Chapter 13: Moans
The dawn entered the room as a slow theft of color. Indigo bled to lavender, lavender to a bruised rose, and finally a cool, flat grey that painted the glass wall in a featureless sheen. The rhythmic crash of the waves was a deeper, more resonant sound in the pre-dawn stillness, a heartbeat beneath the world.
Flynn swam up through layers of thick, satiated sleep. Consciousness returned not as a thought, but as a sensation. A warm, velvet weight encircled him, a snug, impossible heat that pulsed with a slow, organic rhythm. He was buried to the hilt, still semi-hard from the night’s final confluence, nestled deep within the snug, sleeping clutch of her body.
He opened his eyes to the grey light. He was on his back. She was atop him, her back to his chest, having turned in the night. She was still asleep, her breathing deep and even, her blonde hair a tangled fan across his shoulder. But her hips were moving. A subtle, unconscious undulation, a slow grind against him, as if her body, even in slumber, sought the familiar, comforting pressure.
A slow, possessiive smile touched his lips. He kept his breathing even, his body relaxed, feigning sleep. He wanted to observe this. The primal, unthinking need of her.
Her movements grew a fraction more deliberate. A gentle lift, then a sinking back, a rocking motion that drew a soft sigh from her parted lips. He could feel the inner muscles of her rectum, relaxed from sleep, beginning to clench and flutter in a lazy, exploratory cadence. She was fucking herself on him in her dreams.
He remained still, a silent accomplice. Her hand, which had been resting on his thigh, slid up to her own stomach, her fingers splaying over the soft curve of her belly, as if checking for something. A ghost of a smile played on her sleeping face.
The rhythm intensified. Her breaths hitched. Her head lolled back against his shoulder, her neck exposed, the line of her throat a pale offering in the dim light. Her other hand came up, cupping the heavy swell of her own breast through the open, untucked uniform shirt she must have pulled on in the dark. Her thumb circled her nipple, already a hard peak against the crisp white cotton.
She was awake. He knew it by the minute change in her breathing, a conscious control that replaced the deep susurration of sleep. But she kept her eyes closed, maintaining the fantasy of a dream, of taking him without his knowledge, of being a secret even to herself.
He decided to end the charade.
His hands, which had been resting at his sides, came up. One slid around her waist, palm flat against her lower belly, pulling her down harder onto him as she rose. The other closed over the hand that was teasing her breast, his fingers lacing through hers, pressing her palm more firmly against the soft flesh.
Her eyes flew open. She gasped, a short, sharp inhalation of surprise and caught pleasure. She froze, mid-rock, impaled, caught in the act.
“Good morning, mum,” he murmured, his voice sleep-roughened, a low vibration against her back.
She didn’t turn her head. She stared out at the featureless grey sea, her body rigid for a moment. Then, a shudder ran through her, a surrender. She began to move again, now with a conscious, deliberate slowness, a confession.
“I was dreaming,” she whispered, her voice husky.
“I know.” He squeezed her breast through her hand. “What about?”
She resumed the gentle, rocking ascent and descent. It was a lazy, deeply intimate motion, less about friction than about feeling every ridge, every vein of him as she took him in and out. “That I was on duty. In the patrol car. And you texted me. A single word.”
“What word?” He matched her rhythm with a slight upward push of his hips.
“Now,” she breathed.
His cock twitched inside her, thickening further, responding to the stark command embedded in the fantasy. “And what did you do?”
“I pulled over. Behind the old wool sheds. Out by the marshes. No cameras. No one for miles.” Her voice was a hypnotic monotone, a recounting of a sacred rite. “I got into the back seat. I hiked my uniform skirt up. I pulled my knickers aside. And I sat back down. And I waited.”
He could see it. The stark interior of the police vehicle, the smell of stale coffee and vinyl, the dashboard lights glowing green in the gloom. Her, in her official blues, cap maybe still on, waiting like a offering in the back of her own cage.
