Chapter 22: Sire's response is a guttural curse as he sits up, wrapping one arm around her back to support her pregnant weight while the other fists in her hair. His thrusts come hard and deep, his teeth grazing her collarbone as he pants against her skin 'You're mine - my woman, my baby, my fucking heart.' The creaking bed and their mingled moans fill the room until Souline shatters around him, her orgasm triggering his own as he fills her with hot pulses of cum, sealing their unbreakable bond.
She woke to the memory of his tears on her skin. The words, I love you, hung in the quiet room like the last note of a song, real and vibrating in the air. They had fallen asleep tangled, his promise to stay echoing in her dreams. Now, in the milky grey light of dawn, the weight of her decision felt solid, not frightening. It felt like a foundation.
Sire slept on his back, one arm flung above his head on the pillow, the other resting possessively on her hip. The sheet was low on his waist. And there, pressed against his stomach, was the hard, thick evidence of his unconscious need for her. Even in sleep, his body knew hers. The sight sent a fresh, liquid heat pooling between her thighs.
She moved carefully, her body heavy and ungainly, a symphony of aches and blossoming pressure. She pushed the sheet away, the cool air kissing her skin. Swinging one leg over his hips, she positioned herself, her swollen belly a vast, beautiful obstacle. She supported herself with one hand on his chest, feeling the steady, strong beat of his heart. With the other, she guided him, the broad head of his cock slick with her own readiness and his early-morning arousal. She notched him at her entrance, already soaked, and sank down.
It was a slow, breathtaking descent. Her body stretched, accommodating him inch by torturous inch, a delicious, familiar burn. She took him all, until she was seated fully, his length buried to the hilt inside her. A soft sigh escaped her lips. Her inner muscles fluttered around him, a reflexive, claiming grip.
His breath hitched. His hips gave a tiny, unconscious jerk upwards, seeking deeper. His hands, which had been relaxed, flew to her hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh there. His eyes snapped open. They were dark, clouded with sleep, but the hunger in them was instantaneous and absolute.
“Fuck,” he rasped, his voice gravel.
She began to move, a slow, rolling grind of her hips. The friction was exquisite, a deep, internal caress. “You’re mine,” she said, the words quiet but clear in the hushed room.
“Yeah.” His hands tightened, guiding her rhythm. “Tell me.”
“I forgive you.” She lifted herself almost all the way off, then sank back down, taking him in a smooth, sure stroke. “For the Kiesha. For the cheating. For the “maybe-baby”. For the pushing. For the fucking parking lot vigils. For all of it.”
A groan tore from his chest. He watched her face, mesmerized, as she rode him with a deliberate, sensual pace.
“And I choose you,” she continued, her breath coming faster as the sensations built. She leaned forward, bracing her hands on his chest, her belly pressed against the hard plane of his abdomen. “All of you, Sire. Your crazy, possessive side. Your fucking temper.” She emphasized the word with a harder drop of her hips. “Your softness when you think no one’s looking. Your protection.” She leaned down, her lips brushing his. “Your love. I want all of it. Every day.”
“You have it.” The words were a vow, strained with pleasure. “You have every fucked-up piece of me, baby. It’s yours.”
He thrust up to meet her next downward stroke, and the change in angle made her cry out. He’d hit a spot so deep and perfect her vision whited out for a second. “Right there,” she begged. “Oh, god, right there.”
He took over then, his hands locking her hips in place as he pistoned up into her, driving into that sacred, swollen place again and again. The slow worship was gone, replaced by a raw, desperate claiming. The bed began to knock softly against the wall in a frantic rhythm.
“This cunt,” he gritted out, his eyes blazing up at her. “This perfect, forgiving, tight little cunt is my home. You feel how deep I am? You feel how much I love you?”
“Yes! Sire, yes!”
“Come for me. Come all over my dick. Let me feel you choose me.”
His command, filthy and loving, tipped her over. The orgasm detonated, a rolling wave of pleasure so intense it was almost painful. She clenched around him, milking him, her cries muffled against his neck. The feel of her pulsing around him was his own undoing. With a shout that was pure release, he slammed up one last time and held, his body bowing off the mattress as he emptied himself into her in hot, endless spurts.
