Chapter 15: Overflowing Desires
The keycard clicked in the lock, a sharp sound in the empty hotel corridor. Hyukjae shouldered the door open, his body aching in that specific, gratifying way that followed a hard-fought win. The adrenaline of the match had long since bled out during the silent bus ride back to Seoul, leaving behind the deep thrum of muscle fatigue and the sour taste of a sterile post-game interview.
He’d texted Gabby from the stadium, a simple Landed. Heading back. Her reply had been a single heart emoji. He missed her with a physical ache that surprised him sometimes, even now.
The suite was dark, save for a sliver of amber light spilling from the half-open door to the bathroom. The air was thick, warm, and carried the cloying sweetness of roses. He dropped his gear bag by the entrance with a soft thud, the sound swallowed by plush carpet.
“Noona?” he called out, his voice raspy from shouting on the pitch.
No answer. Just the faint, liquid sound of water shifting.
He toed off his shoes and padded toward the light. The bathroom was a cavern of marble and dark tile, steam fogging the mirrors. And there she was.
Gabby was submerged in the sunken tub, water brimming to the very edge. Her head was tipped back against the porcelain, eyes closed. The surface of the water trembled with her slow, deep breaths. Her breasts, swollen and heavy with her advancing pregnancy, broke the surface like pale islands, the dark nipples peaked tight from the heat. One hand rested on the pronounced curve of her belly, the other was moving slowly, rhythmically, beneath the cloudy, rose-scented water.
Hyukjae froze in the doorway, his travel weariness burnt away in an instant by a bolt of pure, searing heat. He watched, captivated, as her lips parted on a silent sigh. Her hips gave a slight, undulating lift, churning the water around her. He could see the subtle flex of her arm, the concentration on her face. This was private. A raw, unobserved moment.
Then her eyes opened. They found his reflection in the fogged mirror across from her, then slid directly to him in the doorway. There was no startle, no shame. A slow, predatory smile spread across her lips.
“You’re late,” she said, her voice a low, husky thing that vibrated in the steamy air.
“Bus got held up,” he managed, his throat dry.
Her submerged hand stopped its motion. She lifted it, dripping, and pointed a finger at him. Water streamed down her arm. “You’ve got three minutes to get naked,” she stated, her tone leaving no room for debate. “Before I ride you raw in this water.”
The command, so filthy and direct from her mouth, punched the air from his lungs. A fierce, possessive pride swelled in his chest. This was his wife. The mother of his child. A goddess of need.
He didn’t need three minutes. His fingers fumbled with the buttons of his team track jacket, then the shirt underneath. He kicked his socks off, shoved his shorts and briefs down in one frantic motion. His cock, already hard and throbbing, sprang free. The cooler air of the bedroom contrasted sharply with the steam wafting from the bathroom.
He approached the tub. Up close, he could see the silvery stretch marks like lightening across the dome of her stomach, the faint blue veins mapping her breasts. A thin, bluish-white stream was tracing a path from her nipple down the slope of her breast, mingling with the bathwater. Milk. The sight was so profoundly intimate, so real, it made his heart clench.
She watched him, her gaze raking over his body—the defined muscles of his abdomen, the lean strength of his legs earned on the field, the clear, urgent need standing thick and ready between them. Her eyes darkened.
“You look fucking delicious,” she breathed. She shifted in the water, making room. “Get in. Now.”
He stepped into the tub, the hot water a shocking embrace. It sloshed over the rim, a small waterfall soaking the mat below. He sank down opposite her, their legs tangling. The space was suddenly too small, too hot, charged with a voltage that made his skin prickle.
She didn’t wait. She moved forward through the water, a creature of pure intent, until she was straddling his thighs. Her wet, heated core pressed against his hard length. He groaned, his hands finding her hips, gripping the slick, giving flesh.