“And then?” he prompted, his hand on her belly pressing inwards, as if to feel himself from the outside.
“The door opened. You got in. You didn’t say a word. You just… pushed me forward. Face against the headrest. And you fucked me. Just like this.Hard. Fast.In the ass. Because you knew I’d be ready. Because you knew I’d be slick and open from thinking about it all shift.”
Her story was fueling her movements. The gentle rocking became a smoother, deeper piston stroke. She braced her hands on his thighs, lifting herself higher, sinking down harder. The uniform shirt, unbuttoned, gaped open, and with each downward plunge, the heavy, tanned globes of her breasts swung free, bouncing with a lush, hypnotic rhythm. The sight was profoundly illicit: the official garment, the symbol of her public authority, framing the private, carnal reality of her body in motion.
“Did you come?” he asked, his own breathing beginning to shorten.
“Twice,” she moaned, her head falling back fully against him now, her eyes closed again. “The second time when you came inside me. I felt it… filling me up.Hot. So much of it. In the back of the patrol car. And then you zipped up and left. And I had to drive back to the station. With your load in my ass. For the rest of my shift.”
The image, coupled with the exquisite, clinging tightness of her around him, sent a jolt of pure lust through his core. He bucked his hips up, meeting her downward stroke with a deep, driving thrust that knocked a sharp cry from her throat.
“You’re a fucking poem, mum,” he growled, his hands moving to her hips, taking control of the pace now. He set a faster, more urgent rhythm, driving up into her as she rode him. “A dirty, beautiful, complex sonnet. All order and chaos. Law and sin.”
“I’m yours,” she chanted, a mantra, as he pounded up into her. “Yours, yours, yours…”
The grey outside began to warm, filaments of gold threading through the clouds on the horizon. The room lightened, revealing the details of their union: the flex of muscle in her thighs, the sheen of sweat beginning to gloss the slope of her back, the way her uniform shirt slipped off one shoulder, tangling around her arm. He sat up slightly, bracing himself on his elbows, and she accommodated him, leaning forward, changing the angle. He reached around her, his hands finding her bouncing breasts, capturing their full, heavy weight, squeezing and kneading as he fucked up into her from below.
It was less violent than the night’s interrogations, but no less intense. It was a claiming that was also a communion. The ocean’s rhythm seemed to sync with their own, each wave’s crash a punctuation mark to their joined gasps.
He felt the familiar, tectonic pressure building in his balls, a deep, urgent ache. “I’m close,” he grunted, his thumbs rubbing rough circles over her nipples.
“Inside,” she begged, pushing back against him, taking him deeper still. “Like in the dream. Fill me up, Flynn. Let me carry it today. Let me feel it every time I sit down at the briefing table.”
Her words were the final catalyst. With a raw, guttural sound, he locked his arms around her waist, holding her immobile as he slammed up into her one last, perfect time, and released. The orgasm was a deep, prolonged surge, a molten river flooding the narrow channel of her body. He could feel it, the hot, liquid jets painting her insides, a second, third, fourth inundation joining the remnants of the night’s deposits. He pulsed into her relentlessly, a seemingly endless reservoir, until her belly, already soft, began to press back against his hands with a new, distinct firmness, swollen with his contribution.
She came with him, her climax a series of sharp, internal clenches that milked him, drawing out the last drops, her body shuddering in his grasp. She collapsed forward, onto her hands and knees, his softening cock slipping from her with a wet, soft sound. A trickle, then a slow, steady stream of white followed, dripping onto the cream silk sheets beneath them.
They stayed like that for a moment, panting, the new day’s gold now painting their skin. He looked down at the mess between her legs, at the evidence of his possession leaking from her. He touched the small of her back, then slid his hand around to her lower belly, cupping the gentle, firm swell.
“Look at that,” he whispered, awe in his voice. “You’re packed with me.”
She looked down, her own hand coming to cover his. She could feel the slight, taut pressure. It was true. She was profoundly full. A slow, secret smile curved her lips. “I am.”
