Chapter 22: Nicholas fucks Mimi raw against the mattress, his massive hands gripping her tiny waist as he pistons into her with deep, breeding strokes - her tight cunt gripping his thick shaft while his balls slap against her ass, both moaning at the familiar stretch as he plants his seed deep.
The silence in the main bedroom was a physical thing, heavy and cold. Nicholas stood just inside the door, watching Mimi place their sleeping daughter, Elara, into the carved cradle that had once been his. The baby’s tiny fingers unfurled like a winter blossom in her sleep. Clara had taken the infant without a word, a knowing, almost serene look in her eyes as she’d whisked her away for a promised overnight stay. “You two need a night,” she’d said, and the simplicity of the gift had left Nicholas speechless.
Now, they were alone. Truly alone, for the first time since the birth, in the room that had been a monument to a frozen marriage.
“She’s out,” Mimi whispered, turning from the cradle. The feeble firelight caught the gentle curves of her body beneath a simple linen nightgown, the fabric softened from many washings. Her hair was still short, a messy brown cap. She looked both incredibly young and impossibly weary.
“Good,” Nicholas said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to start in his boots. He kicked the door shut with the heel of his boot. The thud was final.
He crossed the room, the old floorboards groaning under his weight. He didn’t touch her at first. He just looked, his gaze traveling from her tired eyes, down the line of her throat, to where the nightgown hinted at the fuller shape of her breasts, still tender from nursing, then down to the gentle swell of her belly that hadn’t fully receded. It was a map of the last year, of their secret, of their future.
“Cold in here,” Mimi murmured, rubbing her arms.
“I’ll warm you.”
He said it not as a promise, but as a fact. His hands, broad and capable, came up to frame her face. His thumbs traced the arches of her cheekbones. He kissed her then, but it wasn’t the jovial, perfunctory peck of the Santa from the workshops. This was hungry, proprietary, a reclaiming. His tongue swept into her mouth, tasting of mint and the faintest trace of the brandy he’d drunk after dinner. She melted into it, a small sound escaping her throat as her hands came up to clutch at the thick wool of his suspenders.
He broke the kiss, breathing heavily. “That fucking cradle,” he growled, his voice thick. “Seeing you put her in it… all I could think was how empty your arms looked. How I needed to see them full again.”
“Nick,” she breathed, her eyes wide.
“I mean it, Mimi. I want it. I want to see your belly round with my child again. Our child. Made in this bed, in our home, with no one whispering in the halls.”
The raw need in his words ignited something in her. The innocent girl who had giggled at his attention was gone, replaced by a woman who knew the weight of him, the taste, the consequence. She nodded, a sharp, eager movement.
That was all the permission he needed.
His hands dropped to the neckline of her nightgown. With a single, brutal tear, the old linen gave way, splitting down the front to her navel. The sound was obscenely loud in the quiet room. Cool air pebbled her skin, her small breasts, the nipples already tight and dark. He didn’t bother undressing her further. He simply pushed the ruined fabric from her shoulders, letting it pool at her feet, leaving her naked and shivering before the dying fire.
“Beautiful,” he rasped. He wasn’t looking at her face. His eyes were locked on the soft plane of her stomach, the slight, silvery lines that whispered of recent childbirth, the thatch of dark hair at the junction of her thighs. “Fucking perfect.”
He scooped her up then, one arm behind her knees, the other cradling her back. She was so light in his arms, a bundle of delicate bones and warm, yielding flesh. He carried her the three steps to the massive four-poster bed and laid her down not on the sheets, but on the thick, white bear fur that served as a cover. The contrast was stark: her pale skin against the wild, primal pelt.
He stripped himself with frantic, clumsy efficiency. His shirt buttons pinged off the wall. His trousers and long johns were shoved down over his hips, his erection springing free, thick and heavy and already leaking. The firelight played over the grey hair on his chest, the powerful muscles of his thighs, the considerable, urgent evidence of his desire.
He didn’t join her on the bed. He stood at the edge, his hands gripping her knees, pushing them apart. He looked his fill, at the pink, glistening folds of her, still slightly swollen from childbirth, a territory he’d helped map but now felt utterly new.
