve of her belly. Their daughter rewarded him with a lazy kick, and he smirked. "She agrees. I'm a hero."
Astrid laughed, tucking herself against him. The city lights glittered beyond the windows, and the scent of jasmine and brine mingled in the air. She was drifting, her eyes heavy, when she felt the baby shift again, a slow roll that made her stomach tighten.
"She's doing gymnastics in there," she mumbled.
"Let her. She's got the best seat in the house." He pressed a kiss to her temple. "Sleep, baby. I'll get more pickles in the morning."
She was too tired to argue. She let sleep pull her under, Shane's arm a warm anchor around her.
The morning light was pale and gray when she woke, her belly a firm, demanding weight. She rolled over, expecting Shane's warmth beside her, but the sheets were cool. She found him in the kitchen, already dressed in his glasses and a faded hoodie, holding out a cup of tea.
"Morning," he said. "Pickle run is in an hour. I checked the deli's hours."
"You checked the hours?" She wrapped her hands around the mug, bemused.
"I'm a supportive husband. I do research."
She drank her tea, then showered and dressed in loose linen pants and a soft maternity top. By the time she emerged, Shane was waiting by the door, keys in hand. He helped her into the passenger seat with a hand on her elbow, and they set off through the morning streets.
The deli sat on a corner of Belmont, a small, unassuming shopfront with a hand-painted sign. The bell jingled as they pushed through the door, and the air hit them with the sharp, wonderful scent of brine, spices, and fresh bread. A stocky man behind the counter nodded at them, but it was the woman beside him who caught Astrid's attention.
She was behind the counter, restocking jars of pickles onto a shelf, and she was unmistakably, gloriously pregnant. A round belly strained the fabric of her apron, and she moved with the careful, calculated grace of someone in their third trimester. She turned at the sound of the bell, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear, and offered them a weary smile.
"Back already?" she said, her voice warm with amusement. "You cleaned us out of the spicy spears yesterday. I had to put in a rush order."
Shane rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah, sorry about that. She needed more."
The woman's eyes swept over Astrid's belly, and her smile widened. A knowing look passed between them, the quick, wordless recognition of two bodies in the same strange, wonderful journey. "How far along are you?"
"Thirty-one weeks," Astrid said. "You?"
"Thirty-four." The woman patted her belly with a rueful laugh. "I get asked every day if I'm having twins. Nope. Just one very insistent boy who thinks my ribs are a jungle gym."
"Tell me about it. Mine's got a career in kickboxing lined up."
Shane stepped forward, a grin tugging at his mouth. "So you're the one who makes the legendary spicy pickles? I need to shake your hand. You've become a crucial part of my marriage."
The woman laughed, a bright, genuine sound that crinkled the corners of her eyes. "Dina. Dina Marchetti. This is my husband, Leo. He does the bookkeeping. I do the pickling." She gestured to the jars lining the shelves. "Everything's made in a small kitchen out back. Family recipes, three generations."
Astrid leaned against the display case, curiosity sparking. "Have you been doing this the whole pregnancy?"
"Unfortunately, yes." Dina rubbed the small of her back. "The smell of vinegar used to make me gag in the first trimester, which was a crisis, because this entire shop smells like vinegar. But now? It's the only thing that settles my stomach. The baby does a happy dance every time I open a fresh batch." She paused, studying Astrid with a professional eye. "You look like you've been having some trouble too. The way you're standing, you're favoring your left side. Lower back pain?"
Astrid blinked, startled. "How did you know that?"
"Because I do the same thing." Dina gestured to a stool behind the counter. "Sit. Please. I've got a secret weapon for that, and I'll give it to you free of charge, because anyone who loves my pickles that much deserves some relief."
Shane pulled the stool closer, and Astrid sank onto it gratefully. Dina moved behind the counter, her hands finding a jar of something pale and cloudy, a mix of herbs and what looked like ginger.
