Chapter 23: The Next Morning
Leia woke to a slow, pressing heat against the small of her back. The room was still soft with the grey predawn gloom, the Atlantic a whispered rumble beyond the glass. She was on her side, nestled into the curve of Barron’s body, his arm heavy over her waist. And there, firm and insistent, was the rigid length of him, nestled in the cleft of her ass. She stirred, a slight shift of her hips, and heard his breath catch behind her.He was already awake.
His hand slid from her waist, over the plane of her stomach, and down, his long fingers threading through her curls. He found her wet, because she always was for him, especially like this, in the hazy borderland between dreaming and consciousness. “Morning,” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep and wanting.He didn’t wait for a reply. His arm hooked around her, rolling her gently onto her back. The sheets were a tangled mess at their feet. He loomed over her, his face shadowed, his blue-grey eyes reflecting what little light there was.He kissed her, deep and searching, tasting of sleep and shared breath. Then he positioned himself, the blunt head of his cock nudging against her entrance. He looked into her eyes, a silent question.She lifted her hips in answer.
He slid into her in one smooth, deliberate stroke, filling her completely, a delicious stretch that made her gasp. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, his breathing ragged. “Fuck, Leia,” he whispered against her skin.“You’re so tight. Every fucking time, you feel like heaven.”
He began to move, a slow, deep rhythm that was less about urgency and more about possession. Each thrust was measured, profound, rooting him inside her.His body was a cage of heat around her. One hand braced by her head, the other slipped between their joined bodies, his thumb finding her clit with unerring accuracy. He circled it, the pressure perfect, as his hips maintained that relentless, grinding pace.
“You feel that?” he breathed into her ear, his voice a low, filthy rumble.“That’s me, deep inside my wife. Claiming what’s mine. Planting my fucking child in you.” The obscenity, spoken in his quiet, intense tone, sent a violent shiver through her.Her nails dug into the hard muscles of his back. “Yes,” she hissed, her head thrashing on the pillow.
His thrusts became more focused, harder, driving her up the bed. The room was silent except for the slick sound of their joining and their increasingly ragged breath. The coil in her belly tightened, sparked by his words and his touch and the sheer, overwhelming fullness of him. “Come on, baby,” he urged, his fingers working her clit faster.“Come on my cock.Let me feel you come. Squeeze that sweet little cunt around me.”
It crashed over her without warning, a white-hot detonation that clenched every muscle.She cried out, a sound swallowed by his shoulder as she bit down. Her orgasm pulsed around him, milking his length, and with a guttural groan, he pulled out. His release hit her stomach in hot, possessive stripes, painting her skin with the evidence of his want. He collapsed beside her, both of them breathless and glistening in the dim light.
For a long while, they lay there, his come cooling on her skin, their legs entwined.He traced idle patterns on her belly.“My mark,” he said softly.
Later, sunlight streamed into the massive bathroom. The clawfoot tub, strewn with faded rose petals from the night before, stood unused. Barron turned on the shower, steam quickly fogging the gold-veined marble.He pulled her in under the hot spray. Water sluiced over them, and he took the bar of expensive, jasmine-scented soap, working up a lather in his hands. He washed her with a focused tenderness that was its own kind of intimacy, his palms sliding over her breasts, the soapy slickness of his fingers tracing the curve of her waist, the swell of her hip.But the tenderness shifted. His hands slowed on her hips, his touch turning purposeful.He turned her around, facing the wall. “Bend over,” he said, his voice echoing slightly off the tiles. “Hold onto the bench.”
She obeyed, leaning forward, her hands gripping the cool marble seat.The water rained down on her back. He knelt behind her, his hands spreading her cheeks. She felt his breath, then the soft, probing lap of his tongue against her most intimate place.She jerked, a shock of pure pleasure shooting through her. “Barron!”
“Shhh,” he murmured, his tongue delving deeper, licking and tasting her with a hungry dedication that made her knees weak. He worked her until she was trembling, her moans echoing in the steam-filled chamber. Then he rose, his body a solid, hot presence against her back.
She felt the broad head of his cock, still slick from the soap, pressing against her entrance.He didn’t enter her immediately.He rubbed himself along her slit, teasing them both. “This perfect fucking pussy,” he growled.“Made for me. Gonna fill it up every day until it takes. Until my seed sticks.”
