Chapter 2: Popped Buttons and Devotion
Warm, buttery air washed over Dean as he slid the final tray from the oven, the scent of chocolate chips caramelizing at the edges thick enough to taste. Across his small kitchen, Cara made a soft, eager sound. She was perched precariously on a stool, her flowy skirt stretched taut over the vast expanse of her lap, her plump thighs spilling generously over the edge. Her bright green eyes, magnified by her large round glasses, were fixed on the steaming cookies with an intensity usually reserved for rare first editions.
"Still too hot," Dean warned, setting the tray on the stovetop with a clatter. He turned, leaning against the counter, crossing his arms. His gaze, as it so often did these days, immediately cataloged her. The way her lavender cable-knit sweater, thick and soft, strained across her immense bust. How the fabric, tucked into her skirt high on her waist, was already riding up in the front, exposing a pale, soft crescent of belly flesh above the skirt's waistband. Even sitting, the swell of her lower belly pushed insistently against the confining fabric. She’d outgrown this sweater weeks ago. The sight sent a familiar, possessive heat curling low in his gut.
"But they smell so good," Cara breathed, shifting on the stool. The movement did it. The hem of the sweater inched higher, revealing another inch of that soft, pillowy abdomen, a smooth expanse of creamy skin interrupted only by the deep indentation where the skirt’s waistband dug in. Dean’s breath hitched. He remembered the feel of that yielding flesh under his lips in the library archives, the delicate tracery of new stretch marks he’d worshipped.
Ignoring his warning, Cara reached out, her plump fingers hovering over the nearest cookie radiating heat. "Just one?" she pleaded, her lower lip caught adorably between her teeth. "To test?"
He chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. "Go on. Brave the molten chocolate." He watched, utterly captivated, as she carefully plucked a cookie from the tray. It was enormous, studded with dark chunks. She blew on it gently, her cheeks rounding. Then, unable to wait, she took a large bite.
A groan vibrated deep in her throat, pure, unadulterated pleasure. Her eyes fluttered shut behind her glasses. Chocolate smeared her plush lower lip. Her jaw worked, cheeks bulging as she savored the warm, gooey center. Dean’s gaze dropped lower. As she leaned slightly forward, focused entirely on the sensory delight, the ill-fitting sweater rode up even more. Now, a significant portion of her belly was exposed – a swollen, soft shelf of pure flab resting heavily against the waistband of her skirt, the skin pale and flawless except for the deep, angry red line where the fabric bit in. The pressure there looked intense.
She shifted again on the stool, trying to get comfortable, her thick thighs rubbing together with a soft, fleshy whisper. The movement was slight, but it was enough. A sharp pop echoed in the quiet kitchen, unnaturally loud.
Cara froze mid-chew, eyes snapping open wide. Dean’s gaze darted to the source. Near her hip, where the soft curve of her love handle met the strained fabric of her skirt, a small, mother-of-pearl button had given up the ghost. It lay on the linoleum floor near her feet. The skirt gaped open slightly, revealing a pale, soft curve of her hip and the beginning swell of her flank fat, previously hidden.
Silence hung for a beat, thick with the scent of chocolate and the hum of the fridge. Cara stared at the fallen button, her cheeks flushing crimson. A smear of chocolate adorned her chin. She looked mortified, frozen in place, the half-eaten cookie forgotten in her hand.
Dean didn’t hesitate. He pushed off the counter and crossed the small space in two strides. He didn’t look at the button. His gaze was locked on the exposed curve of softness, on the deep red indentations the skirt’s waistband was leaving on her pillowy belly, now even more prominent without the tension of the popped button.
He stopped directly in front of her. Without a word, his large hands found her thickened waist. His thumbs slid beneath the bunched hem of her too-small sweater, his fingers sinking deep into the incredible, doughy softness spilling over the top of her skirt. He squeezed. Firmly. Feeling the sheer depth of the warm, yielding flesh. His thumbs pressed into the deep trench carved by the tight waistband, massaging the compressed fat.