He lay back, pulling her with him. She curled onto her side, facing him, their foreheads touching. The uniform shirt was ruined, smeared with sweat and other things. He began to unbutton it the rest of the way, pushing it off her shoulders. She shrugged out of it, letting it fall to the floor. They lay skin to skin in the gathering dawn, the ocean a brilliant, moving mirror of light now.
For a long time, they were silent. His fingers traced the arc of her eyebrow, the line of her jaw.
“What time’s your shift?” he asked quietly.
“Seven-thirty briefing. I should leave by seven.”
He glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Five-fifteen. “Plenty of time.”
She raised an eyebrow. “For what? You’ve already…” She gestured vaguely at her stomach.
He smiled, a lazy, predatory smile. “That was for you. A morning gift. Now…” He shifted, rolling onto his back. The dawn light glinted off his renewed, full erection. It lay thick and heavy against his abdomen, already beading with moisture at the tip. “…I need my breakfast.”
She looked at it, then at his face. The tenderness of moments before crystallized into something hotter, sharper. The domesticity of the request—breakfast—twisted into something deeply profane. She licked her lips.
Without a word, she slid down the bed, her movements fluid with post-coital lassitude. She knelt between his legs on the floor, the cool timber a shock against her knees. She looked up at him, his form outlined by the blazing window. Then she bent her head.
She didn’t use her hands. She let them rest on her own thighs. She only used her mouth. She took the broad, flared head between her lips, swirling her tongue around the corona, tasting the salty-sweet pre-come and the faint, lingering musk of herself from earlier. She swallowed him slowly, inch by excruciating inch, her throat opening, her jaw stretching. She took him deeper than she ever had, until her nose was buried in the dark thatch at his base and she felt the head nudge the entrance to her esophagus. She held it there, her eyes watering, her body perfectly still.
His groan was long, drawn from the soles of his feet. His hands fisted in the sheets. “Fuck, mum. Your mouth… it’s a miracle.”
She withdrew, a slow, slick slide, then plunged down again, establishing a deep, rhythmic suction. She was methodical, worshipful. This was not the frantic, gagging service of their rougher sessions. This was an act of devotion. She wanted to taste every part of him, to commit the weight, the texture, the unique flavor of him to memory. She wanted to drain him.
Her free hand crept up to her own stomach, pressing. She could still feel the solid fullness from earlier. The thought of adding to it, of having him in two separate cavities at once, sent a fresh thrill of perverse pleasure through her. She sucked harder, her cheeks hollowing.
“Yes,” he hissed, his hips lifting off the bed slightly, feeding her more. “Just like that. Take it all. You want it, don’t you? You want to swallow every drop. You want to be so full of me you can’t eat your lunch.”
She made a muffled sound of agreement around his girth, the vibration making him curse. She could feel his muscles tightening, the telltale leap in the root of his cock. He was approaching the edge with startling speed, the morning’s earlier release having done nothing to diminish the volume.
“I’m gonna come, mum,” he warned, his voice strained. “You better be ready. It’s a big one. You’re gonna have to swallow it all.”
She doubled her efforts, her head bobbing furiously, her tongue lashing the sensitive frenulum. She wanted it. She wanted the challenge. She wanted the grotesque, beautiful feeling of her son’s semen flooding her stomach.
With a cry that was half-shout, half-sigh, he came.
The first spurt hit the back of her throat, a hot, salty gush. She swallowed reflexively. The second was thicker, a creamy pulse that coated her tongue. She kept sucking, kept swallowing. The third, fourth, fifth were a continuous, overwhelming torrent. It was indeed enormous. It filled her mouth faster than she could swallow. It leaked from the corners of her lips, dripped down her chin. She fought to keep up, gulping, her throat working, but it was like trying to drink from a firehose. Her belly, already swollen, began to feel a new, internal warmth, a liquid weight settling low in her gut. It was distinct from the fullness in her rectum; this was a deep, central occupation.