“I watched the game,” she whispered, leaning close. Her damp hair brushed his cheek. “Watched you run. Watched you sweat. All I could think about was this. You, inside me. Filling me up.”
Her words were a match to gasoline. He crushed his mouth to hers. The kiss was nothing like the tender exploration of their wedding night. This was all teeth and clashing tongues, a hungry reclaiming. He could taste the rose water on her skin, smell the clean sweat of his own body mixing with her scent.
She reached between them, her hand closing around him, guiding him. The hot water made everything slick, effortless. With a single, fluid roll of her hips, she sank down onto him, taking him in completely in one smooth, deep stroke.
A ragged curse tore from his throat. She was so tight, so incredibly hot inside, the water creating a maddening, shifting friction. Her head fell back, a guttural moan echoing off the marble. Her breasts heaved, water sluicing down the deep valley between them.
“Fuck,” she gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders. “God, yes.”
She began to move, riding him with a ferocity that stole his breath. Up and down, a relentless, water-churning rhythm. Her swollen belly pressed against his torso with each descent. He could feel the baby, a firm, separate presence between them. The reality of it—the life they’d made, the sheer animal glory of fucking while she carried it—drove him wild.
His hands slid from her hips to grip the full, heavy globes of her ass, squeezing, urging her on. Water slapped against the sides of the tub. The sounds were obscene: wet, rhythmic slaps, their mingled grunts and curses, the gasp of steam from the shower head still dripping nearby.
“You feel so good,” he growled, his face buried in her neck. “So fucking perfect, noona.”
“Harder,” she demanded, her voice breaking on the word. “Don’t you dare hold back.”
He obeyed, driving up into her from below, meeting her every drop with a forceful thrust. The water surged around them. She cried out, her body clamping around him in tight, pulsing waves. Her climax was a violent, shuddering thing that made her whole body convulse. He held her through it, his own control fraying to a thread.
As her spasms subsided, she leaned forward, bracing her hands on his chest, her movements becoming slower, deeper, more grinding. Her eyes locked on his. “Come in me,” she ordered, her voice raw. “I want to feel it. Every drop.”
It was the permission, the crude command, that undid him. His vision whited out. With a hoarse shout that was torn from some primal place, he came, his hips bucking up into her as he emptied himself in deep, pulsing jets. The pleasure was so intense it was almost painful, a wrenching release of every tension from the game, from the travel, from the sheer, overwhelming fact of her.
He sagged back against the tub, spent, gasping. She collapsed against him, her head on his shoulder, their hearts hammering a frantic, synced tattoo against each other’s damp skin. The water around them was still, cooling.
For a long time, they just breathed. The only sound was the drip of the tap and the distant groan of hotel plumbing somewhere in the walls.
Her finger traced a random pattern over his racing heart. “We made a mess,” she murmured, a lazy, satisfied smile in her voice.
He snorted a soft laugh, his arms tightening around her. “Worth it.”
They stayed like that until the water lost all its heat, until their fingertips pruned. He helped her out, wrapping her in a thick, white bathsheet, drying her with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with their previous frenzy. He toweled himself off quickly and pulled on a robe.
She stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, the towel draped loosely around her, looking out at the neon grid of the city. He came up behind her, encircling her and her belly with his arms, resting his chin on her damp hair.
“The baby moved the whole time,” she said quietly. “During. Like a little earthquake.”
He splayed his hand over her stomach, feeling the firm curve. A slow, rolling movement answered his touch. He smiled against her hair. “Probably wondering what all the commotion was about.”
She leaned back into him, a contented sigh escaping her. The frantic need was gone, replaced by a deep, satiated calm. The city lights blurred into a haze of gold and white beyond the glass.
“You played well today,” she said after a moment. “But you’re favoring your left side. Your right ankle’s bothering you again.”
He sighed. She noticed everything. “It’s nothing. Just a twinge.”
“It’s not nothing,” she said, turning in his arms. Her expression was serious now, the lover replaced by the partner. “We’ll ice it when we get home tomorrow.”