The convulsions slowly subsided. She collapsed against him, spent, her ear over his hammering heart. He was still inside her, softening but present. They were glued together by sweat and come and the profound intimacy of the morning. His hands drifted from her hips to cradle the curve of her ass, then up to stroke her back.
For a long time, there was only the sound of their breathing slowing, syncing. The room grew lighter. A bird sang outside the window. The world was waking up, but here, in this tangle of sheets and limbs and shared breath, they had already found their new beginning. He was still nestled deep within her, a physical anchor to the promises they had just made.
He was still nestled deep within her, a physical anchor to the promises they had just made. His heartbeat thudded against her ear, a slow, grounding rhythm. She felt utterly claimed, and for the first time, the feeling was not a cage but a shelter.
The room grew warmer as the sun climbed, painting gold stripes across their tangled legs. He shifted beneath her, his softening slip from her body a intimate, wet separation. She made a small, protesting sound in the back of her throat. “I know,” he murmured, his hands smoothing over her back. “Just getting a towel, baby. I’m not going anywhere.”
He returned from the bathroom with a damp cloth, its warmth a shock against her sensitive skin. He cleaned her with a startling tenderness, wiping the evidence of their joining from her inner thighs. The act was more vulnerable than the sex had been. She watched his face, the fierce concentration in his downturned eyes, the slight tremor in his fingers.
“No one’s ever…” she started, then stopped, the sentence too immense to finish.
“No one ever will.” He said it simply, tossing the cloth toward the hamper. He slid back into bed, pulling her against him so her back was to his front, his hand splayed over her belly. His lips found the sensitive spot behind her ear. “You’re stuck with my obsessive ass.”
She laughed, a soft, breathy sound. The baby kicked, a strong flutter under his palm. They both felt it. Sire went very still. “Hell,” he whispered, awe flattening his voice. He waited, and when another nudge came, he laughed into her hair. “He’s got a strong foot. Like his dad.”
The word ‘dad’ hung between them, new and weighty. He’d said it before, but now, after her forgiveness and her choice, it held the gravity of a permanent title. She covered his hand with hers, lacing their fingers together over the life they’d created. “He’s going to be just as stubborn.”
“Good.” Sire nipped her shoulder. “He’ll need to be, to keep up with his mother.”
They dozed in the honeyed light, a lazy, contented tangle. When she woke again, he was propped on an elbow, just watching her. His gaze was a physical touch, tracing the lines of her face, the curve of her shoulder, the swell of her breasts. It wasn’t purely sexual; it was a study, a memorization.
“What?” she asked, her voice sleep-roughened.
“Just making sure you’re real.” He leaned in and kissed her, slow and deep, a conversation without words. When he pulled back, his eyes were dark pools of intent. “And that you’re still mine.”
The kiss ignited the embers that never fully died between them. Her body, sated just hours before, quickened for him again. It was a different hunger now, less frantic, more sure. She rolled to face him, her leg hooking over his hip, drawing him closer. The hard line of his erection pressed against her stomach.
“Prove it,” she whispered, a challenge and an invitation.
A slow, wicked grin spread across his face. He pushed her onto her back, his movements deliberate. He hooked his hands under her knees, spreading her wide, opening her completely to his gaze. She felt exposed, vulnerable, and utterly desired. He looked his fill, his nostrils flaring at the scent of her, of them mixed together.
“Still so pretty and pink,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. He dragged a single finger through her slick folds, gathering wetness, then pushed two fingers inside, curling them. “Still so tight for me. Even after all that cock.”
She arched off the bed, a gasp catching in her throat. His fingers worked her with a cruel, knowing precision, rubbing that spot inside that made her toes curl. “Sire…”
“You want my mouth or my dick, baby?” His voice was a low rumble. “Tell me what you need.”
“I need you to fuck me,” she breathed, past propriety, past everything but the need coiling in her core. “Hard. I need to feel you everywhere.”
