Chapter 3: The Weight of Want
The lock clicked with a finality that sent a shudder through Winston's chest. The world beyond that door receded, the gulls crying over the shore, the sound of distant waves, all of it gone. Only the two of them remained, suspended in the hazy gold light that fell through the sheer curtains and painted stripes across the rumpled bed.
Anya turned to face him, her hands resting on the crown of her belly as she watched him with those dark eyes, half-lidded and knowing. She did not speak. She simply held his gaze and reached for the hem of her loose cotton blouse, drawing it up over the heavy swell of her breasts, over the taut arc of her belly, until she stood before him in nothing but a pair of white lace panties that looked impossibly small against the vast curve of her.
Winston's throat went dry. He had seen her half-dressed before, the morning they made breakfast, but never like this. Never with the door locked and the world shut out and her looking at him as if he were the only man who had ever truly seen her.
"Come here," she whispered, and it was not a request.
He crossed the room slowly, his heart hammering against his ribs. Her skin was warm when he touched her, warm and impossibly soft over the heavy weight of her breasts. He cupped them in his palms, feeling their density, the way her nipples had darkened to a deep rose, the way she gasped when his thumbs grazed across them.
"I've wanted this," she breathed, tilting her head back as he lowered his mouth to her throat. "Wanted your hands on me since the moment you stepped out of that car."
"Is this wrong?" The question escaped before he could stop it, muffled against the warmth of her skin.
She pulled back, cupped his face in her hands, and looked at him with such fierce intensity that he felt stripped bare. "I don't care if it is. I need to feel something before this baby comes. I need to feel wanted." She took his hand and pressed it flat against the taut drum of her belly. "Feel that. Feel what I'm carrying. And know that I'm choosing you, right now, in this moment."
He felt the flutter of movement beneath his palm, a small kick, a sign of the life growing inside her. It should have been a warning, a reminder of everything he was betraying. Instead it only made him want her more. Made him want to worship every inch of her.
She guided him to the bed, her hands working at the buttons of his shirt as she walked him backward. He fell onto the mattress, and she followed, straddling him with the full weight of her belly pressing against his thighs. The sight of her above him, her thick hair falling in waves around her shoulders, her breasts swaying with the motion, made him ache with a hunger he had not felt in months.
"Tell me what you want," she said, her voice low and rough. "Tell me how you've imagined this."
"I want to be inside you." The words came out in a rasp. "I want to feel you around me. I want to feel every inch of you."
A slow smile curved her lips. "Then take what you want."
He reached up and dragged his hands down her body, over the heavy slope of her breasts, over the tight roundness of her belly, until he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of her panties. She lifted her hips to help him, and he slid them down her thighs, past the swell of her hips, until she was bare before him.
Her thighs were thick and strong, parted around him, and he could see the evidence of her want, the glistening wetness that coated her folds. She was swollen with arousal, her clit peeking out from its hood, and when he ran his thumb along that seam she shuddered and moaned.
"Yes," she breathed. "Just like that."
He worked her slowly, deliberately, dragging his fingers through her slickness before sliding one, then two, inside her. She was tight around him, impossibly tight and hot, and she rolled her hips against his hand with a building urgency.
"I don't want your fingers," she said, her voice breaking. "I want your cock."
He withdrew his hand and shifted beneath her, gripping the base of himself and guiding the head to her entrance. She hovered above him for a moment, the weight of her belly resting against his own, and their eyes met.
"I need you to be gentle," she whispered. "But I need you deep. Do you understand?"
"I understand."
She lowered herself onto him, inch by slow inch, and he felt the tight, slick grip of her body closing around him. It was exquisite, that moment of entry, the way she stretched to accommodate him, the way she gasped and bit her lip as he filled her completely. He was buried to the hilt inside her, and the heat of her body enveloped him like nothing he had ever known.
For a long moment neither of them moved. She sat astride him, her hands braced on his chest, her head tilted back, breathing in shallow gasps. Then she began to move, a slow, rolling motion that drew a groan from deep in his throat.
"God, you feel incredible," he rasped, gripping her hips.
She picked up the rhythm, riding him with a lazy, deliberate tempo, grinding her hips against him with each stroke. Her wetness coated his thighs, and the slap of their skin together filled the room with a sound that was shameless and obscene.
