Chapter 10: Kinn's hands shake as he soaps Porsche's trembling body, pausing when his fingers graze the fresh stretch marks radiating from Porsche's swollen belly button. 'Does it hurt?' he murmurs against Porsche's damp hair, his voice uncharacteristically gentle as Porsche leans back against his chest, their child kicking violently between them.
The quiet in the suite was a fragile shell. Kinn could still hear the echo of the fetal monitor, that rapid, insistent rhythm that had synced with his own panicked heartbeat. Porsche slept, but it was the shallow, restless sleep of exhaustion, his brow furrowed even in repose. The evidence of the night was still on him—dried blood on his inner thighs, sweat cooling on his skin, the stark contrast of the darkening scab on his pale stomach.
Kinn moved with a stiffness that betrayed his own turmoil. He didn’t call a servant. The thought of anyone else seeing Porsche like this, vulnerable and marked, sent a possessive bolt through him that overrode his disgust at the menial task. He went into the sprawling en suite bathroom and started the water in the deep claw-foot tub, testing the temperature until it streamed warm, not hot.
He returned to the bed. “Porsche,” he said, his voice low.
Porsche’s eyes fluttered open. There was no recognition at first, just a haze of pain and medication. Then awareness returned, and with it, a wall of weary defiance. He tried to shift away, a faint gasp escaping him as the movement pulled at bruised muscles.
“Don’t be stupid,” Kinn said, the sharpness in his tone an attempt to reclaim some ground. “You need to clean up. The doctor said no infection.”
“I can do it myself,” Porsche mumbled, his voice hoarse.
“You can barely lift your head.”
Before Porsche could protest further, Kinn slid his arms under him—one behind his shoulders, the other under his knees. He was heavier than he looked, the solid weight of the pregnancy grounding him. Porsche stiffened, then went limp, whether from defeat or pain, Kinn couldn’t tell. He carried him the short distance to the bathroom, the opulent space filling with steam.
He set Porsche down on the lip of the tub. The marble was cool under him. Kinn knelt, ignoring the protest in his stiff knees. He reached for a soft cloth, dunking it in the water.
“Look at me,” Kinn said, not a request.
Porsche’s gaze lifted, dull with residual fear and something else—a shattered pride. Kinn began to wipe the dried blood from his thighs. The act was methodical, clinical. He rinsed the cloth, the water tingeing pink. His fingers, accustomed to handling weapons and signing death warrants, trembled ever so slightly as they approached the sensitive skin of Porsche’s inner thighs, the swollen flesh between his legs, reddened and abused from the violent taking hours before.
Porsche flinched, a full-body jerk that made the water slosh.
“Be still,” Kinn murmured, but his touch grew impossibly lighter. He washed away the remnants of his own brutality, the evidence of the collapse it had caused. His eyes kept being drawn upward, past the scab, to the great, taut curve of Porsche’s stomach. It pressed against the edge of the tub, a live, round planet of skin. And there, faint and new, were fine, silvery lines beginning to radiate from his navel—stretch marks. The map of this transformation.
Almost of its own volition, his wet hand left the cloth and pressed, palm flat, against that curve. He felt it then, a distinct, rolling movement beneath his hand. A kick. A punch. Life.
His breath hitched. He looked up and found Porsche staring at him, tears welling silently and tracking down his cheeks. No sobs, just this quiet, relentless overflow. Their eyes locked in the steam-filled silence. There were no words for this. No transaction, no power play that could name it. Kinn was kneeling, washing the proof of his violence from the body that carried his child, feeling that child move in protest or greeting.
He leaned forward, his forehead coming to rest against Porsche’s damp belly. He didn’t know why he did it. He just did. He stayed there, kneeling on the hard marble, listening to Porsche’s hitched breathing, feeling the subtle shifts under his skin.
Porsche’s hand came up, hesitated, then settled in Kinn’s hair. Not a caress. An anchor. His fingers twisted in the dark strands, gripping almost painfully.
“You tried to kill it,” Porsche whispered, the words cracking.
“I know,” Kinn said into his skin, the admission muffled, raw.
He lifted his head. The moment shattered, but its pieces hung in the air between them, sharp and glittering. The clean, soap-scented steam, the heat from the water, the naked, devastating intimacy of the act—it coalesced into a different kind of tension. The fear and the fury mutated, heated, became a desperate, physical need to connect, to affirm this terrifying bond in the only way his body knew how.
Kinn’s gaze dropped to Porsche’s mouth, then lower, to his chest, his stomach, his groin, floating pale in the water. A different fire sparked, one that burned away the lingering panic and left only a thick, demanding hunger.
“You’re still hard,” Porsche observed, his voice flat, looking at the evident bulge in Kinn’s tailored trousers. “Even after all that.”
Kinn didn’t deny it. “It doesn’t stop.” He ran a thumb over Porsche’s lower lip. “Not for you.”
