Chapter 6: Morning Surrender
Morning light bled through the blinds, striping Brianna's bare shoulder in gold. She woke pressed against Rosenblatt's back, her cheek flat against the warm expanse of his shoulder blade, her hand curled in the coarse hair of his chest. His heart thumped slow and heavy under her palm.
She was already wet. The dream was still dissolving behind her eyes, all heat and weight and fullness.
He stirred, and she lifted her head. "Good morning, lover," she whispered.
Rosenblatt rolled over, his dark eyes finding hers, sleep-creased and unhurried. "Mornin', girl." His hand slid down her spine, over the thin silk of her babydoll, and paused at the hem riding up her thigh. "You been awake long?"
"Awhile." She leaned in and kissed him, slow, tasting sleep and stale beer on his lips. His hand tightened on her hip and he pulled her over him, and she gasped into his mouth as he rolled her onto her back.
The kiss turned sloppy fast, all tongue and breath, their lips smearing wet against each other. She moaned into his mouth and he licked deeper, lazy and greedy, swallowing her sounds.
He pulled back an inch, staring down at her like she was something rare. "Look at you," he rasped. "Finest thing ever landed in this bed. And you're here cause you want it."
His mouth found her ear, voice dropping. "Gonna bury myself in you slow, girl. Fill you up first thing, before the coffee even. That what you need?"
"Yes," she breathed, hips rising to him. "Please."
He pressed against her, already hard. "Good girl. Say that again."
"Yes," she whispered, and lunged up, tongue first, kissing him deep and shameless, her legs falling wide open beneath him.
Rosenblatt kissed her back, then caught her chin in his hand and held her there, breath mingling. "Not so fast, girl."
She blinked, dazed, lips wet.
"You're givin' me somethin' this morning," he said. "I want you to say what it is. What's a woman got that only she can give a man?"
Her cheeks flushed hot. "Her... her pussy."
"That's part of it." His thumb dragged across her lower lip. "Say the rest."
"Her womb," she breathed, trembling under him. "I'm giving you my womb. My body, where you can plant your seed. That's mine to give, and I'm giving it to you."
"There it is," Rosenblatt murmured, dragging the head of his cock through her slick folds. "Twenty-nine years old. Top of your class. Women like you were supposed to run hospitals, marry some shiny young doctor, raise pretty babies in a big clean house." He pressed against her entrance, not entering, just letting her feel him. "Instead you're bare-assed under an old man in a trailer, handing over your womb like it's a gift card."
"Yes." Her voice cracked on it. "Yes, that's what I'm doing."
"Say what you are while you do it."
"I'm a submissive little slut. I'm your good girl." Her hips rolled up, shameless. "I'm throwing it all away for you."
"We both know it ain't throwin' away," he rasped, sliding into her slow and thick, watching her mouth fall open. "It's the one thing that makes sense to you."
"God." She shuddered around him.
She locked her eyes on his, slow and deliberate, and slid the silk straps down her arms. "You know they teach us something in medical school," she murmured, easing the fabric to her waist, bare beneath him.
His heavy gut settled onto her, pressing her dainty waist into the sagging mattress, and she arched under the weight of it, purring.
"What's that?" he rasped, still buried deep inside her.
"Good little girls can increase their partner's fertility by fulfilling his most secret fantasies." She rolled her hips, milking him. "So tell me yours, lover. Every filthy one. I'm listening."
His cock pulsed inside her, a hard throb she felt through every inch of him, betraying him before his mouth did.
She hooked her fingers in the bunched silk and dragged it down, slow, letting the fabric catch on her nipples until her breasts sprang free. Full, pert, tipped pink in the morning light, rising and falling under his gaze.
Rosenblatt's breath went ragged. "Mmmm. A smart and beautiful young woman whimpering for insemination from me is pretty high up the list." His hand hovered, not touching. "Let me look at you trying to entice me."
So she arched, offering herself, rolling her hips in tiny, deliberate circles. His cock swelled thicker at the sight, and she moaned low, knowing exactly what it did to him.
She reached down and hiked the babydoll up over her ribs, bunching the silk under her arms so nothing but bare skin met his gut. "Feel that?" she purred. "All of me, nothing in between."
His belly spread heavier against her flat stomach, hot and slick with sweat, and she ground up into the weight of it, hips rolling in slow, milking circles around his cock. Her eyes stayed locked on his, heavy-lidded, obscene, the look of a woman begging to be pumped full.
"God, look at you," he rasped.
"I want it deep," she whispered. "Give me everything, lover."
Rosenblatt let the word hang there, lover, and smirked down at her, watching this polished young thing squirm and beg under his gut like a bitch in heat.
"Everything might hurt, sweet pea," he said, grinding slow so she felt every vein of him. "Old man like me goes deep. Real deep. Right up against your cervix."
Her breath hitched. "Do it. however deep you want."
He considered that, hips easing forward inch by inch. Her womb was right there, ripe and waiting, twenty-nine years of wasted potential begging to be put to use. He pressed in until she whimpered.