"Don't stop," she gasped. "Don't you dare stop."
He reached up and took her breasts in his hands, kneading the heavy flesh, rolling her nipples between his fingers until she was whimpering with need. Her movements grew faster, more frantic, and he could feel the growing tension in her body, the way her inner walls clenched around him.
"I'm going to come," she breathed, her voice catching. "I'm going to come so hard."
"Let go," he urged, thrusting up to meet her. "Let go for me, Anya."
She shattered with a cry, her body convulsing around him, her hands clawing at his chest as she rode out the waves of her release. He watched her face contort with pleasure, watched the way her body surrendered completely, and the sight of it pushed him to the edge.
"Where do you want it?" he asked, his own voice ragged with need.
She slid off him in a rush, her hand wrapping around his slick cock, stroking him with a firm, practiced grip. "On me. I want to feel it on me."
He came with a shuddering groan, spilling hot and thick across her belly, painting her skin with his release. She stroked him through it, her eyes fixed on his face, watching him fall apart with a look of dark satisfaction.
When it was done, she collapsed beside him, her chest heaving, her skin damp and gleaming in the morning light. She rested her hand on the mess he had made, smearing it across her belly, and laughed a low, breathless laugh.
"Well," she said, turning to look at him. "That's a start."
He lay there, chest heaving, watching her trace lazy patterns through the mess on her belly. The morning light caught the sheen of her skin, and she looked like something out of one of his own stories, a goddess painted in the aftermath of desire.
"That's a start," she repeated, and the smile that curved her lips was slow and satisfied. She turned on her side to face him, propping her head on her hand, and the movement made her breasts shift heavily, drawing his gaze despite the fact that he had just spent himself across her skin.
Winston reached out, brushing a strand of dark hair from her face. "A start?" he echoed, his voice hoarse. "I'd say that was a pretty complete finish."
"Mmm." She hummed, her fingers walking up his chest, tracing the line of his collarbone. "You think one round is enough? I've been thinking about this since you walked in the door. I've been imagining what you'd feel like, what you'd taste like. I've been wanting this for days, Winston."
The weight of her words settled over him. Days. She had been watching him, wanting him, while Chet had been right there. While his old friend had trusted him with the woman he loved.
He pushed the thought away. It was too late for guilt now. He had already crossed every line there was to cross. There was nothing left to protect.
"I should clean up," he said, starting to sit up.
She pressed a hand to his chest, stopping him. "No. Stay."
"Anya."
"I mean it." Her voice dropped, the playfulness fading into something raw and earnest. "Stay. Not just for today. Not just until Thursday. Stay."
Winston blinked. The request hung in the air between them, heavy and impossible. He had a life back in the city. An apartment, a career, deadlines that were already slipping. But sitting here, with her body warm against his and her eyes searching his face, those things felt distant. Abstract. Meaningless.
"Stay with me," she said again, softer this time. "Until the baby comes. After, if you want. Just... don't leave me alone in this house with nothing but my thoughts and Chet's empty promises."
"Chet is your partner," Winston said, hating himself for the reminder even as he spoke. "He's my friend."
"He's not here," she shot back, her voice hardening. "He's never here. He's always in the city, always working, always chasing the next deal. I could be a ghost in this house and he wouldn't notice. But you see me. You actually see me."
She took his hand and pressed it to her belly, and beneath his palm he felt the shift of movement, the baby turning inside her. The life they were both betraying, or protecting, he couldn't tell which anymore.
"Tell me you don't feel this," she whispered. "Tell me you don't feel something when you touch me like this."
Winston swallowed. He couldn't lie to her. Not now, not with the taste of her still on his lips and the heat of her body still clinging to his skin. "I feel everything."
"Then stay." She leaned in, her mouth brushing against his ear, her breath warm and urgent. "Stay in my bed. Stay in my life. Let me be yours, just for a little while."
"And Chet?"
"Chet doesn't have to know." She pulled back, looking at him with those dark, knowing eyes. "He doesn't know me anymore. He doesn't care what I do as long as I'm here when he gets back, pregnant and smiling and playing the good little wife. He'll never look at me closely enough to notice the difference."