With that, he pushed inside, a harder, more driving entry than the one in bed.The angle was deeper, more intense. He gripped her hips, his fingers pressing into her flesh, and set a punishing rhythm. The slap of his skin against hers was loud, rhythmic, underscored by the hiss of the shower. Each thrust jolted her forward, her breasts pressing against the cool marble. He was hitting a place inside her that made her see stars.“You like that?” he grunted, his pace unrelenting. “You like your husband fucking you raw in the shower? Trying to knock you up?”
“Yes!” she cried, the word torn from her. The combination of his dirty talk, the relentless penetration, and the vulnerable, exposed position drove her quickly to the edge. Her second climax was sharp and shattering, a series of convulsions that had her crying out against her arm.
He fucked her through it, his own control fraying.His movements became erratic, frantic. With a final, deep plunge, he stilled, buried to the hilt, and she felt the hot, pulsing rush of his release inside her. He slumped over her, his wet body heavy on her back, both of them supported by the bench as the water began to run lukewarm.He turned off the shower. They stood there, dripping, breathing hard. He wrapped a thick, monogrammed towel around her, then one around himself.He looked at her, water droplets caught in his lashes. “No going back now,” he said, his voice quiet.“We’re really trying.”
She touched his face. “I know.”
They spent the day in a bubble of quiet occupation. They had a late breakfast on their private terrace, fruit and pastries and strong coffee. They read the papers—the wedding had been covered with a respectful distance, the photos tasteful. Dryden had given a terse “No comment” when asked about the First Son’s bride, which they both knew was the closest he’d ever come to approval.
In the afternoon, they walked along the deserted beach, the Secret Service detail a discreet, stationary silhouette far behind them. The wind whipped her hair, and he held her hand, his thumb stroking her knuckles.It was ordinary.It was everything.
That night, after a quiet dinner sent up to the suite, they lay in bed. Her head was on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. His hand rested low on her abdomen, his fingers splayed.“Right here,” he said again, as he had the night before. But this time it wasn’t a whispered dream.It was a quiet, steadfast fact. “We started something today.”
She placed her hand over his. “We did.”
They lay in silence for a long time, the future—a squalling, red-faced, beautiful future—taking root in the quiet dark between them. The world outside with its protocols and politics and Dryden’s scowls seemed very far away. Here, there was only the two of them, and the deliberate, hopeful creation they had begun.
Here, there was only the two of them, and the deliberate, hopeful creation they had begun. Leia’s mind, usually a churning engine of political calculus and family logistics, was still. She tracked the internal, silent clock she’d been monitoring for weeks. The dull ache in her ovaries, the specific clarity of her body’s signals, were as real as the weight of his hand on her stomach. A window was open, rare and precise.She turned her head on his chest, kissing his skin. “Barron.”
“Hmm?”
“I’m ovulating. Right now.” She felt his heartbeat change under her lips, a quickened staccato. “The other times… they were perfect.But this is the peak. If we want to be sure.”
He shifted, rolling onto his side to face her. In the moonlight filtering through the drapes, his expression was solemn, almost reverent.He didn’t speak. Instead, he brushed the wild curl of auburn hair from her cheek, his touch unbearably soft. Then he kissed her forehead, her closed eyelids, the corner of her mouth.It was a language without filth, a liturgy of skin.
His lips finally found hers, a sip, a breath shared. He moved over her, but unlike the urgent claiming of the morning or the dominant possession in the shower, he settled into the cradle of her hips with a graceful ease.There was no frantic grabbing, no guttural command. He simply looked at her, his eyes holding hers, as he nudged himself inside.
The entry was a slow, inevitable swell, a tide covering her completely. He filled her with a profound, aching slowness that made her breath catch for a different reason.There was no force, only a gradual, total occupation. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, his breath warm on her collarbone.
“My beautiful wife,” he whispered, the words muffled against her skin. He began to move, a deep, rolling rhythm that felt less like fucking and more like a conversation between their bodies. Each withdrawal was a tender question, each penetration a gentle answer.His lips traveled to her ear. “I love the life we’re making,” he breathed, his voice a low vibration that traveled straight through her. “All my dreams start with you.” His thrusts remained patient, each one sinking deeper, as if he were mapping the very core of her.