He withdrew his fingers, slick and shining, and brought them to his lips, sucking them clean while holding her gaze. The obscenity of it made her clench around nothing. He positioned himself at her entrance, the broad head a relentless pressure. Then he drove in, one single, deep, conquering thrust that stole the air from her lungs.
He didn’t pause. He set a brutal, punishing pace, each slam of his hips jolting her up the bed. The headboard knocked a steady, frantic rhythm against the wall. This was possession, raw and undisguised. He leaned over her, caging her in, his breath hot and ragged against her neck.
“This is what you chose,” he grunted, his rhythm never faltering. “This deep, fucking stretch. This sweat. This fucking noise.” He punctuated each word with a thrust. “My name on your lips when you come.”
She was unraveling, the pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. She clawed at his back, her cries pitching higher. “Yes! Don’t stop, don’t you fucking stop!”
He shifted, lifting her hips higher, and the new angle was devastating. He was hitting a place so deep and perfect she saw bursts of light behind her eyelids. Her climax gathered, a tsunami at the base of her spine. “I’m gonna… Sire, I’m gonna come!”
“Come,” he commanded, his own control splintering. “Soak my dick. Let me feel it.”
The orgasm ripped through her, violent and all-consuming. Her inner muscles spasmed around him in tight, rhythmic clutches, milking him, pulling him deeper. With a shattered groan, he followed her over, plunging deep and holding as he emptied himself. His release felt endless, a hot, claiming flood that had her twitching with oversensitivity.
He collapsed on top of her, his weight a welcome anchor. They were both slick with sweat, breathless, wrecked. In the heavy, perfumed silence, with his heart hammering against hers and his spend leaking from her body, he turned his head. His lips brushed the shell of her ear, his voice a raw, whispered breath that held the weight of every parking lot vigil, every furious touch, every tear, and every forgiven sin.
“Marry me, baby.”
The words weren’t a question. They were a statement, low and graveled, vibrating through the damp space between their chests. They didn’t hang in the air; they drilled into it, solid as a nail.
Her breath stopped. The entire world condensed to the feel of him, still semi-hard inside her, and the three syllables echoing in the ringing silence. Marry me. Her mind, hazy with endorphins and spent pleasure, simply blanked. It was a white, soundless static.
Then, a fracture. A sharp, involuntary inhale that hitched into a sob. It wasn’t a sad sound. It was the sound of a dam breaking under a pressure too beautiful to bear. The tears came hot and fast, spilling from the corners of her eyes, tracking through the sweat on her temples into the pillow. She couldn’t speak. She shook beneath him, a silent, trembling earthquake.
He felt it. He pushed himself up on his arms, his weight on his elbows, looking down at her wrecked face. His own expression was stripped raw, all his usual fierce control sandblasted away. There was no smirk, no arrogance. Just a terrifying, open vulnerability.
“Hey,” he murmured, his voice cracking. He brushed a thumb over her cheek, smearing the wetness. “None of that.”
“You…” she managed, the word a choked whisper. “You’re serious.”
“I’ve never been more serious about anything in my entire fucked-up life.” He shifted, slipping from her body, but immediately gathered her against him, turning them so she was cradled in the cage of his limbs. He kissed her temple, her closed eyelids, tasting the salt. “The paperwork, the ring, the church or the courthouse or the fucking backyard—I don’t give a shit. But you will be my wife. Before our son is born. You will have my name.”
She curled into him, her face pressed against the solid warmth of his chest, crying in earnest now. The tears were for the lonely girl she’d been, for the plastic bag under the car seat, for every night he’d sat vigil in his parked car. For the sheer, staggering improbability of this hard man offering her everything he had.
“Why?” she finally breathed into his skin.
He went very still. His hand, which had been stroking her hair, stilled. He took a deep, shuddering breath, as if steadying himself to jump from a great height.