The words should have chilled him. They should have been a warning, a red flag waving in his face. Instead they only made him want her more. The secrecy, the forbidden nature of it all, it fed something in him that had been starving.
And she was right. Chet had never once asked Winston about his visit. He had packed his bags and left without a backward glance, already on the phone with some client before the car door had even closed.
"You're sure?" he asked, the question already feeling like a formality.
She answered by climbing on top of him, straddling his hips with that heavy, beautiful belly between them. She reached down, took his half-hard cock in her hand, and gave it a firm stroke that made him gasp.
"I've never been surer of anything in my life," she said, and lowered her mouth to his.
The kiss was different this time. Slower. Deeper. A claiming, a promise, a pact sealed by tongue and teeth and the press of her body against his. She rocked her hips against him, grinding her slick folds over his growing erection, and within moments he was hard again, achingly hard, desperate to be inside her.
She positioned herself over him, guiding him to her entrance, and sank down with a long, shuddering sigh. He filled her completely once more, the heat and tightness of her body gripping him like a fist, and she began to move.
It was a different rhythm now. Slower. More deliberate. She rose and fell on him with the languid grace of a woman who had all the time in the world, who had made a decision and was savoring every moment of it. Her hands rested on her belly, and she watched him with a possessive intensity that made his heart race.
"Say it," she breathed. "Say you'll stay."
Winston's hands found her hips, gripping the soft, warm flesh as she rode him. He could feel the tension building again, the familiar coil of pleasure tightening in his gut. But more than that, he felt something else. Something that terrified him.
"I'll stay," he said, the words torn from him. "I'll stay as long as you want me."
She smiled, a slow, triumphant curve of her lips, and leaned forward to kiss him again. Her belly pressed against his chest, the taut drum of her skin warm and alive, and he felt the baby kick against him, a small, insistent reminder of the life she carried.
"I want you forever," she whispered against his mouth, and began to move faster.
He let himself sink into her, into the rhythm, into the impossible thing they were building together. The guilt was still there, lurking at the edges of his mind, but he pushed it down, buried it beneath the feel of her body and the sound of her moans and the way she said his name like a prayer.
She rode him until they both shattered again, coming together in a tangle of sweat and breathless cries, and when she collapsed against his chest, he held her there, his arms wrapped around her, feeling the rapid flutter of her heartbeat against his own.
"Stay," she murmured, her voice already thick with drowsiness. "Just stay."
He pressed a kiss to her hair and closed his eyes.
"I'm not going anywhere."
Winston held her, the steady rhythm of her breathing slowly evening out against his chest. The warmth of the afternoon light had shifted, growing richer, more golden as the morning wore on. He was on the verge of drifting, his mind already softening into that hazy space between wakefulness and sleep, when Anya stirred against him.
She propped herself up on her elbows, looking down at him with a gleam in her eyes that made his stomach tighten. The drowsiness was gone, replaced by something playful, something almost mischievous.
"I want to show you something," she said, her voice low and conspiratorial. "A trick I discovered a few weeks ago."
Winston raised an eyebrow. "A trick?"
"Mmm." She sat up, swinging her legs off the bed, and turned to face him. The morning light caught the curve of her belly, the heavy weight of her breasts, and she looked utterly unselfconscious, utterly magnificent. "Watch."
She settled onto the mattress before him, her knees drawn up, her back against the headboard. She cupped her breasts in her hands, weighing them, and then took each nipple between her thumb and forefinger, pinching gently at first, then with more purpose.
"I read about it online," she said, her voice taking on a breathless quality. "Pregnant women can sometimes do this. If you stimulate them enough, the milk comes."
Winston watched, transfixed, as she worked her nipples with increasing intensity. They were already dark, already swollen from their lovemaking, but now they seemed to swell further, to grow more engorged beneath her fingers. She tugged and rolled them, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps, and he could see the flush spreading across her chest, the way her thighs pressed together.
"God," she breathed. "It feels... intense."
He could see it happening, the subtle change in the color and texture of her nipples, the way they grew firmer, more prominent. Her movements became more frantic, more desperate, and she threw her head back with a moan that was equal parts pleasure and strain.
And then he saw it. A single bead of white, pearlescent liquid welling up at the tip of her nipple. It trembled there for a moment, catching the light, before it rolled down the curve of her breast, leaving a glistening trail behind it.