Home. The word held a new weight. It wasn’t just his apartment anymore, or her family’s empty mansion. It was their place, with a nursery half-painted and a crib in a box waiting to be assembled.
He nodded, kissing her forehead. “Okay.”
Later, as they lay in the dark of the vast hotel bed, her back curled into his front, his hand once more on the cradle of her belly, he thought of the game. The roar of the crowd, the clean strike of the ball for his assist, the coach’s slap on his back. It all felt distant, secondary. The real victory, the only one that mattered, was here, in the quiet rise and fall of her breathing, in the occasional, powerful kick against his palm. This was his center. This was the goal. Everything else was just noise.
Everything else was just noise. For a week, it stayed that way, a warm cocoon of tangled limbs and quiet laughter that made the hotel suite and then their new apartment feel like the only real place in the world. Then the noise found a way back in.
It came from Milan, a clipped highlight reel on Hyukjae’s phone. The derby win, his crucial tackle, the flashing cameras. The post-match interview segment was brief. A stunning local host with a confident smile, flawless English, and a cascade of dark hair. She’d congratulated him, leaning in for the customary double cheek kiss. The gesture was quick, professional, entirely normal for the setting. Hyukjae had smiled politely, answered his questions, and forgotten her face before he’d reached the tunnel.
He returned home three days later, his body aching from travel, craving the scent of her rose water and skin. He found the apartment preternaturally still. The lights were off. Gabby sat curled in the oversized armchair by the window, shrouded in one of his old hoodies, staring at the rain-washed city. The remains of a melted pint of ice cream sat on the floor beside her.
“Noona?” he said, dropping his bag.
She didn’t turn. Her voice was thick, muffled by fabric. “How was your flight?”
“Long. Cold.” He approached, kneeling before the chair. In the grey afternoon light, he saw the tracks, shiny and recent, streaking her cheeks. Her eyes were puffy. A cold dread tightened his gut. “Hey. What’s wrong? Is it the baby? Are you hurt?”
A harsh, wet laugh escaped her. “The baby’s fine. The baby is perfect.” She finally looked at him, her gaze shattered glass. “I saw the interview. The beautiful Italian woman kissing my beautiful husband.”
He blinked, confused. “The… the host? That was just… it’s what they do there. It’s air kisses, Gabby, it’s nothing.”
“Nothing.” She repeated the word as if tasting something rotten. She pushed the hoodie off her shoulders, gesturing wildly at her own body. “Look at me, Hyukjae. Just look. I’m a fucking whale. I’m swollen everywhere. My back aches, my ankles are gone, and I leak all the goddamn time.” Her voice hitched, breaking into a sob. “And you’re out there, surrounded by those women. Thin, glamorous women who don’t waddle and cry over spilt milk—literally. How can you look at me and not… not want that?”
The raw pain in her words lanced through him. This wasn’t the confident goddess from the hotel tub, commanding him to take her. This was a scared, changing woman, haunted by phantoms.
“Look at you?” he said, his own voice low and rough. He didn’t touch her yet. He made her meet his eyes. “You think I see a whale? I see the woman carrying my child. I see the curves I dream about when I’m in a shitty hotel bed halfway across the world.” He leaned closer, his intensity pinning her. “That woman on the screen? I don’t remember her face. I remember yours, every single detail, every time I close my eyes.”
He saw her waver, the anger crumbling into a flood of fresh, silent tears. That’s when he moved.
He didn’t ask. He slid his hands under her thighs and the small of her back, lifting her from the chair with a grunt. She was heavier, fuller, a glorious weight in his arms. She gasped, her arms looping instinctively around his neck. He carried her to their bedroom, the grey light painting everything in soft, sad tones.
