Chapter 21: Breakfast in Bed
The dawn was a slow bleed of gold and rose over the city’s silhouette. You swam up from a deep, dreamless sleep, anchored by a profound warmth at your back. Julian’s chest was a solid wall of heat behind you, his breathing even and deep. For a moment, there was only peace.
Then the slight, queasy roll in your stomach. A faint, metallic taste at the back of your tongue. The morning sickness was a coy visitor, hinting at its presence before fully arriving.
Julian stirred, as if your body’s subtle distress signal had reached him through touch alone. His arm, slung heavily over your waist, tightened. You felt him, hard and insistent, press against the cleft of your ass. A low, sleep-rough sound vibrated in his chest.
His hand slid down from your waist, over the slight, firm curve of your belly, and straight to the damp heat between your thighs. He found you soft and swollen from the night before, and he made a satisfied noise.
“Mmm. I can smell it on you,” he murmured into your hair, his voice thick with sleep. “The hormones. The pheromones. Your body’s talking to mine.” His fingers parted you, a blunt, claiming touch. “Telling me what you need.”
You shifted, the nausea making your head swim. “Julian… I feel a bit sick.”
“I know you do.” His fingers drew circles over your clit, lazy and knowing. “Elevated hCG. Relaxin. It’s all flooding your system. Making you dizzy. Making you needy.” He pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “Your body’s working hard to build our baby. It needs fuel. Protein.”
His other hand came up to cup your breast, his thumb scraping back and forth over the nipple until it pebbled into a tight, aching point. “My protein.”
Before you could form a protest, his hands were on you, turning you with a startling efficiency. The world spun—the skyline tilting, the golden light flashing—and then you were on your stomach, the crisp linen cool against your cheek. He settled his weight over you, his knees pushing your legs apart. The solid, relentless press of his cock rode against your backside.
“Daddy’s going to take care of it,” he growled, his voice shedding the last vestiges of sleep, turning dark and purposeful. One hand fisted in your hair, not pulling, just holding. Anchoring. The other reached between your legs, fingers plunging into the slickness he’d found. He coated himself with it, a wet, obscene sound in the quiet room.
He didn’t ask. He positioned the thick, blunt head of his cock at your entrance and pushed.
You gasped, your fingers clawing at the sheets. You were still tender, still stretched from the night before, and his invasion was a burning, glorious shock. He sank into you inch by relentless inch, a deep, filling stretch that stole the breath from your lungs and momentarily eclipsed the nausea in your gut. He bottomed out with a low, guttural groan, his hips flush against your ass.
“Fuck. Yes. Still so tight. Gripping me like a fucking fist.” He held himself there, buried to the hilt, letting you feel every vein, every pulse. “This cunt was made for this. For taking me. For growing my child.”
Then he moved.
He withdrew almost entirely and slammed back in, a brutal, piston-like stroke that jolted you forward on the bed. He set a punishing pace from the first, fucking you with a raw, single-minded ferocity. Each drive of his hips was a claim staked. The slap of skin on skin, the creak of the bedframe, his ragged breaths—they were the only sounds.
“You take it,” he gritted out, his hand leaving your hair to clamp on your hip, holding you in place for his thrusts. “You take every inch. You let it soothe that sick, empty feeling. Let me fill you up. Let me give you what you really need.”
The pleasure was a shocking, acute counterpoint to the dull roil in your stomach. It built with each savage penetration, a coiled spring of sensation tightening low in your belly. The friction was exquisite, a rough blessing. You pushed back against him, meeting his force with your own, a raw duet of possession and surrender.
“That’s it,” he encouraged, his voice a harsh rasp. “Use me. Milk me for it. Get what you need.” He leaned over you, his chest plastered to your back, his mouth at your ear. “You feel that? How deep I am? I’m in your cervix, baby. Kissing where our son is. He knows I’m here.”
The filthy, biological intimacy of his words tipped you over the edge. The orgasm tore through you, a convulsive, silent shattering that clamped your body around his in rhythmic pulses. You shook beneath him, a muffled cry lost in the pillow.
He rode out your climax, his strokes becoming shorter, harder, more erratic. “Gonna fill you,” he panted, his control fraying. “Gonna pump this fertile cunt so full. Mark my territory. Again.” His hips stuttered. A raw, broken sound was wrenched from his throat as he came, his release hot and copious inside the latex barrier, his body shuddering against yours as he emptied himself.
He collapsed on top of you, his weight a welcome burden, pinning you to the bed, to the moment. Both of you were slick with sweat, breathing in ragged unison. The nausea was gone, burned away by the chemical fire of the climax.
After long minutes, he softened and slipped out. He rolled off, but immediately pulled you against him, his hand returning to its compulsive rest on your lower abdomen. He nuzzled the sweat-damp hair at your temple.
“Better?” he asked, his voice now soft, almost clinical.
You nodded, your body humming, utterly spent. “Better.”
“Good.” He was silent for a while, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your skin. The city was fully awake now, bathed in clear morning light. “The scan is at ten,” he said quietly. “Just routine.”
You heard the unspoken words. The ones he wouldn’t voice. Just routine. Everything must be routine. Everything must be perfect.
You placed your hand over his, lacing your fingers through his. Together, you watched the sun climb, holding onto the temporary peace, bracing for the day and the relentless, watchful hope it would bring.