It seemed to go on forever. When the last tremor passed through him and the final, weak trickle spilled onto her tongue, she finally released him with a wet pop. She stayed on her knees, panting, her mouth full. She looked up at him, her cheeks bulging slightly.
He looked down, his blue eyes dark with satiation and something like wonder. “Swallow.”
She did. A large, audible gulp. Then another. She licked her lips, cleaned her chin with the back of her hand, and then, with a deliberate slowness, she opened her mouth, showing him it was empty.
“Come here,” he said, his voice soft.
She crawled up the bed and into his arms. He held her, his hand once again finding her belly. It was rounder now, noticeably distended, a soft, firm dome. He rubbed it gently.
“My good girl,” he murmured into her hair. “Look at you. You’re a living vessel. I could probably fucking see it if I held a light to you.”
She laughed, a low, contented sound. “I feel… pregnant. With you.”
“You are.” He kissed her forehead. “In every way that matters.”
They dozed, intertwined, for another forty-five minutes. The sun climbed, bleaching the room with bright, honest light. The ocean sparkled, a vast, indifferent jewel.
At six-thirty, the spell began to dissolve. The real world, with its duties and boundaries, pushed at the edges of their sanctuary. Bronte stirred with a sigh. She reluctantly extricated herself from his arms and padded, naked, into the bathroom.
Flynn lay in bed, watching her go. He watched the sway of her hips, the slight, telling fullness of her lower abdomen, the glow on her skin. She was his masterpiece, walking.
In the bathroom, she stood under a hot shower, washing the night and morning from her skin. She soaped herself thoroughly, her fingers venturing between her legs, feeling the tender, well-used flesh. She pressed on her belly, and a soft trickle of white-tinged water swirled at her feet. She smiled, a private, triumphant smile. He’d marked her.Deeply.
She dried off and returned to the bedroom. Flynn had made coffee. He stood by the glass wall, wearing only a pair of grey sweatpants low on his hips, a mug in his hand, watching the surfers already dotting the waves. He handed her a mug as she approached.
She took it, sipping the strong, black brew. They stood side by side in silence, watching the day begin.
“Big day?” he asked.
“Routine. Traffic patrol in the morning. Court appearances in the afternoon for that burglary ring from last month. Paperwork. The usual dross.”
“Thinking of you,” he said, not looking at her, “in that courtroom. In your formal uniform.Stern. Authoritative. With my come in your belly and probably still leaking from your arse. No one knows. No one has a clue what you really are.”
A shiver went through her, part dread, part intense excitement. “Stop,” she said, but her voice held no conviction.
He turned to her, a playful glint in his eye.“What? I’m just stating facts. My mum’s a walking, talking crime scene. The most intimate kind.”
She swatted his arm, laughing. “You’re terrible.”
“You love it.”
She didn’t deny it. She finished her coffee and began to dress. She buttoned the pale blue shirt, tucking it in neatly. She fastened the duty belt around her waist, checking the items: pistol, taser, pepper spray, cuffs, radio. Each was a weight, a responsibility. She clipped her badge to her breast. She pulled her damp hair back into its severe, professional ponytail, securing every strand.
She pulled her damp hair back into its severe, professional ponontail, securing every strand. The final act of transformation. Bronte Hayes, Officer of the Law, looked back at her in the mirror’s depth, a familiar and yet now perpetually foreign mask. The crisp lines of the uniform flattened the curves he worshipped into angles of authority. The badge was a cold, hard sun over her heart.
She reached for the small bottle of perfume on the dressing table, a pointless gesture given the shower, but a ritual. A spritz at the throat, a dab behind each ear. The scent was clean, ozonic, reminiscent of linen and rain. It was meant to cover anything more organic, more honest.
He watched her from the bed, propped on an elbow. The sheet pooled at his waist. His gaze was a physical pressure, a warm hand on the back of her neck. She could feel it through the stiff fabric of her shirt. She pretended to focus on arranging her cuffs.