He laid her on the rumpled duvet, his movements deliberate. He peeled the huge hoodie off her, then the soft maternity leggings and her cotton panties. She didn’t help, nor did she resist. She lay there, exposed, her belly a magnificent arc, her breasts heavy and full, her eyes searching his face for deceit.
He stripped his own clothes off, his gaze never leaving hers. His cock was already half-hard, not from crude desire, but from a profound, aching need to erase every doubt.
He started at her feet, his calloused soccer-player’s hands massaging the arches, kneading the swollen ankles she hated. He worked his way up her calves, the tight muscles of her thighs, his touch firm and worshipful. He kissed the inside of her knee, then the stretch marks webbing her hips, each silvery line a map he cherished.
When he nuzzled into the thatch of curls at the junction of her thighs, she tensed. “Hyukjae…”
“Shhh,” he murmured, his breath hot against her. “This is for me. Let me taste my wife.”
He didn’t dive in. He opened her slowly with his thumbs, revealing her glistening, pink folds, already wet with a different slickness than tears. He breathed her in, the musky, essential scent of her, and it was the only perfume he ever wanted. He licked a long, slow stripe from her entrance to her clit.
She jerked, a sharp inhale cutting the air.
He fastened his mouth on her then, his tongue a flat, demanding pressure against her swollen clit. He didn’t just lick; he devoured, circling, flicking, sucking the tender nub into his mouth. One hand slid up to cup her breast, his thumb brushing over the nipple. It beaded instantly, and a drop of milky fluid pearled at the tip.
He moaned against her, the vibration making her cry out. He lifted his head just enough to capture her nipple with his lips, drawing it in, sucking gently as the sweet, warm milk coated his tongue. He switched between her breasts, suckling like a man starved, his hand working her other nipple, pulling and rolling it until twin streams leaked down her sides.
The combination was electric. Her hips began to move, a helpless, stuttering rhythm. “Oh god… oh fuck, don’t stop…”
He went back to her cunt, his mission clear. He speared his tongue inside her, fucking her with it in short, deep plunges. Then he returned to her clit, sucking it hard, his fingers now slipping inside her, curling to find that spongy spot within. He knew her body like his own playbook.
“I’m gonna… Hyukjae, I’m gonna come!” Her voice was a shattered thing.
He doubled down, his tongue a relentless piston on her clit. Her orgasm ripped through her, a silent, breathless scream preceding a violent clenching of her whole body. Her back arched off the bed, her thighs clamping around his ears as she pulsed around his fingers. He drank every tremor, every drop, gentling his mouth until she collapsed, sobbing.
He crawled up her body, kissing her trembling stomach, her heaving breasts, the salt of her tears. He positioned himself at her entrance, his cock-head nudging her soaked, sensitive flesh. He looked down at her, his own eyes burning.
“Whose?” he asked, his voice guttural.
“Yours,” she gasped.
“Who do I see?”
“Me. Only me.”
He pushed into her, a slow, complete invasion that made her gasp anew. She was impossibly tight, fluttering from her recent climax. He set a deep, rolling rhythm, each thrust a claiming, each withdrawal a promise of return. He fucked her with a focused, driving intensity, his hands gripping her hips, his eyes locked on hers.
“You. Are. Everything,” he grunted with every drive of his hips.
The coil tightened again inside her, faster this time, fueled by emotional spillover and relentless physical刺激. Her nails scored his back. “Again… I’m coming again, fuck, don’t stop!”
Her second climax was a roaring wave, less sharp than the first but deeper, a drowning, full-body surrender that milked his cock. He kept moving, his own release a mounting tsunami. He shifted, pulling her leg over his shoulder, changing the angle. The next thrust hit a new, devastating depth.
She shrieked, a raw, broken sound. “There! Right there!”
He hammered that spot, pistoning into her with a force that shook the bedframe. Her third orgasm overtook her before the second had fully ebbed, a continuous, overwhelming seizure of pleasure that blurred her vision. Her cunt clenched around him in rhythmic, greedy spasms.
