Chapter 40: Becky and April Conversation
Grant did not let them drift far in the aftermath. As their breathing settled into a shared, languid rhythm, he moved with a quiet purpose. He gathered them from where they lay, his hands firm under their arms, and guided them back to the center of the large sofa.
He sat first, sinking into the deepest cushion, his legs spread. He pulled Becky onto his right thigh, her side pressed against his chest, then drew April onto his left, mirroring her position. They were bookends against him, their heads resting on his shoulders, his arms heavy and secure around their waists. The late afternoon sun had slanted into long, golden bars of light that cut across the floor, dust motes dancing in the stillness.
He turned his head, burying his face in Becky’s blonde hair, inhaling deeply. Then he nuzzled into the fragrant warmth of April’s red strands. He kissed Becky’s temple, a slow, sucking press of his lips that left a faint pink mark. He did the same to April, his mouth lingering on the delicate skin just before her ear. He didn’t speak. The sounds were enough: the wet, soft pull of his mouth on their skin, their sharp, quiet inhales, the rustle of fabric and shifting weight.
His hands slid from their waists, up under their loosened tops, his palms warm and broad against the bare skin of their backs. He traced the knobs of their spines, the wings of their shoulder blades, as his mouth traveled from their temples to the corners of their lips. He kissed Becky first, a deep, searching kiss that tasted of salt and surrender. Then April, a slower, more devouring kiss that pulled a low hum from her throat.
He kissed and sucked at the tender skin of their necks, their shoulders, the tops of their breasts where they swelled above their tops. He marked them not with the frantic passion of before, but with a deliberate, slow branding, a tactile confirmation of the new seals placed upon them.
Then, his hands on their hips, he adjusted them. He turned Becky slightly to her right, April to her left, and guided them until their backs were pressed together, the length of their spines aligned. He settled them like this, both still seated on his lap, but now facing away from each other, their bodies forming a single, living column resting against the solid wall of his chest. His arms came around their fronts, crossing over their stomachs, his hands splayed possessively over the soft planes of their abdomens. They could feel each other’s heartbeat through the point of contact between their shoulder blades, a double-time rhythm echoing Grant’s own steady, powerful pulse beneath them.
He held them like that for a long time, his chin resting on the crown of their heads where they met. The silence was profound, filled only with breath and the distant sound of a car passing on the wet street below.
The silence was profound, filled only with breath and the distant sound of a car passing on the wet street below. His hands, resting on their stomachs, began to move. They slid downward in unison, fingertips tracing the lines where hip met pelvis, a simultaneous exploration. He hooked his thumbs into the waistbands of their remaining clothes, a silent question.
Becky arched into the touch, a soft sigh escaping her. April went very still, her breathing suspended. In one fluid motion, Grant pushed the fabric down, baring them completely from the waist. The cool air touched their skin, a sharp contrast to the heat of his palms which now cupped them fully, his fingers splaying wide over the soft curls below. He held them there, a deep, possessive warmth against their most vulnerable flesh.
“So quiet now,” he murmured, his voice a low vibration against their backs. “All that thinking. All that feeling. It ends here.” His fingers began to move, not thrusting, but applying a slow, clockwise pressure through the delicate flesh, a circular massage that sought a deeper entry. “Right in this silence.”
His touch was inexorable. Two fingers of his right hand slid into Becky, easily, her body welcoming him with a wet, yielding heat. Two fingers of his left hand entered April, meeting a tighter, muscular resistance that melted into a deep, surrendering clench. He pressed deep into both, his palms grinding against them in that same slow circle. They gasped in unison, their heads falling back against his shoulders.
“That’s it,” he growled, his own breath becoming ragged. He curled his fingers inside them, finding the specific, spongy terrain within. He applied pressure, a deliberate, pulsing rhythm made possible by his immense strength and focus. He worked them in perfect counterpoint, his wrists flexing, his knuckles deep. “You feel that? You feel how empty you were before this?”
Becky cried out, a high, broken sound, her body beginning to tremble around his hand. “Grant!”
“I feel it,” April gasped, her strategic mind obliterated by the precise, internal targeting. Her hips jerked. “The alignment. The congruence. It’s… a physical truth.”
“It’s the truth,” he corrected, his voice rough. He sped the rhythm of his fingers, the wet sounds filling the quiet room. He watched their faces, their mouths slack, eyes blind. He felt the first fluttering contractions begin deep within Becky, a quick, frantic fluttering. He felt April’s inner muscles clamp down in a series of severe, organized pulses. He pushed them over together, his hands a relentless engine.