Her hands came up to frame his face, pulling him closer so she could see the certainty in his eyes. The physical sensation built, a slow, mounting pressure that originated in her womb, amplified by the sweetness of his words. “You’re my whole heart, Leia,” he murmured, his pace never quickening, only becoming more intent. “Everything good in me is yours.”
She felt the tears then, hot and silent, slipping from the corners of her eyes into her hairline. It was too much, this convergence of physical peak and emotional surrender. Her orgasm approached not as a sharp cliff but as a wide, warm wave, rising from the place where his body joined hers and where he spoke of their future.
“Come with me,” he whispered, his own control beginning to fracture, his rhythm gaining a fragile urgency. “Let’s meet our baby halfway.”
That was all it took. The wave crested and broke, washing through her in silent, pulsating warmth. She clenched around him, a soft, rhythmic pulse that pulled his own release from him. He shuddered, a deep, full-body tremor, and with a choked sound that was her name, he spilled into her, his whispered promises against her ear as he poured himself deep.He stayed inside her, their bodies locked, for a long time. The moisture between them cooled.
Eventually, he softened and slipped from her, but he gathered her immediately, tucking her back into the fortress of his arms. His hand returned to its place low on her belly. They lay in the dark, listening to the ocean and the quiet miracle they had just courted.“I feel different,” she said into the darkness, her voice hushed.
He kissed her shoulder.“Me too.”
Sleep finally took them, a heavy, hopeful sleep.The seed was sown. Now, they would wait.
Now, they would wait.
The wait was not passive. It was a crackling, two-month arc of life accelerating on parallel tracks. Leia settled into the rhythm of the West Wing with a quiet ferocity that silenced the remaining skeptics. Dryden’s grudging respect became a running joke between her and Donald. “He almost smiled at me today, sir,” she’d report, setting a briefing book on the Resolute Desk. Donald would grunt, not looking up from his speech edits. “Dryden’s face would crack if he smiled. Means you’re doing something right.” The work was a relentless tide of memos, meetings, and moral compromises, but she navigated it, her wedding band a faint click against the keyboard, a constant reminder of the other life waiting each evening.
Barron, meanwhile, carved out a startling normalcy at NYU Stern. The Secret Service detail became a familiar, silent fixture at the back of lecture halls, and his classmates, initially awestruck, eventually just saw the quiet guy who crushed quantitative analysis. They’d study in the townhouse library, her with classified agricultural subsidies reports, him with corporate finance problem sets. “Explain to me again why perpetuity growth models are less ridiculous than the Senate filibuster?” she’d ask, rubbing her eyes. He’d look over the rim of his glasses. “Because the numbers don’t lie. Unlike Senator Jenkins, who definitely lied about his golf handicap.” It was their new normal, a balance they guarded fiercely.
The plan for the holidays took shape like a diplomatic accord. “Eight days at the farmhouse for Hanukkah,” Leia stated, ticking points off on her fingers. “Then Mar-a-Lago for Christmas. Your mom already texted me three different seating charts for Christmas Eve.” Barron nodded, stretching his long legs under the coffee table. “As long as your dad saves me the latkes he fries in that terrifying amount of oil. And as long as my dad doesn’t try to give yours a lesson in real estate.” “They’ll bond over complaining about us,” Leia predicted, and she was probably right.
A few weeks after Thanksgiving, the first strange signal arrived. It wasn't dramatic. It was a persistent, metallic taste in her mouth, like she’d been sucking on a penny. Then, a profound exhaustion that a double espresso couldn’t touch. She blamed the stress, the looming end-of-year legislative pile-up. Then, one Tuesday morning before the daily presidential briefing, it changed.
She was in the small kitchenette off her office, pouring coffee. The smell, usually a comforting aroma, hit her like a physical blow. A wave of acrid, greasy nausea rolled from her stomach to her throat, sudden and violent. She barely made it to the private bathroom, slamming the door and falling to her knees as the bitter coffee and toast from breakfast came up. Her body shook with the force of it. When it passed, she rested her forehead against the cool porcelain, her mind clicking dispassionately through the possibilities. Food poisoning. A virus. She counted back the days. Her breath caught. A wild, terrifying hope flickered.