It was too much. With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt and came. His shout was a raw, unfiltered release of tension, love, and ferocious pride. He pulsed inside her, filling her with the physical proof of his devotion, each jet a silent vow against her insecurities.
He collapsed carefully beside her, his hand immediately splayed over her belly. They were both slick with sweat and milk and come, breathing in ragged, broken synchronicity. The quiet rain against the window was the only sound.
Her hand found his on her stomach. She laced their fingers together. The silent tears still leaked from the corners of her eyes, but her body was soft, pliant, utterly spent.
He turned his head, kissing her shoulder. “Next time I go to Italy,” he whispered into her damp skin, “you’re coming with me. So you can see for yourself that I’m only looking for you in the crowd.”
A hiccuping half-sob, half-laugh escaped her. She squeezed his hand. The baby kicked, a firm, undeniable punctuation against their joined palms.
The baby kicked, a firm, undeniable punctuation against their joined palms.
“See?” Gabby whispered, her voice raspy from crying and climax. “Even they agree with you.”
Hyukjae brought their clasped hands to his mouth, kissing her knuckles. The frantic energy between them had burnt down to embers, leaving a weary, tender warmth. He slipped from the bed, his body protesting the movement. He returned with a warm, damp cloth and cleaned her with a gentleness that made her eyes well up again.
“Stop that,” she mumbled, swatting weakly at his hand. “I’ll start all over again.”
“Good,” he said simply, finishing his task. He disposed of the cloth and slid back beside her, pulling the duvet over their cooling skin. They lay in silence for a long time, listening to the city’s evening murmur begin outside. Her breathing evened out, deepening.
“You meant it?” she asked into the darkness, her words slightly slurred with exhaustion. “About Italy?”
“Yes.” His answer was immediate, solid. “We’ll go together. After the season. You can show me where you spent summers. I’ll eat too much of your nonna’s pasta.”
A soft snuffle of laughter escaped her. “She’ll force-feed you until you pop.”
“I’ll let her.” He traced the enormous curve of her belly. “I’ll need the fuel for the screaming nights ahead, right?”
She turned her head on the pillow to look at him. In the deepening gloom, he could just make out the shine of her eyes. “You’re not… tired of this? Of me being like this?”
He understood the real question. He propped himself on one elbow, looking down at her. The doubt was a ghost he needed to permanently chase away.
“When I’m on that bus,” he said slowly, choosing each word with care, “or in that sterile hotel room, all I think about is getting back to you. To this.” His hand remained on her stomach. “I think about how you look, right now. How you feel under my hands. How your skin smells. It’s not a… a general thing. It’s you. Only you, Gabby. Pregnant with my kid. It makes me fucking crazy. In the best way.”
She searched his face, then nodded once, a tiny movement. The ghost retreated.
The following weeks became a new, strange, and intensely physical rhythm. True to his word, he was only gone for the actual away matches, flying out one day and back the next, a whirlwind of airports and stale air and bright, meaningless stadium lights. Milan became their base, their home. A modern, airy apartment she’d found, thirty minutes from her grandparents’ villa in Monza.
The change of scenery was a balm for Gabby. She bloomed in the Italian autumn, waddling through the Parco Sempione, sitting for hours in the Duomo’s piazza with a libro and a decaffeinato, her vast belly a beacon for old nonnas who would stop to bless her and pinch her cheeks. The anxiety that had gripped her in Seoul seemed to loosen its claws in the familiar cobblestone streets and softer light.
Hyukjae, when home, was a man obsessed. Her advanced pregnancy, far from dampening his desire, stoked it into a constant, low flame. It was in everything. The way he’d watch her struggle to put her shoes on, his gaze dark and hungry, before kneeling to do it for her. The way he’d come up behind her as she stood at the stove, his hands immediately cupping the heavy weight of her breasts, his lips on her neck, whispering filthy promises about what he’d do to her once the pasta was done.