Their orgasms tore through them silently, a dual seizure that locked their bodies rigid against him. Becky’s scream was a airless shudder. April’s release was a series of sharp, punched-out exhales. He held them through it, fingers buried to the knuckles, absorbing the convulsions until they went limp, boneless against his chest, slick with sweat.
He withdrew his hands slowly, bringing his glistening fingers to his mouth one after the other, tasting them with a dark, satisfied hum. Then he moved.
He shifted April off his lap, turning her to face him on the couch. His hands were on her hips, lifting her as he guided himself to her entrance. “Now,” he commanded, his voice stripped bare. He pulled her down onto him in one smooth, claiming descent.
April’s mouth opened in a soundless cry as he filled her, her head falling back. He seated her fully, his thickness stretching her, the angle devastatingly deep. He held her there, impaled, her thighs framing his hips. “Look at me,” he ordered.
Her green eyes, hazy with pleasure, fought to focus on his face. He began to move her, his hands controlling her rise and fall, setting a slow, grinding pace that drew a continuous, low moan from her throat.
Becky, still trembling beside them, watched for a moment before instinct took over. She leaned in, her lips finding April’s, kissing her with a hungry, shared desperation. Her hands came up, cupping April’s face, then sliding down to cradle her heavy breasts, her thumbs circling the hard, distended nipples. She kissed April’s neck, her shoulders, whispering against her skin. “So beautiful. Taking him so deep. I can feel you… I can feel him moving you.”
Becky’s words, her touch, fractured April’s remaining control. She began to meet his upward drives with her own force, her athletic body finding a powerful, matching rhythm. Grant’s hands tightened on her hips, his own movements becoming sharper, more urgent. The sofa creaked in protest. The air thickened with the sound of skin, of wet friction, of ragged breath.
“Enough,” Grant grunted, his control fraying. He stopped her motion, lifting her off him. He stood up from the couch, his body gleaming in the low light. He turned to Becky, his gaze intent. “Up. Turn around.”
Becky scrambled to her feet, her legs unsteady. She turned, bracing her hands on the back of the sofa, presenting herself to him. He moved behind her, his hands gripping the taut muscles of her upper arms, his hold vise-like. He kicked her feet wider apart with his own. He entered her in one deep, uninterrupted stroke that drove a shocked, grateful cry from her lungs.
He fucked her then, standing, with a relentless, driving power that came from his core. Each thrust snapped her body forward, his grip on her arms the only anchor preventing her from pitching over the sofa. It was a taking, a use, a brutal reaffirmation of the claim he’d staked inside her hours before. The force jolted through her, shaking cries from her with every impact.
He didn’t last long. The visual of her body yielding to him, the feel of April’s spent heat still on his skin, the overwhelming reality of what they now carried—it converged. With a final, deep grunt, he slammed into Becky and held, pulsing, his forehead dropped between her shoulder blades as he emptied himself into her for the second time that day.
He stayed there for a long moment, his weight leaning into her, their sweat-slick skin adhering. Then, gently, he withdrew, his hands softening on her arms. He guided her down to the couch, where she collapsed next to April. He sank to his knees on the floor before them, his breath still heaving. He looked up, his blue eyes scanning their glazed, satisfied faces, their utterly claimed bodies.
He looked up, his blue eyes scanning their glazed, satisfied faces, their utterly claimed bodies. A slow, primal satisfaction moved through him, a feeling deeper than triumph. It was the quiet hum of a corrected equation.
“Stay,” he murmured, his voice rough.
He rose, his movements fluid and purposeful despite his own spent state. He left them tangled on the couch, their limbs loose, and walked to the kitchen. The sound of running water again, the clink of a glass. He returned with two tall glasses of cold water, condensation already beading on the sides.
“Drink.” He handed one to each, his fingers brushing theirs. “All of it.”
They obeyed, the cold liquid shocking their systems, a grounding anchor. Becky drank greedily, water slopping down her chin. April sipped methodically, her eyes never leaving his face as she swallowed, as if following a procedural order for rehydration.
He took the empty glasses, set them on the floor. Then his hands were on them again, pulling them up from the couch. He didn’t lead them to the bedroom. He guided them to the center of the living room, to the thick, soft rug that lay before the dormant fireplace.
The late sun was gone now, replaced by the deep indigo of early evening. The room was shadowed, intimate, lit only by the faint ambient glow from the streetlights outside, casting long, dramatic shapes across the walls and their skin.
He turned to April. His hands found her hips, his grip firm, and he lowered her to the rug. The woven fibers were coarse against her bare back. He followed her down, his knees settling on either side of her thighs, his weight braced above her. The sheer size of him blocked the faint light, enveloping her in his shadow.