"There?" he asked.
"There. Please. Plant it there."
He drew back and drove in deep, and the rhythm broke loose between them. His hips slapped against hers, her nails raked down his sweating back, their mouths crashing together between thrusts.
"Take it," he grunted. "Take it right there."
She screamed into his shoulder and came, hard, clenching around him. He kept pumping through it, and she came again, legs shaking, tilting her hips to steer his cock against her cervix.
"Deeper, lover, right there, I need it there."
He hammered her through a third climax, sweat rolling off his gut onto her belly. Her heels dug into his ass, pulling him in.
"Fill me," she begged. "Breed me now."
He kept the pace, slow and heavy, each stroke landing in the same deep spot until her eyes rolled back and her mouth hung slack.
"There she is," he murmured. He cupped her jaw, thumb stroking her cheek, then dragged his palm down her throat to the swell of her breasts. He kneaded them one at a time, rolling her nipples in rhythm with his hips.
His other hand slid under her, fingers spreading across her ass, lifting her, angling her. He adjusted her like an old man adjusting his recliner, patient, exact, until her hips tilted just so.
Then that hand settled flat over her lower belly, warm and heavy, pressing where he knew she was ripe.
"There's where it goes," he said. "Hold still now, sweet pea. Let me put it where it belongs."
Brianna's breath caught in her throat. The pressure of his palm over her lower belly, the deliberate patience of it, the weight of everything he was about to take from her, all of it landed at once, and she went still beneath him.
She looked up at him. Really looked. The sweat rolling through the gray stubble on his jowls, the liver-spotted spread of his shoulders, the way his crooked teeth showed behind his parted lips. A disgusting old pervert, breathing hard on top of her, and her body sang for him like nothing else ever had.
And her training kicked in, the way it always did, unbidden. His grip on her hip was precise, two fingers braced on the bone, the rest of his hand anchoring her pelvis at exactly the angle he wanted. His thrusts had lost their hunger and become deliberate, measured, each one placed like an instrument reading. She knew that kind of focus. She saw it in surgeons before they made the first cut.
She also knew the smile. It was forming on his face right now, slow and small, the corners of his mouth creeping up while his eyes roamed over her pinned underneath him. Pre-ejaculation. She'd watched it on men's faces across a hundred deliveries, the quiet satisfaction of a man who has just taken something and knows it took.
"You're smiling," she whispered.
"Am I?" He didn't stop moving. "Reckon I got something to smile about."
The gravity of it settled over her like the weight of his gut. This was the moment. This ugly, knowing old man was going to finish inside her, and she was going to let him, and nothing in her polished life would ever mean as much as this surrender did.
She gave it to him. All of it. She let the tension drain out of her shoulders, out of her hips, out of the last guarded corner of her mind, and she lay open beneath him, soft and pliant, her womb offered up like a plate.
"I'm yours," she breathed. "Take it. I'm not holding anything back. My womb is yours, Rosenblatt. Fill it."
His thrust faltered, just barely, and his eyes sharpened on her face.
"There you go," he murmured. "That's what I been waiting to see. Not the begging. The giving."
"Then take." She rolled her hips up into him, matching him now, their bodies falling into the same rhythm, slow and heavy and unhurried. The ceiling fan hummed above them. Morning light striped across his hunched back, across the glisten of sweat in the valley of his spine, and she ran her palms up it, feeling every ridge and fold of him.
They moved together like that, breath for breath, his groan answering her moan. The springs of the mattress kept their creaking time. She lifted her knees higher, opening herself wider, giving him the deepest path there was.
"That's it, girl. Feel me deep as I can reach?"
"I feel you everywhere." Her voice came out wrecked and soft. "You're so deep, lover. Right where it needs to go."
She could feel him swelling inside her, the way the tissue of his cock thickened and pressed, the way his rhythm started to shorten. He was close. His breathing had gone ragged and shallow, and the smile had widened into something almost boyish on that ruined old face, and every clinical instinct in her read it plainly.
She could push him over. One moment. One last thing.
She held his gaze and let her eyes go heavy and wet, let her lips part, gave him the look she'd been saving, the breed me look, shameless and glowing, a woman begging to be seeded. Then she slid her hand down the slick slope of his back, down over the heavy curve of his ass, and reached between them, finding the weight of him hanging there, huge and heavy and full.
She cupped his balls in her palm. They were enormous, hair-covered, swollen tight with everything he'd been saving, and they shifted in her hand like a warm, living weight. She felt them draw up slightly against her fingers and knew what that meant too.
"Can I feel you empty inside of me?" she asked.
The words hung in the golden light. His whole body shuddered.
"Christ alive," he rasped.
"I want to feel it happen. Every pulse." She cradled him gently, her fingertips tracing the wrinkled sac, feeling the heat of what waited there. "I want to feel you unload in me. Right here, lover. Right against my cervix, where it belongs."
"You know what you're askin' for, sweet pea?"
"I'm asking you to breed me." Her heels crossed at the small of his back, locking him in. "I'm fertile right now. I know my cycle. I'm at my most fertile this week, and I'm lying here with my legs open for you, and I want every drop."