"Fuck," Winston whispered.
Anya's eyes snapped open, dark and hooded with arousal. She looked at him, her lips parted, her chest heaving. More milk beaded at her nipples now, a slow, steady drip that she coaxed with her fingers, spreading it across the swollen flesh.
"I want to see what it tastes like," she said, her voice rough. "But I can't reach." She held her breast out toward him, her hand cupping the underside, lifting its weight. "Suckle from me, Winston. Take me in your mouth and drink."
Every rational thought in his head evaporated. He crawled forward on his knees, closing the distance between them, and she guided his head to her chest. Her skin was warm, fragrant with the faint sweetness of her own sweat, and the milk was beading at her nipple, a glistening invitation.
He opened his mouth and took her nipple between his lips. The first taste was faint, barely there, a whisper of sweetness on his tongue. He sucked gently, experimentally, and she gasped, her hand flying to the back of his head, pressing him closer.
"Harder," she urged. "Suck harder."
He obeyed, drawing more deeply, and the milk flowed, warm and sweet and impossibly intimate. He drank from her, his tongue working against the sensitive flesh, and she moaned above him, her hips rocking against the mattress.
"Yes," she gasped. "God, yes, just like that."
He moved to her other breast, his mouth latching onto her nipple with a hunger that surprised them both. She clutched his hair, pulling him tight against her, and he could feel the tremor running through her body, the building tension in her muscles.
"I'm close," she breathed, her voice breaking. "The way it feels when you do that... I'm going to come, Winston. I'm going to come just from this."
He sucked harder, his tongue working her nipple, and she came with a shuddering cry, her body arching against him, her thighs clamping together. He drank her milk through it, feeling the convulsive ripples of her release, and when she finally went lax, he pulled back, his lips slick and shining.
She collapsed against the headboard, breathing hard, a slow, satisfied smile curving her lips. She looked at him, her eyes heavy-lidded, and reached out to trace the corner of his mouth with her thumb, catching a stray droplet of milk.
"Now you taste like me," she said, and pulled him down for a kiss that was sweet and possessive all at once.
Her mouth moved against his, tasting of salt and sweetness, and for a long moment the world narrowed to the press of her lips, the warmth of her skin, the slow, drugging rhythm of their kiss. When she finally pulled back, her eyes were hazy, her lips swollen and slick with his taste and hers.
"That was..." She trailed off, a breathless laugh escaping her. "That was not something I expected to do today."
"Me neither," Winston admitted. His voice was rough, scraped clean by the hours they had just spent together.
She traced a finger along his jaw, her touch featherlight. "I should get up. I need to eat something, and you need to rest." She smiled, a wicked little curve of her lips. "You're going to need your strength."
He caught her wrist, gently, and brought her hand to his lips. "Where are you going?"
"Kitchen. I'm starving." She swung her legs off the bed with a groan, her hand pressing against her lower back. "This little one likes to sit right on my spine when I lie down too long."
Winston watched her rise, the play of morning light across the heavy curve of her belly, the way her hips swayed as she padded across the room. She found his shirt on the floor and slipped it on, not bothering with the buttons. It hung open over her body, the hem barely reaching the tops of her thighs.
"You coming?" she asked over her shoulder.
"In a minute." He grinned. "I need a minute to recover."
She laughed, low and throaty, and disappeared through the door. He heard her bare feet on the stairs, the creak of the old house settling around her, and then the muffled sounds of the kitchen, cabinets opening and closing, the clink of a pan on the stove.
Winston lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The events of the morning replayed behind his eyes in fragments. Her hands on his chest. The weight of her body above him. The taste of her milk on his tongue. And the words she had spoken, simple and devastating: stay.
He should not have agreed. He knew that. Every rational corner of his mind was screaming it at him. Chet was his friend. His oldest friend, a man who had never done him a moment's harm. And here he was, lying in Chet's bed, smelling Chet's sheets, having just spent himself inside Chet's pregnant partner.
And yet.
He sat up, running a hand through his hair. The guilt was there, a dull ache behind his ribs, but it was muted, distant, like a radio playing in another room. What he felt instead, what filled him, was a hunger he had not known he was capable of. A hunger not just for her body, though God knew that was enough, but for her. For the way she looked at him. For the way she said his name. For the way she made him feel like the only man in the world who mattered.