He captured her wrists in one large hand, pinning them gently but irrevocably to the rug above her head. He leaned down, close enough that she could feel the heat of his skin, smell the salt and sex on his breath. He stared into her eyes, the green swallowed by black in the low light, his gaze a physical penetration.
“Are you happy my baby is inside you?” His voice was low, stripped of all ornament, a pure demand for truth.
April’s breath caught. Her intellect, usually a rapid-fire processor of variables, was silent. The answer did not come from analysis. It rose from the warm, low center of her being, from the place his seed had taken root hours before. It was a biological fact, an emotional truth, a spiritual capitulation all in one.
“Yes.” The word was quiet, certain. “It feels… correct. It feels like purpose.”
A profound stillness passed between them, an acknowledgment of a threshold permanently crossed.
Then he moved. He released her wrists, his hands sliding down her arms, over the tight curves of her shoulders, to grip her powerful thighs. He lifted her legs, placing them over his shoulders with an ease that spoke of his strength and her total yielding. The position arched her back, exposed her completely. He paused, the broad head of his cock resting at her entrance, a promise and a threat.
He entered her slowly, a relentless, inch-by-inch invasion that made her eyes flutter shut. A deep, trembling sigh leaked from her lips. He seated himself fully, letting her feel the stretch, the fullness, the profound rightness of the fit.
“You’re gorgeous,” he whispered, then began to move.
He fucked her with a hard, deep, piston-like rhythm, each drive aimed at the core of her, at the new life taking hold. The rug scratched her back. The room filled with the wet, rhythmic sound of their joining.
“Even more gorgeous,” he grunted, his voice straining with effort, “when your face tells the story of what my cock is doing to your insides.” He watched her, mesmerized, as each thrust shattered her composure, as her lips parted, as her eyes rolled back, as a flush spread from her chest to her throat. “Even more gorgeous when my baby is inside you. You glow from the inside out already. I can see it.”
His pace increased, the force driving her body up the rug an inch with each impact. He leaned over her, bracing on one hand, the other cradling the side of her face, his thumb stroking her cheekbone.
“Soon you’ll get even curvier. Softer here,” he thrust deep, “and here.” His hand slid from her face to palm her breast, squeezing the heavy flesh. “I won’t be able to keep my hands off you. I won’t be able to keep my cock outside of you. I’ll want you constantly. Full of me. Full of my child.”
He hammered into her, the vision he painted merging with the brutal, exquisite physical reality. “Does that sound good?”
April’s mind, for once, held no projections, no cost-benefit analyses of the future. It contained only the present pounding truth and the visceral, aching want for the future he described. Her honesty was a raw, torn thing.
“Yes,” she gasped, the word fracturing on a sob. “It sounds perfect. It sounds… like everything.”
Her admission broke his last vestige of restraint. A guttural sound tore from his throat. He drove into her one final, devastating time, his body locking, his release pouring into her with a heat that seemed to brand her very womb. He collapsed forward, catching his weight at the last second, his forehead pressed to hers, their breaths mingling in ragged, shared gasps.
He stayed there, buried inside her, for a long time. When he finally moved, it was to roll, taking her with him, keeping her impaled, so she lay sprawled atop his chest on the soft rug. His arms encircled her, one hand splayed possessively over the small of her back, the other threading through her sweat-damp red hair.
He turned his head. Becky was watching from the couch, her knees drawn up to her chin, her olive eyes wide and soft in the dimness. Grant held her gaze, his own still dark with possession, and lifted a hand, crooking a finger.
“Come here, Princess,” he said, his voice a drowsy rumble. “It’s your turn to hold her.”
He didn’t need to ask her twice.
Becky uncurled from the couch and crossed the shadowed room on her knees, the rug rough against her skin. She didn’t hesitate. She laid down behind April’s spent form, spooning her, pressing her front to April’s back. One arm slid beneath April’s neck, the other wrapped low and protective across her hips, over Grant’s hand that still splayed possessively there. Becky’s face buried into the damp, fragrant mess of April’s red hair, inhaling the scent of them, of salt and sex and something new, something fertile and deep.
Grant watched them, a low hum of approval in his chest. His blue eyes, heavy-lidded and intense, tracked the way Becky’s smaller frame curved to envelop April’s stronger one, how their legs tangled, how Becky’s fingers interlaced with his own over April’s stomach. It was a silent consolidation. He shifted slightly, easing from beneath April, his withdrawal slow and careful. She made a soft, bereft sound that Becky soothed with a whisper against her ear.
Now free, Grant knelt beside them on the rug. The dim light sculpted the hard planes of his torso, the corded strength of his arms. He leaned over April, his shadow engulfing them both. He didn’t speak. He simply lowered his head and pressed his mouth to the flat, taut plane of April’s lower abdomen, just below her navel.