"This is a ginger compress blend I make for myself," Dina said, uncapping the jar. The scent of ginger and something earthy rose from it. "You heat it up, press it against your lower back for about twenty minutes. It won't cure everything, but it'll take the edge off. Trust me, I've been using this since my sixth month."
Astrid's eyes pricked with unexpected tears. It was such a small kindness, a jar of herbs from a stranger, but it hit her in a place she hadn't realized was sore. She blinked quickly, obscuring the warmth in her chest.
"Thank you," she managed. "That's... that's really kind of you."
Dina waved a dismissive hand, but her smile was soft. "Us pregnant ladies have to stick together. No one else understands what it's like to be this uncomfortable and this happy at the same time." She leaned in, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "Also, I keep a secret stash of chocolate-covered pretzels behind the counter for the bad days. Help yourself anytime."
Shane was watching the exchange with a look of quiet adoration, his dark eyes soft. "I'm going to have to start bringing her here every week just for the free advice."
"Bring her every week," Dina agreed. "We'll set up a support group in the back room. Just the two of us and our very demanding children." She turned to Astrid. "What's your name, sweetheart?"
"Astrid." She paused, then added, "Astrid Tanaka. I suppose that sounds odd with my face."
Dina's laugh rang out again. "I'm half-Sicilian, half-Swedish, and I run a Jewish deli. Everyone's a mix these days. That's what makes it interesting."
Leo poked his head out from the back, holding a clipboard. "Dina, the supplier called about the chili order. Also, you're supposed to be sitting down, not running a clinic." His voice was gruff, but his eyes were tender, lingering on his wife's rounded belly.
"I'm sitting in five minutes," Dina called back. "This is more important." She turned to Astrid, her expression softening. "You come back anytime, okay? And if you need someone to complain to about swollen ankles or the fact that you can't see your feet anymore, I'm here every day except Sunday and Monday. This is my number one job: pickle-making, and being a sympathetic ear."
Astrid felt the sting of tears again, unexpected and sharp. She ducked her head, pressing a quick hand to her eyes before Shane could notice. But he did. Of course he did. His hand found hers, warm and steady.
"We'll be back," Shane said, his voice gentle. "Every week. Maybe twice a week."
"Good." Dina beamed. "I'll teach her my secret pickle brine recipe. Every pregnant woman deserves to have her cravings met exactly the way she wants them."
By the time they left the deli, arms loaded with another two jars of spicy spears plus the ginger blend and a small bag of chocolate-covered pretzels that Dina had insisted on pressing into Astrid's hands, Astrid felt lighter than she had in weeks. She buckled herself into the passenger seat, clutching the jar of herbal mix like a talisman.
"She was nice," she said, her voice quiet. "Really nice."
"She was." Shane pulled out of the parking spot, glancing at her. "I liked her. She's got good energy."
Astrid stared out the window, watching the city slide past. Something warm had unfurled in her chest, a small seed of connection she hadn't realized she'd been craving. "She's going to have her baby in about six weeks. She's probably scared too. But she's still out there, running a business, being kind to complete strangers." She looked down at her belly, stroking the curve of it. "I've been so caught up in my own fears and my own discomfort that I forgot there's other women in the same boat. I'm not alone in this."
"You never were." Shane reached across, his palm settling on her thigh. "But I'm glad you've got someone else to talk to now. Someone who's been there." He paused, a smile curling his mouth. "Someone who understands your pickles obsession."
Astrid laughed, the sound bright in the quiet car. "Don't act like you don't benefit from it."
"Ma'am, I drove forty minutes twice in twenty-four hours for those pickles. I think I've earned the right to complain just a little." He squeezed her thigh. "But I'd do it again. I'd do it every day if that's what you needed."
Her hand settled over his, lacing their fingers together. The morning light painted the city in shades of gold and gray, and the jar of ginger blend sat warm in her lap, a reminder that somewhere out there, a stranger with a heavy belly and a kind smile was cheering her on.