It was a Tuesday afternoon, sun streaming into their bedroom. She was a planet on the bed, propped by a fortress of pillows, trying to find a position where the baby wasn’t practicing karate on her bladder. He walked in from a light training session at a local gym, sweat dampening his shirt. He stood in the doorway, just watching her.
“What?” she said, self-consciously smoothing the fabric of her maternity dress over her stomach.
“Nothing.” He pulled his shirt over his head, revealing his lean torso. He came to the bed, kneeling beside her. “You’re just… so fucking beautiful it hurts to look at you sometimes.”
He leaned in and kissed her, deep and slow. His hand slid under her dress, up her thigh. His fingers, still calloused from training, found the damp crotch of her cotton panties. She gasped into his mouth.
“You’re wet,” he murmured, a statement of pure, guttural satisfaction.
“Always am, lately,” she breathed, her hips shifting, seeking pressure.
He hooked his fingers in the waistband of her panties and drew them down her legs, his movements deliberate. He pushed her dress up to her waist, exposing her swollen belly and the thatch of dark curls beneath. The afternoon light gilded her skin. He parted her folds with his thumbs, exposing her glistening, pink core to the cool air and his heated gaze.
“Look at that,” he growled. “Dripping for me. And I haven’t even touched you properly yet.”
He didn’t use his mouth. He positioned himself over her, supporting his weight on his arms. He guided himself to her entrance, the broad head of his cock nudging against her slickness. He pushed in slowly, an excruciating, inch-by-inch invasion that stretched her exquisitely full. Her mouth fell open in a silent cry.
“Fuck,” he hissed, his biceps trembling with the effort of control. “You’re so deep like this. I can feel everything.”
He began to move, a slow, grinding roll of his hips that rubbed him against every sensitive inch inside her. Each thrust was a deep, claiming possession. Her hands scrambled against the sheets, then grabbed his ass, pulling him deeper, demanding more.
“Harder,” she pleaded, her head thrashing side to side on the pillow. “Please, Hyukjae, I need it harder.”
He obeyed, his rhythm shifting into something more primal, more driving. The bed began to rock against the wall with a steady, thumping beat. He fucked her with a single-minded intensity, his eyes locked on where their bodies joined, watching his cock disappear into her weeping cunt.
“You take me so good,” he grunted, his voice strained. “This perfect, fat belly. These amazing tits.” He reached down, pinching her nipple roughly. A jet of milk sprayed, catching the light. The sight undid him. “Christ, Gabby.”
His pace became punishing, a frantic race towards release. She met him thrust for thrust, her body arching, her cries shortening into sharp, animalistic gasps. Her climax tore through her with violent suddenness, a clenching, milking pulse that had him shouting, his own control shattering.
He came inside her with a broken groan, pumping his release deep, his body shuddering violently atop hers. He collapsed carefully to the side, his breath hot and ragged against her neck. They lay there, sticky and spent, as the sun crept across the floor.
Later, as they showered together, he soaped her body with a reverence that felt like a prayer. Her phone rang on the bathroom counter. She saw her grandfather’s name. She answered, putting it on speaker as Hyukjae rinsed her back.
“Cara, we are having a small dinner tomorrow. Your young man is home, yes? Bring him. Seven o’clock. Wear something nice, but for God’s sake, wear shoes you can walk in.”
She laughed, a full, rich sound that made Hyukjae smile. “We’ll be there, Nonno.”
She hung up. Hyukjae turned her around, his hands sliding down to cradle the hard curve of her belly. Water sluiced between them.
“Something nice, huh?” he said, a sly grin spreading across his face. His thumbs circled the taut skin low on her stomach. “I have some ideas.” His grin faded into something darker, more possessive. His cock, already hardening again against her thigh, was a blunt, insistent pressure. “But right now, I need you again. Just like this. Right here.”
He backed her gently against the cool, tiled wall.