His kiss was not soft. It was a firm, wet seal of his lips, a sustained pressure that felt less like affection and more like a brand over the exact epicenter of the new truth. He held it there, his breath hot on her skin, his tongue tracing a slow, deliberate circle. A tremor ran through April, a full-body shudder that Becky felt resonate against her own chest. Grant’s hand came up to join his mouth, his fingers spread wide, covering nearly her entire lower belly, as if measuring, or claiming the territory beneath.
He finally lifted his head, his lips glistening. He turned his gaze to Becky, who was watching him over the curve of April’s shoulder, her olive eyes wide and dark in the semi-darkness.
“What about you, Sunshine?” His voice was a gravelly scrape, stripped raw but intimately calm. “You want one more?”
The question hung in the quiet, thick air. It wasn’t about lust. It was an audit of capacity, a check of the vessel’s integrity after being filled. Becky’s body was a symphony of spent sensation, every nerve singing a fading note of exhaustion and deep satisfaction. Another wave felt impossible. It also felt inevitable.
Her answer came from a place beyond thought, from the same embodied truth that had guided her since he’d walked through the door hours ago. “Yes,” she whispered, the sound almost torn from her. “I’m already… I’m so full. But I want it. I want to feel it again. I want to feel you… there… where you put the baby.” Her honesty was a physical offering, fragile and absolute.
A slow, possessive smile touched his lips. “Good girl.”
He moved with a fluid certainty. Still spooning April, Becky was on her right side. Grant’s hands, warm and inescapable, settled on her. One arm hooked under her neck, his hand cradling her head. The other slid down her left side, past her hip. His fingers wrapped around the back of her left knee.He pulled.
He lifted her leg, bending it at the knee, drawing it up and back toward her own chest. The movement opened her, a deep, vulnerable unfolding of her body while she remained curled around April. The cool air of the room touched new, intimate skin. April, pressed between them, felt the shift, the new tension in Becky’s body, and held her tighter, an anchor in the coming storm.
Grant positioned himself behind Becky, his body slotting against the curve of her backside. He guided himself to her entrance, already swollen and sensitive from the earlier claiming. He pressed forward.
The angle was different. Deeper. More consuming. As he entered her in one slow, relentless stroke, Becky’s cry was muffled against April’s shoulder blade. It was a gasp of shock and profound completion, the sensation so sharp it bordered on pain before melting into a heat that seemed to reach her bones. He was in her, again, and the feeling of being re-occupied, of being filled precisely where his child now resided, shattered her.
He began to move.
His rhythm was not frantic. It was a deep, measured, piston-drive, each thrust a deliberate reinforcement of his claim. The leverage granted by her raised leg allowed him a depth that made her vision spark. Becky clutched at April, her fingers digging into the hard muscle of April’s arm, her sobs incoherent. April held her, turning her head to press her lips to Becky’s temple, whispering fragmented assurances that were lost in the wet, rhythmic sound of Grant’s possession.
“Mine,” he growled, the word a hot puff of air against Becky’s neck with each drive. “All mine. This. What’s inside you. Her. All of it.” His arm tightened around her, his hand on her raised knee keeping her pinned open, utterly exposed to his use. The raw vulnerability of the position, combined with the searing depth of each stroke, coiled a tension in Becky’s core she didn’t think could exist anymore.
It built, a pressure beyond pleasure, a seismic shifting of her very boundaries. Grant felt it too. His controlled pace fractured. His thrusts became shorter, harder, faster, a brutal, final punctuation. A raw, guttural sound was ripped from his throat, a mirror to the scream that tore from Becky’s lungs as the coil snapped.
They came together in a violent, shared detonation that locked their bodies into a rigid, shuddering arc. It was less a climax than a cataclysm, a final, utter surrender that left no part of them untouched. Becky’s consciousness flickered, a white-hot blankness consumed by sensation.
Grant collapsed.
His full weight slammed down atop both of them, a heavy, warm blanket of spent muscle and bone. Becky, beneath him and still wrapped around April, was crushed in the best possible way—utterly over-stimulated, senseless, pinned between the two people who were now her entire world. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t think. She could only feel the frantic hammering of three hearts—April’s against her chest, Grant’s against her back, her own, a wild, fading flutter trapped between them.
In the thick, breathing silence, April’s arms tightened around Becky. She shifted slightly, adjusting to the weight, making space within the crush. Her hand stroked Becky’s hair, her touch the only thing gentle in a universe of overwhelming sensation. Becky nuzzled into the touch, a weak, desperate noise escaping her. They held each other in the ruins of their shared undoing, Grant’s body a definitive, inescapable seal on top of them all.