He found his boxers on the floor and pulled them on, then followed the sound of her voice. She was in the kitchen, standing at the counter in his shirt, slicing fruit with a knife while humming something low and tuneless. The radio was on, some soft jazz station, and the morning light poured through the windows and caught the dust motes hanging in the air.
She turned when she heard him, and the smile that spread across her face was radiant. "There he is. I was starting to think you'd fallen asleep."
"Just gathering myself." He crossed to her and wrapped his arms around her from behind, letting his palms rest on the warm curve of her belly. She leaned back against him with a sigh.
"I meant what I said," she murmured. "Upstairs. About you staying."
"I know you did."
"And I meant it about the rest of it too." She turned in his arms to face him, the knife still in her hand, but her eyes were serious now. "About Chet not knowing. About this being ours."
Winston looked at her for a long moment. The morning light made her skin glow, and her hair was a messy tangle around her shoulders. She was achingly beautiful, and she was asking him to enter into a conspiracy with her. To lie to his friend. To keep a secret that could destroy everything.
He should say no. He should pack his bag and walk to the station and never look back.
"I understand," he said instead. "It stays between us. No one else."
She studied his face, searching for something. Whatever she found there made her smile, slow and satisfied. She set the knife down and pressed herself against him, her arms looping around his neck.
"Good," she said, and kissed him softly. "Then let me feed you."
They ate breakfast on the deck, wrapped in a blanket against the cool morning air. The ocean stretched out before them, a vast, glittering expanse that seemed to hold no judgment. She told him about the baby, about the name she had chosen but had not told Chet yet, about her fear that she would be a bad mother, that she would not know what to do.
"My mother died when I was fourteen," she said, stirring her tea absently. "I was the oldest of four. I basically raised my siblings, I don't know, I keep telling myself it prepares me. But then I think about holding a newborn, about being responsible for a whole human life, and I feel like I'm drowning."
Winston reached across the table and took her hand. "You'll be wonderful."
"You don't know that."
"I do." He squeezed her fingers. "I've seen the way you talk about this baby. The way you touch your belly. You already love them more than anything in the world. That's all anyone needs."
She looked at him with shining eyes, and for a moment he could see the girl she must have been, before the weight of the world had settled onto her shoulders. She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, the sharp trill of a phone cut through the quiet.
They both tensed. Her phone was on the table, screen face down. She stared at it for a long moment, then slowly reached out and turned it over.
The name on the screen was Chet.
Winston's heart seized. He forced himself to breathe, forced his face to remain neutral as she picked up the phone. She did not look at him, did not meet his eyes. She simply swiped to answer and held it to her ear.
"Hey," she said, her voice light and easy. "You're up early. Yeah, we're having breakfast on the deck. Winston's here. Want to say hi?"
She looked at him then, and something passed between them. A flicker of shared fear, of adrenaline, of the thrill of getting away with something forbidden. She held the phone out to him, and he took it, pressing it to his ear.
"Hey, Chet." His voice came out steady, almost natural. "Morning."
"Chet's greeting came through the line, muffled but cheerful. "Sorry to interrupt your breakfast. Anya tells me you're enjoying the shore?"
"It's beautiful out here," Winston said, watching Anya watch him. "I think the salt air is exactly what I needed."
"Good, good. Listen, I might be back a day early, probably tomorrow night instead of Thursday. The deal's wrapping up faster than expected. I'll call when I'm on the road."
Winston's stomach dropped, but he kept his voice even. "Sounds good. I'll be here."
He handed the phone back to Anya. She ended the call and set the phone on the table, face down again.
The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. The gulls cried overhead, indifferent to the shift in the air.
"Tomorrow night," Winston said.
"Tomorrow night." She met his eyes, and there was no fear in hers. Only a fierce, blazing certainty. "So we have today. And tomorrow. And that's it."
"That's not nothing."
"No," she agreed, and a slow smile spread across her face. "It's not nothing. It's everything we have."
She rose from the table and held out her hand. "Come inside. I want to show you something before the light fades."
He took her hand and let her lead him back into the house, back up the stairs, back into the bedroom where the sheets were still rumpled and the air still smelled of them. She closed the door behind him, and the lock clicked once more.