“Still so tight for me,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. He leaned over, not kissing her mouth, but lowering his head between her thighs. His breath was hot on her sensitive skin. He used his thumbs to spread her open wider, then his tongue, broad and flat, licked a firm, wet stripe from her entrance to her clit.
Mimi cried out, her back arching off the fur. “Oh, god!”
He ate her with a single-minded intensity that was almost violent. He wasn’t trying to tease or prolong. He was priming her, claiming her, readying her body to take his. His tongue plunged inside her, fucking her with it, before circling back to suck her clit into his mouth. He growled against her, the vibration making her legs tremble. She fisted her hands in the fur, her hips lifting off the bed, chasing the rough, delicious friction. The room filled with the wet, filthy sounds of his mouth on her cunt, her ragged, pleading moans.
“Please, Nick… please, I need you inside…”
He pulled back, his chin glistening. His eyes were black with want. “You’re ready?”
“Yes! Fuck, yes…”
He climbed onto the bed, his weight causing the old frame to protest. He knelt between her splayed thighs, his cock jutting angrily towards her. He positioned the broad, flushed head at her entrance, rubbing it through her slickness, coating himself in her.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
Her eyes, glazed with lust, found his.
“This is where you get pregnant again,” he said, the words a gravelly vow. “Right here, right now. You understand?”
She nodded, her throat working.
He didn’t ease into her. He gripped her hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, and drove forward in one deep, relentless thrust.
Mimi screamed. It was a sound of shock, of unbearable fullness, of perfect, brutal connection. He buried himself to the hilt, his balls slapping against her, her body stretching exquisitely to accommodate his girth. He held there, buried inside her, both of them panting, her inner muscles fluttering wildly around the invasion.
“Christ,” he choked out. “Even after a baby… you’re so fucking tight. Like a vise.”
He began to move. There was no gentle rhythm. It was a hard, driving pace, each withdrawal almost complete before he slammed back home. The bed rocked against the stone wall with a rhythmic thump-thump-thump. The fur beneath her was rough against her skin. The air was cold on her sweat-slicked body, but where they were joined was a furnace.
“Tell me you want it,” he grunted, his pace never faltering. His hands moved from her hips to cup her breasts, squeezing them, his thumbs rough on her nipples.
“I want it!” she cried, her head thrashing side to side.
“Tell me you want my cum deep in your fucking womb.”
“Yes! Fill me up, Nick, please, I want your baby, I want it…”
Her words pushed him over the edge. His control shattered. His thrusts became frantic, piston-like, slamming into her with a force that pushed her up the fur. A guttural roar tore from his chest, a sound of pure, unvarnished release. He plunged deep and held, his body rigid as he emptied himself into her in hot, pulsing jets. She felt the intimate flood, the claiming spill, and it triggered her own climax. Her body clenched around him, milking him, waves of pleasure radiating out from her core until she was sobbing, limp and shattered beneath him.
He collapsed onto her, careful to keep his full weight on his elbows, but his body was a heavy, sweating blanket. He was still inside her, still twitching. They lay like that for long minutes, the only sounds their ragged breathing and the soft pop of the last coal in the fireplace.
Finally, he softened and slipped out of her. He rolled onto his side, pulling her with him, tucking her back against the solid wall of his chest. He dragged a corner of the fur over them. He could feel the wet warmth of his own release leaking from her onto his thigh.
He nuzzled the back of her neck, his lips against her short hair. “Okay?” he murmured, his voice hoarse.
She nodded, her hand finding his where it rested on her belly. She pressed his palm flat against her skin, over the place he’d just filled. “Okay.”
They lay in the dark, the chill finally seeping back into the room now that their heat had faded. The cradle stood silent and empty across from them. Nicholas stared at it, then closed his eyes, focusing on the feel of her in his arms, on the potential seed taking root. For the first time, the vast, empty bed felt like a beginning, not a relic. The future was no longer a distant, logistical problem. It was here, warm and damp and sleeping in his arms. It was a question he’d just asked with his entire body, and now, they would wait for the answer.