She cleaned herself up, splashed water on her face, and walked back to the Oval on steady legs. Donald was already behind the desk, tapping his pen. “You’re late, Leia.” “Apologies, Mr. President. Traffic,” she lied smoothly, taking her seat. Her hand was perfectly steady as she opened her briefing book. The meeting proceeded. She spoke, she advised, she countered Dryden’s point on the energy bill. All while her body hummed with a secret, electric suspicion.
That afternoon, she left the West Wing exactly on time, a minor miracle. Barron had a late seminar. The townhouse was silent. She stood in the pharmacy aisle, staring at the wall of options. She chose one with two tests, for certainty. Back home, she followed the instructions with the clinical precision of a lab tech, then set the stick on the edge of the bathroom sink. She turned away, unable to watch. She brushed her teeth, fixed her hair in the mirror. When she finally looked, two bold, undeniable pink lines stared back. Very positive. She sank onto the closed toilet lid, a laugh like a sob escaping her throat. Her hand flew to her still-flat stomach.
She moved on autopilot. She went to the local market, buying ingredients: filet mignon, russet potatoes, fresh rosemary. His favorite meal, the one Melania had taught her to make. She cooked with focused intensity, the methodical sear of the steak, the whisking of the béarnaise sauce, a meditation. She set the small table in the kitchen nook with candles, their nice wedding china. Then she waited, the positive test hidden in her cardigan pocket.
His key turned in the lock just after seven. “Leia? I’m home. You’ll never believe the nonsense my finance prof—” He stopped in the kitchen doorway, taking in the scene: the candles, the food, her standing there in a simple dress, hands clasped. His brows drew together. “What’s all this? Did you broker peace in the Middle East today?” His joke was gentle, worried.
“Sit,” she said, her voice soft. He obeyed, his long frame folding into the chair. She brought the plates over, serving him first. The steak was perfect, medium-rare. He cut a piece, ate it. “This is amazing. But seriously, what’s the occasion?”
She took a deep breath, reached into her pocket, and placed the plastic stick beside his water glass. She didn’t say a word. He looked at it, then at her. His fork clattered onto the plate. He picked up the test, his huge hands making it look tiny. He stared at the two lines for a full thirty seconds, his face unreadable. When he finally looked up at her, his blue-grey eyes were wide, shimmering with a vulnerable awe she had never seen before. “Leia.” It was just her name, but it held everything.
“You’re going to be a daddy,” she whispered.
He was out of his chair in an instant, pulling her up and into his arms. He didn’t spin her around, just held her so tightly she felt his heart hammering against hers. He was trembling. “When? How far? Are you okay? The nausea this morning—” The questions tumbled out against her hair. She nodded, laughing through her own tears. “I’m okay. I’m perfect. It’s very early.” He pulled back, cradling her face, and kissed her—a soft, profound kiss that tasted of shared wonder and béarnaise sauce.
Over the cooled dinner, plans spilled out in excited, hushed tones. “We have to tell them right. Your parents first,” Barron said, his hand never leaving her knee. “My dad will scream the place down. My mom will just... know.” They brainstormed, abandoning grand gestures for something more intimate. For David and Miriam, they settled on a custom-made frame. “We’ll get an ultrasound picture at the first appointment, the earliest one we can,” Leia said. “And frame it with a mat that says ‘Promoted to Opa & Oma, Coming Summer 2025.’” For Donald and Melania, a small, elegant box. “A pair of baby shoes,” Barron suggested. “Tiny leather loafers for him, little pink satin ones for her. Let them guess.”
They cleaned the kitchen together, a mundane task now sacred. He washed, she dried. Their shoulders brushed. Every so often, he would stop, turn her to face him, and just rest his palm on her belly, a look of quiet disbelief on his face. “In there,” he’d murmur.
Later, in the dark of their bedroom, he spooned behind her, his hand once again its protective anchor on her abdomen. The future was no longer an abstract hope. It was a cluster of dividing cells, a secret joy humming between them in the dark, a story waiting to be told to their families in a farmhouse warm with frying oil and a palace gleaming by the sea. The waiting was over. The becoming had begun.