She turned to face him with her back against the closed door, and the smile on her lips held a wicked edge, a blade of knowing. "One night," she said, reaching behind her to make sure the lock was seated. "Maybe two, if we're greedy. And I intend to be very, very greedy."
She reached behind her to make sure the lock was seated, and as she did, a ripple of tension crossed her face. It was subtle at first, a tightening around her eyes, a small hitch in her breath. Then her hand flew to her belly, and she doubled forward slightly, bracing herself against the doorframe.
"Anya?" Winston took a step toward her, his heart lurching. "What's wrong?"
She waved him off with one hand, her other pressed flat against the taut swell of her stomach. Her breath came in short, controlled gasps, and for a long moment she said nothing, just breathed through whatever was happening.
"It's fine," she said, her voice strained. "It's just a contraction. A practice one. They've been happening for a week now. Braxton Hicks, they call them. My body getting ready."
Winston crossed to her, his hands hovering uncertainly near her shoulders. "Are you sure?"
She looked up at him, and there was a flicker of something in her eyes. Fear, maybe, or surprise. But it passed quickly, replaced by her usual fierce composure. "I'm sure. It's not time yet. The baby's not due for another four weeks. This is just..." She paused, another wave of tension tightening her face. "Just a warm-up. The body's way of practicing."
He took her arm, steadying her. "Let's get you to the bed."
She nodded, letting him guide her to the mattress. She lowered herself down with a soft grunt, leaning back against the pillows, her hands cradling her belly. The morning light fell across her, catching the sheen of sweat that had broken out on her forehead.
"God," she breathed. "That one was stronger than the others."
Winston sat beside her, his hand finding hers. Her fingers were cold, and he wrapped them in his own, trying to warm them. "Should I call someone? A doctor?"
"No." She shook her head firmly. "This is normal. It's called prodromal labor. The contractions come and go, sometimes for days, before the real thing. My midwife explained it all to me." She took a slow, measured breath, letting it out through pursed lips. "They're practice. Doesn't mean anything."
She looked at him, and despite the strain in her face, her mouth curved into a wry smile. "Sorry. Not exactly the romantic moment I was picturing."
"Don't apologize." He squeezed her hand. "Is there anything I can do?"
She considered for a moment, then shifted on the bed, turning onto her side to face him. "There is, actually. Rubbing my lower back helps. The baby's sitting heavy on my spine, and the pressure makes the contractions worse."
He moved behind her, his hands finding the small of her back. He pressed his palms flat, working in slow circles over the tense muscles. She let out a long, shaky sigh, her body relaxing into his touch.
"That's good," she murmured. "That's really good."
He worked his hands up her spine, over the curve of her lower back, pressing firmly into the knots he found there. She made small sounds of relief, her eyes closed, her breathing evening out.
"I've been having these for a week," she said, her voice quiet. "Each time I think, maybe this is it. Maybe tonight I'll go into real labor. And then it fades, and I'm left here, waiting. Chet panics every time. He doesn't know what to do with me when I'm in pain. He just stands there looking helpless until it passes."
Winston's hands stilled for a moment. "That must be hard."
"It is." She opened her eyes, looking at him over her shoulder. "Do you know what the worst part is? He never asks me beforehand. He never takes my hand and asks what I need. He just waits for it to be over, then goes back to whatever he was doing."
Winston resumed his work, his thumbs digging into the tight band of muscle along her spine. "What do you need?"
She looked at him for a long moment, something shifting in her eyes. "I need you to stay right here. Keep doing that. And don't leave me alone in this room until it passes."
"Deal."
He worked the muscles of her back in slow, patient circles, feeling the tension gradually release beneath his hands. The contraction faded, the tightness easing out of her body, and she let out a long, shuddering breath.
"Thank you," she whispered. "I think it's over."
He helped her turn onto her back, and she looked up at him, her face soft with relief. The morning light caught the curve of her cheek, and she reached up to touch his face, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw.
"You're good at this," she said. "Caring for someone. You don't even think about it, do you? You just do it."
"I don't like seeing you in pain."
A smile curved her lips, slow and warm. "No. I don't think you do." She pulled him down, pressing a soft kiss to his mouth. "You're a good man, Winston Reed. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."