“Because you’re the answer,” he said, the words quiet but absolute, spoken into the crown of her head. “You think I was just some rich fuck playing games? I was empty. I was a hole dressed in money and anger. I filled it with wrong things, with Kieshas and fights and bullshit. And then there you were. You with your quiet eyes and your stubborn heart. You saw the monster and you didn’t run. You stood there and you chose it. You forgave it.”
He pulled back just enough to make her look at him. His eyes were glistening, fierce.
“That’s a miracle. That’s God, or the universe, or whatever the hell you want to call it, putting the only thing that could ever fix me right in my path. You are my answered prayer, Souline. The one I was too stupid and angry to ever think to say out loud.” His thumb traced her lower lip. “So I’m not asking. I’m telling you what’s meant to be. You. Me. Our son. A family. Mine.”
The certainty in his voice was a fortress. It left no room for doubt, for the old fears to creep in. He was mapping their future with the same ruthless possession with which he’d mapped her body. And she wanted it. She wanted that claim stamped on her, legally, permanently.
The tears slowed. A profound calm settled over her, warm and heavy. She placed her hand on his cheek, feeling the prickle of his stubble, the strong line of his jaw.
“Yes,” she said. Simple. Final.
A shudder ran through him. He closed his eyes, exhaling as if he’d been holding that breath for twenty-six years. When he opened them, the vulnerability was being burned away, replaced by a blazing, triumphant light. It was the look he got right before he took her, a look of pure, focused hunger.
“Say it again,” he demanded, his voice dropping, his hand already sliding down the curve of her spine to grip her ass.
“Yes, Sire. I’ll marry you.”
A growl ripped from his throat. He rolled, pinning her beneath him again. The mood shifted, crackling back into that electric, physical space that was their native tongue. The emotion was too big; they had to translate it into flesh.
“Gonna seal that promise right now,” he muttered, his mouth descending to hers in a kiss that was all teeth and tongue. He was already hard again, thick and insistent against her thigh. He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged. “On your knees. I need to see all of you when I take you this time.”
She moved, her body compliant, eager. She got onto her hands and knees, the heavy weight of her belly hanging beneath her. He positioned himself behind her, one hand gripping the swell of her hip, the other guiding himself. He rubbed the broad head of his cock through her slick folds, coating himself, teasing them both.
“This,” he said, his voice thick with intent. “This is where I make my wife. Right here.”
He pushed in, not with a single thrust, but with a slow, relentless invasion that stretched her deliciously. She cried out, dropping her forehead to the mattress. He seated himself fully, his balls tight against her, and paused, letting her feel the overwhelming fullness.
Then he pulled back and slammed home.
The force of it drove her forward. He set a brutal, driving rhythm, each thrust a punctuation to his declaration. The slap of skin was loud, obscene, beautiful. He leaned over her, his chest pressed against her back, his mouth at her ear.
“You’re gonna walk down whatever aisle we pick,” he grunted, pounding into her, “with my cum still dripping out of this pretty married pussy. Everyone will know you’re mine.”
“Yes! God, yes!” The filthiness of his words, the raw possession in his thrusts, unraveled her completely. She pushed back against him, meeting every drive, taking him deeper.
“Who do you belong to?” he demanded, his hand snaking around to find her clit, rubbing rough, frantic circles.
“You! Sire, I belong to you!”
“Fucking right.” His rhythm became erratic, frantic. “Come with me. Now.”
The dual stimulation—his fingers, his cock hitting that perfect, deep spot—shattered her. Her climax ripped through her with a silent, breathless intensity, her inner muscles clamping down on him in violent pulses. He swore, a raw, broken string of curses, and followed, driving deep as he came. His release seemed to go on forever, hot pulses that filled her, marking her, sealing his vow inside her very body.
He collapsed over her, his weight a welcome burden. They stayed like that, joined, until his softened slip from her body. He rolled, pulling her with him, tucking her back against his chest. Their skin was slick, the room smelled of sex and salt and promise.
He nuzzled her hair, his voice a drowsy rumble against her scalp. “We’re telling my brothers tomorrow. Then we find a judge.” His arms tightened around her. “Before he’s born. You’ll be Souline Saint.”