His cock throbbed so hard inside her she felt it in her belly. His grin broke wide open, teeth and triumph, the conquest complete on his face, and he gripped her hips with both hands and drove in to the root.
"Then take it," he growled. "Take an old man's seed, doctor. Take it right in that pretty fertile womb."
He buried himself and held there, and she felt the first pulse travel up through him, through the thick vein along his shaft, and then the heat of him blooming inside her, deep, deep, exactly where his palm had pressed. His balls tightened in her hand, drawing up hard, and she held them through it, feeling each contraction, each surge.
"Oh god," she moaned, tilting her hips up to receive all of it. "I feel it. I feel you emptying in me."
"Take it. Take it. Take it." Each word landed with another pulse of heat. He ground against her between spurts, grinding his seed into her, his whole heavy body shaking above her. His face had gone slack and ugly with pleasure, mouth open, eyes rolled back, and she watched him come undone because of her, because of what she'd given him.
She came with him, a slow rolling orgasm this time, deep and aching, her body clenching around him in greedy pulls, drawing him in. "Don't pull out," she gasped. "Stay in me. Stay in me until it takes."
"Not goin' anywhere." His voice was a wrecked rumble. He sank down onto his forearms, letting his weight settle over her, his softened-but-still-thick cock plugging everything in place. "Got nowhere to be. Got exactly where I wanna be right here."
They lay like that, breathing together, sweat and heat mingling between them. The fan hummed. Somewhere outside a truck rumbled past the park, and neither of them so much as flinched.
His hand found her face, cupping her jaw. His thumb traced her cheekbone, smearing away a bead of sweat.
"You felt it?" he asked. "Feel me let go?"
"I felt everything." She turned her lips into his palm and kissed it. "Every pulse. You were so deep. I've never felt anything like it."
"That's cause you never been with a man who takes his time." He propped himself up enough to look down at where their bodies joined, at the place he'd emptied himself into her. "Look at that. Full to the brim."
She laughed, breathless and small. "I can feel it sitting there. It's so warm."
"Body heat, girl. Same as yours." His grin came back, sly. "Least that's what you'd tell your patients."
"Stop it." She swatted his shoulder, laughing harder, and he chuckled with her, his belly quaking against hers, and the sound of both of them laughing while he was still buried inside her felt impossibly intimate. More intimate than the breeding had. She went quiet with the realization.
"What?" he asked. He'd caught it. Of course he had.
"Nothing. Just..." She searched for it. "This. Laughing. Nobody's ever stayed for this part."
"Damn shame." He kissed her forehead, surprisingly tender for a man whose seed was pooling inside her. "Most of 'em don't know what they're passin' up. All that fuss about the finishin'. Finishing's the cheap part. This right here, that's the part a man earns."
She pulled him down against her, arms around his neck, and held him, his weight crushing her into the mattress, his breath hot against her throat. She didn't want to move. Didn't want the moment to become a memory. She wanted to stay exactly here, pinned under this old pervert in a sagging bed in a trailer that stank of stale beer, with his release warm inside her womb.
"Rosenblatt." His name came out strange in her mouth, half question.
"Mm."
"What happens now?"
He lifted his head and looked at her for a long moment. The morning light caught the deep lines around his eyes, and behind them something moved, something he was deciding whether to say.
"Now?" He shifted his weight off her and rolled to his side, taking her with him, keeping them joined. He tucked her against his chest, her cheek on the coarse gray hair, his heartbeat slow under her ear. "Now I make you breakfast. Then we see about gettin' you home before your shift."
She blinked. "How did you know I have a shift?"
"You told me. Night one. Complained about a seven a.m. consult while you were drinkin' my beer." His chest rumbled with a low laugh. "You been tellin' me things all week, girl. You just weren't listenin' to yourself do it."
She lay there absorbing that. He'd been paying attention. Not just to her body. To her.
"Stay put," he said, easing out of her at last. She felt the flood of him immediately, warm and copious, spilling down her thigh onto the rumpled sheets, and she moaned at the loss and the mess and the sheer volume of it. He looked down at her, at the evidence spreading beneath her, and nodded once like a man confirming a good harvest.
"Keep a pillow under your hips," he said. "Old trick. Give the little swimmers every advantage."
"You're serious."
"Dead serious." He was already pulling on his trousers, moving toward the door with the slow, deliberate gait she'd learned to read. At the doorway he paused and looked back at her, sprawled and used and glowing in the gold light.
"I meant what I said last night," he told her. "I know what you need better than you do. And what you need, sweet pea, ain't just this." He nodded at the sheets, at the mess, at her. "This is the dessert. The meal's still comin'."
Her heart knocked against her ribs. "What meal?"
He smiled that small pre-ejaculation smile again, and this time it meant something else entirely, something patient and certain.
"You'll find out when I serve it," he said, and padded out toward the kitchen, leaving her there in the golden light, full in every way she'd spent her whole life starving, with a pillow already sliding under her hips.