He stood, his shadow falling over Porsche in the tub. He unbuckled his belt, the click loud in the tiled room, and pushed his trousers and boxers down in one motion. His cock sprang free, fully erect, thick and flushed. He stepped into the tub, the water level rising as he straddled Porsche’s legs, caging him in the porcelain coffin.
“This is fucked up,” Porsche breathed, but his own body was betraying him. His nipples had tightened into dark peaks. A faint blush spread across his chest. His own length, half-soft from trauma and medication, began to stir in the water.
“I know that, too,” Kinn said, his voice a low rasp. He grabbed Porsche under the knees, hauling his hips up, spreading his legs wide over the sloped edge of the tub. The position was exposing, vulnerable. Water streamed off Porsche’s body. Kinn looked his fill at the pink, used entrance, still slightly puffy from earlier. A possessive groan rumbled in his chest.
He didn’t bother with preparation. He spat into his own hand, slicking his length roughly, the action crude and animalistic. He placed the broad head against Porsche’s hole.
“Look at me,” Kinn ordered again.
Porsche’s eyes, wide and dark, met his. Kinn pushed in.
It was a tight, burning stretch. Porsche cried out, his head falling back against the tub with a thunk, his hands scrabbling for purchase on the slick porcelain. Kinn sheathed himself in one relentless, deep thrust, burying himself to the hilt in the hot, clenching channel. He growled, the sensation overwhelming—the resistance, the heat, the knowledge of where he was, of what he was inside.
“Fuck,” he panted, hips jerking instinctively. “Still so fucking tight. Like you’re made for me.” He pulled back and slammed in again, setting a brutal, immediate pace. Water splashed over the rim with each drive.
Porsche whimpered, his body arching, his swollen stomach a firm curve between them. The friction was intense, a mix of pain and a terrifying, unwanted pleasure that began to coil in his gut. “S-stop… it’s too much…”
“You don’t want me to stop,” Kinn grunted, leaning over him, bracing one hand by Porsche’s head. His other hand gripped Porsche’s hip, fingers digging into the flesh. “Your body doesn’t want me to stop. Feel it. You’re squeezing my cock like a fucking vise.”
It was true. Despite the pain, Porsche’s body was clasping him, drawing him deeper with each thrust. The thick drag of Kinn’s cock inside him was filling a hollow ache that went beyond the physical. It was a terrible, degrading connection that felt more real than anything else in this gilded prison.
Kinn changed his angle, driving upward, and Porsche saw stars. A broken shout tore from his throat. “There! God, right there!”
“Yeah?” Kinn snarled, a feral grin touching his lips. He pistoned his hips, nailing that spot with unerring accuracy. “That’s it. Take it. Take what I give you.” He dropped his head, biting at Porsche’s neck, not hard enough to break the skin but enough to claim. His breath was hot and ragged in Porsche’s ear. “This cunt is mine. This womb is mine. Everything. You hear me?”
Porsche could only moan, his own hand flying to his neglected cock, stroking in time with Kinn’s thrusts. The pleasure was a storm, breaking over the levees of his shame and fear. It was raw and filthy, water sloshing, skin slapping, their grunts and curses echoing off the marble.
Kinn felt the orgasm build like a pressure cooker, heat coiling at the base of his spine. Porsche’s inner muscles were fluttering wildly around him, his body bowing taut.
“Come for me,” Kinn demanded, his rhythm becoming erratic, frantic. “Come on my cock. Now.”
It was the brutal, crude command that tipped Porsche over. With a choked sob, he came, stripes of white shooting over his stomach and into the bathwater, his passage clamping down on Kinn in rhythmic, blinding pulses.
The feel of it milked Kinn’s own climax from him. He buried himself as deep as he could go, a guttural roar ripping from his throat as he emptied himself in harsh, pumping jets inside Porsche’s body. He collapsed forward, catching his weight on his arms, his forehead dropping against Porsche’s shoulder. They stayed like that, joined, panting, as the water around them stilled.
Slowly, sensitivity returned. Kinn softened and slipped out. He saw his own release leaking from Porsche, mixing with the water. The sight sent another, quieter thrill through him.
He didn’t speak. He reached for the discarded cloth, now lukewarm, and cleaned Porsche’s stomach with an unsettling tenderness. Then he pulled the plug, letting the soiled water drain. He turned on the showerhead, rinsing them both with clean, warm water.
He helped Porsche, now boneless and pliant, out of the tub and wrapped him in a thick, warmed towel. He carried him back to the bed, which had been stripped of its stained sheets by a silent, efficient staff during their absence.
He laid Porsche down on the fresh linen. Porsche turned onto his side, facing away, curling around his stomach again. The silence stretched, heavy with unsaid things.
Kinn stood by the bed, looking down at the curve of Porsche’s back, the damp hair on the nape of his neck. The bond didn’t feel like a chain just then. It felt like a tether, and he was the one adrift, clinging to the other end for fear of floating away into a void he only just understood.
“Sleep,” Kinn said, his voice rough. “I’ll be here.”
He didn’t know if it was a promise or a threat. From Porsche’s still, silent form, he suspected the other man didn’t know either.