“You look so serious,” his voice came, a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in the floorboards.
“I have to be serious,” she said, not turning. She met her own eyes in the glass. “It’s the job.”
“I know the job.” He shifted. The sheet rustled. “I also know what’s under it. I know what’s in it.”
Her breath hitched. She refused to acknowledge the dual meaning.In it. The lingering fullness, a secret reservoir of him sloshing gently with every shift of her posture. She picked up her police hat from the table, turning it in her hands, avoiding the mirror now.
“I’ll be late,” she said, her voice softer than she intended.
“You’re always late when I’m here. Sergeant Owens thinks you have plumbing issues. Or a sick kid.” There was a smile in his words.
“Flynn…”
“What?”
She finally turned. He was sitting up now, the sheet discarded. The morning light carved the musculature of his chest, his abdomen, the trail of dark hair leading down. He was already half-aroused again, just from watching her dress. It was a sight that never failed to strike her with a bolt of pure, illicit pride. That she could do this. That she inspired this in him.
“Nothing,” she whispered.
She placed the hat on the table and leaned forward, hands on the polished wood, staring down at the grain. She took a deep breath, steadying herself for the day, trying to push the sensations of the last twelve hours into a locked drawer in her mind. The scent of him, of them, was still on her skin beneath the perfume. She could still feel the phantom stretch, the delicious, internal ache.
His reflection appeared behind hers in the mirror. He had moved silently. She hadn’t heard him cross the room. He stood close, not touching her, his naked body a stark contrast to her crisp uniform. His erection, now full and heavy, brushed against the back of her tailored trousers.
A current leapt between them, a silent, powerful arc. All her careful composure, the stern persona she had just buttoned into place, trembled on its foundation.He saw it. He always saw the fissures.
“One more,” he murmured, his lips close to her ear, his breath stirring the fine hairs at her temple. It wasn’t a question.
“I can’t,” she said, but it was air, not sound. A protest without conviction. Her eyes in the mirror were wide, the brown gone dark, pupils swallowing the iris. She watched his hands come up. They didn’t go for her belt, not yet. They settled on her hips, big, warm palms spanning the curve he loved, fingers pressing possessively into the firm muscle.
“You can,” he said. “You will.”
His thumbs hooked into the waistband of her trousers. The button gave with a soft pop. The zipper’s rasp was obscenely loud in the quiet room. He pushed the heavy fabric, the belt and all its accoutrements, down over her hips. It pooled at her ankles, a puddle of authority and navy blue. Her regulation-issue black knickers followed, a brief, whispered slide down her thighs.
She was exposed from the waist down, naked against the cool wood of the dressing table, her uniform shirt tails brushing the tops of her thighs. The absurdity of it, the glorious dichotomy, made a giggle bubble up in her throat. It escaped, a light, breathy sound that shocked her.
He heard it. “You’re laughing,” he said, his own voice thick with a mix of lust and affection.
“It’s ridiculous,” she gasped, the giggles taking hold, shaking her shoulders. “I look… I’m…”
“You look perfect,” he growled. He nudged her feet apart with his own. She complied, stepping out of the tangle of trousers and underwear, spreading her stance. The cool air kissed her exposed skin, raising goosebumps. The giggling subsided into a tense, anticipatory silence. He leaned over her, pressing his chest to her back, his hands sliding around to her stomach. He splayed his fingers wide, feeling the distinct, soft roundness there.
“Still full,” he noted, a dark satisfaction in his tone.
He reached for the small bottle of lubricant they kept in the table’s drawer. The snick of the cap. The slick, cool sound of him coating himself. She braced. She knew this preparation, this specific ritual. He wasn’t going to take her dry, not with the tenderness from the earlier, dream-fuck. This was different. This was a claiming, but a careful one. A final inscription.
He positioned himself. The broad, blunt head of him pressed against her, not at the familiar, welcoming entrance, but lower, tighter. At the pucker of her anus, still sensitive, still feeling beautifully used. She let out a long, trembling sigh, her forehead coming to rest on the cool mirror. Her breath fogged a small circle on the glass.