"Goddamn, Cara," he breathed, his voice thick with awe and a dark, possessive hunger. His green eyes, intense and fixed on the expanse of soft skin he was claiming, burned into hers as she looked up at him, frozen. "You’ve been eating real good." It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact, laden with approval and a feral kind of pride. His fingers flexed, kneading the abundant flab at her waist, feeling it spill luxuriously between his grasp. The heat radiating from her belly through the thin fabric of her tights was intoxicating.
A shiver ran through her, but it wasn't from cold. The mortification in her wide green eyes flickered, replaced by something else. Something hot and needy, mirrored in the flush spreading down her neck. She swallowed the mouthful of cookie, her throat working. "Dean..." she whispered, a broken sound.
He leaned down slightly, his forehead almost touching hers. His hands never stopped their possessive exploration, tracing the soft contours of her exposed belly, kneading the deep love handles. His thumb brushed the edge of the gap where the button had popped, his skin grazing the newly revealed softness of her hip. "Look at you," he murmured, his gaze dropping to the melted chocolate smear on her chin. He reached up with one hand, his thumb brushing it away slowly, deliberately. He held her widened gaze. "My greedy little librarian. Can't even keep your clothes on anymore." There was no reproach. Only raw admiration and the thrill of her undeniable expansion.
Her breath hitched. The cookie trembled slightly in her hand. The heat in her cheeks wasn't just embarrassment now; it was pure arousal, fanned by his blunt words and the demand in his touch. She leaned into his hands on her waist, her belly pushing further into his touch. "They... they fit yesterday," she offered weakly, but there was a breathless undercurrent to it. A confession. A plea? Her free hand fluttered nervously, then landed on his forearm, gripping it for balance or connection.
He chuckled again, a low, dark sound. "Yesterday was yesterday." His gaze swept over her again – the stretched sweater, the popped skirt, the sheer, magnificent abundance barely contained. "Looks like we need a bigger size." He squeezed the heavy swell of her hip where the skirt gaped open. "Or maybe... just none at all." The suggestion hung in the chocolate-scented air, heavy with implication.
He watched the pulse hammering in her throat, the way her plump lips parted slightly. Her grip on his arm tightened. She looked down at the remaining half of the enormous cookie clutched in her hand, then back up at him, a spark of defiance, of that hidden hedonism, igniting in her bright green eyes. She lifted the cookie slowly. Her tongue darted out, deliberately licking a stray smear of melted chocolate from the edge before taking another large, deliberate bite. Her gaze locked with his, challenging, even as her cheeks bulged obscenely.
Dean’s own hunger flared, fierce and possessive. He watched her chew, watched the slight jiggle of the immense softness beneath his hands with each swallow. He saw the way her belly seemed larger, fuller, pressed against him. The library archives had been a revelation. This kitchen, with its fallen button and exposed softness, felt like a coronation. His hand slid from her waist, around to the small of her back, pulling her slightly off the stool towards him. Her soft, heavy form yielded easily. He dipped his head, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, his voice a rough whisper.
"Finish that cookie, sweetheart," he murmured, his breath hot against her skin. His other hand drifted lower, fingers tracing the deep waistband trench on her belly, dipping slightly into the gap where the button had given way, feeling the warm, bare skin beneath. "The fridge is packed. We’ve got those cannoli you love. The cheesecake bites. Enough for…" he paused, squeezing the substantial roll spilling over her skirt, "...a growing girl."
A soft, desperate moan vibrated against his ear. She leaned her full weight into him, her softness melting against his leaner frame, her body a plush, yielding anchor. Her free hand reached up, tangling in his shaggy dark hair, pulling his face down to hers. Her kiss tasted of chocolate, warm dough, and a frantic, insatiable hunger. Dean kissed her back with equal fervor, one hand anchoring her vast softness at the small of her back, the other still exploring the newly exposed curve of her hip, the proof of her glorious, unstoppable expansion. The kitchen, filled with the promise of more indulgence, hummed around them. Cara was far from finished. And Dean, holding her incredible weight, feeling the sheer, soft abundance in his hands, was utterly, completely helpless to stop her.