He pushed. Not a savage thrust, but a slow, inexorable invasion. Her body resisted for a fraction of a second, the ring of muscle tight from the morning’s earlier thorough use, then yielded, opening for him with a soft, internal groan. She watched their reflection blur as her eyes watered. Him, a tanned, powerful statue behind her. Her, the picture of officialdom from the waist up, her face a mask of rapturous strain as he filled her from below.
“Oh, god, Flynn,” she moaned, the words muffled against the glass.
“Watch,” he commanded, his voice strained with the effort of his slow entry. “Watch me take you.”
She forced her eyes open, to focus. The image was devastating. Her uniform shirt, impeccably pressed. Her badge, glinting. Her hair, slicked back in its perfect, professional tail. And below, the brutal, beautiful junction where he disappeared into her. His hips meeting the generous curve of her bare bottom. Each slow, backward slide revealed him glistening, wet with lube and her own reluctant willingness, before he buried himself again, deeper.
He began to move. It was not the frantic, punishing pace of the night’s interrogation. This was something else. It was deep, it was measured, it was profound. Each stroke was a long, slow possession, a re-mapping of her internal geography. He fucked her with a desperate, loving intensity, as if trying to weld this moment, this specific image of her divided self, into his very soul.
His hands were everywhere. They gripped her hips, fingers digging into flesh. They slid up under her shirt, seeking the warm, bare skin of her back, tracing her spine. They came around again to knead her breasts through the thick cotton of her shirt and bra, pinching her nipples until she cried out, the sound smothered against the mirror. He was frantic in his touch, but his rhythm remained deep, slow, worshipful.
“I can’t help it,” he panted, his forehead dropped between her shoulder blades. “Seeing you like this… the uniform… knowing what you are underneath… knowing what you carry for me… I lose my fucking mind, mum. Every time.”
The words, raw and honest, undid her more than any dirty talk. This was the truth of it. Not just a kink, not just a game. It was a compulsion. A need so vast it bordered on holy. She relaxed fully into him, letting her weight sag against the table, offering herself completely to this slow, thorough claiming. She didn’t hurry him. She wanted this to last. She wanted the feeling of being split open, filled, adored in this most profane way, to stretch into infinity.
The world narrowed to the rhythm of his hips, the slick sound of their joining, the cool hardness of the table beneath her palms, and the heat of him inside her. The sun climbed higher, throwing their conjoined shadow against the far wall, a grotesque and beautiful silhouette. The muffled crash of the waves was the beat to their syncopated breaths.
Time dissolved. It could have been minutes; it could have been an hour. He fucked her with a sustained, unwavering passion that left her trembling, her thighs quaking. She came once, a soft, rolling orgasm that washed through her without peak, a constant state of low-grade pleasure that made her toes curl against the timber floor. He felt it, the clenching flutter around him, and he groaned, a sound of pure agony and ecstasy.
“Again,” he demanded, his pace intensifying fractionally, becoming harder, deeper. “Come for me again. Come around my cock while you’re dressed for court. Let the honourable magistrate see the flush on your neck and wonder.”
The imagery, coupled with the insistent pressure against her most sensitive internal places, tipped her over a second time. This climax was sharper, brighter, a silent scream that locked her throat and arched her back, pressing her badge hard into the wooden table. Her body milked him violently, and with a shout that seemed torn from his core, he followed.
He slammed into her, hilt-deep, and held. The pulse was immediate and enormous. She could feel it, a hot, liquid explosion deep in her bowels, a flood that seemed to have no end. It was a second fullness, distinct, hotter, joining the remnants of the first. He kept coming, jet after jet, until she felt impossibly, achingly full, a vessel stretched to its limit. Her belly, already rounded, felt tight, packed.
He collapsed over her, his weight a comforting anchor. They stayed like that, joined, panting, for long minutes. The smell of sex, of sweat, of her perfume and his cologne, mingled in the sunlit air. Gradually, his softened cock slipped from her, followed by a slow, warm trickle that traced a path down her inner thigh.
He straightened, his hands gentle on her back now. “Okay?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
She nodded, her face still pressed to the mirror. She was more than okay. She was replete. Ruined for the day. Gloriously so.
He helped her upright. She was wobbly on her feet. She looked down at herself. A mess. She couldn’t possibly take another load inside, not if she planned to walk, to sit, to function. The risk of a leak, of a tell-tale stain on her uniform trousers, was too great. But he was still hard, still throbbing, the aftermath of his climax having done little to diminish his need. He was looking at her with a dazed, hungry expression.
Without a word, she sank to her knees again, there amidst the puddle of her uniform trousers. She took him into her mouth. He was slick with lube and her own juices. She tasted them, salt and musk and something uniquely him. She looked up at him as she sucked, her eyes offering this compromise.
He understood. He tangled his hands in her perfect ponytail, not guiding, just holding. “Swallow it all,” he whispered. “Every drop. I want you to feel it in your stomach all day. I want you to burp and taste me.”
She redoubled her efforts. Her mouth was tired, her jaw sore, but she welcomed the ache. It was a testament. She sucked him with a focused determination, using her tongue, her throat, her hands on his thighs. It didn’t take long. The morning’s build-up was too immense.
His second climax was, if possible, even more voluminous than the first. It was a geyser of thick, salty cream that flooded her mouth. She swallowed convulsively, but it kept coming. It filled her cheeks, spilled from her lips. She drank it down in great gulps, her throat working furiously. The warm, heavy liquid settled in her stomach, adding a new layer of fullness atop the existing ones. Her belly, visible now as she knelt, swelled further, becoming a soft, prominent curve that pressed against the hem of her uniform shirt.
When he was spent, she cleaned him meticulously with her tongue, then sat back on her heels, breathing hard. She felt profoundly, impossibly full. Stuffed. Her gut was a weighted, warm sac. She pressed a hand to it, feeling the firm, round tension beneath her palm.
He pulled her to her feet, his eyes soft. He kissed her, deep and slow, tasting himself on her tongue. Then, wordlessly, he helped her dress. He wiped her thigh clean with a soft cloth. He held her trousers as she stepped into them, carefully fastening the belt around her newly rounded middle. It was tighter. He had to use the last notch.
He tucked her shirt in with a tenderness that made her throat ache. He retrieved her hat and placed it gently on her head, adjusting the brim. He stepped back.
Officer Bronte Hayes stood before him. Impeccable.Severe. Authoritative. And secretly, wonderfully, grotesquely full of her son.
She looked at the clock. She was very, very late.
“I have to go,” she said, her voice miraculously steady.
He nodded, a slow smile touching his lips. “Drive safely, mum.”
She turned and walked out of the bedroom, each step a conscious movement, a feeling of liquid weight shifting inside her. The fullness was a constant, reminding presence. A secret.A treasure.
Flynn stood by the dressing table, listening to her bootsteps fade down the hall, then the distant sound of the front door closing. The room smelled of her, of sex, of completion. He looked at the faint fog-mark her breath had left on the mirror. He touched it, smudging the impression of her face into a ghostly blur.
He finally moved, going to the vast window. He saw her emerge from the villa onto the driveway below. She walked with her usual purposeful stride, but he knew, he knew, she was feeling it. Every step. She unlocked her marked police sedan, a white and blue Holden, and slid into the driver’s seat. She sat for a moment, her head leaning back against the rest. He imagined her hand drifting to her stomach, pressing, feeling the evidence.
She started the car and drove away, disappearing behind a stand of wind-sculpted pines.
The room was silent but for the ocean. He was alone. But he wasn’t. He was with her. In her. A part of her day, her duty, her very being. He smiled, a true, deep smile of possession and love, and went to make another coffee.