Chapter 16: The Belly Bounce
She moved on top of him with a raw, possessive rhythm. The scent of their previous fucking still clung to the sheets, a base note to the urgent new sweat beading between her breasts. Dominic lay beneath her, propped on his elbows, watching every nuance of her face. Her long, dark hair was plastered to her temples in damp strands. Her thighs, strong and already spread, trembled with the effort. She was flushed, gloriously naked, the roundness of her stomach a taut curve he couldn’t stop staring at, his own hands, rough and darkened with perpetual grease, leaving smudges on the pale skin of her hips.
“Harder,” she breathed, not a request, a demand. She lifted herself until just the swollen head of him stretched her entrance, then impaled herself downward. The sound was wet, deep, a lewd kissing noise lost in the creak of the bedsprings. “Harder, Dom. Don’t… hold… shit… back.”
He grunted, chest tightening as she seated him to the root, filling her. His own control was a frayed wire. “Clyde Mitchell…” Dominic’s voice was low, strained, torn between watching the bliss-pain distort her face and staring at where they were joined. His throat was dry. “He asked about the casserole. If we were handling Mrs. Henderson pity party all right.”
Catalina stilled for a fraction, sinking down to grind against his pelvis. Her nails dug into his chest, hard enough to leave moons. “And you said?”
“I said it was fine. He got a… look.”
“What kind of look?”
She arched her back now, head thrown back, a column of vulnerable throat he had bitten minutes before. “Like maybe a woman six months pregnant, with no man’s name on the forms, might be a messy kind of broken. The alone kind.” His grip on her hips tightened.
She laughed, a harsh, choked sound, her body rocking against him, her swollen breasts swaying with each forceful descent. “He doesn’t know the half.”
She started to move again, faster. Her ride became punitive, a furious fuck. “He doesn’t know it’s my twin’s seed plugging me up right now, does he?” Her words were a venomous caress. “He doesn’t see how wrecked I am for your cock. My own fucking brother. Deep, is this deep enough for you?” She slammed down, punctuating each word with a brutal impact. "That's it Dom.Reach it. Claim it… yours… already.”
It was a performance. For him, for her, an exorcism of stares and pity. He sat up in a sudden, fluid motion, catching her off balance, his arms banding around her, pinning her back against his chest. The new angle drove him impossibly deeper. Her shocked gasp filled his ear. “This what you want? Just a cock? No name?” he growled into her damp hair, grinding up into the hot, liquid clench of her, tilting her hips to take him at a new, devastating depth.
“It’s all… fuck… all I can have,” she sobbed, the fight morphing into a desperate unraveling, her hands scrabbling to grip the thick muscles of his thighs. “It’s all we are.”
This was a different kind of roughness. He wasn't just fucking. He was trying to burrow inside her, past her body, past the space, past decency. His pelvis smacked against the backs of her thighs with a rapid, bruising drumbeat. His teeth closed on her shoulder.
This sensation was consuming them both. It wasn't lovemaking. It was a kind of shared internal destruction, laced with an incomprehensible, unshakable worship.
Dominic flipped them, driven by a reflex for harder control. The shove sent her sprawling on her back. He didn't give her a moment. He hauled her to the edge of the bed, her legs over his shoulders, lifting the exposed curve of her ass and belly toward the pale dawn light. The pillow fell to the floor.He saw everything. The way her body was branded by him and by the pregnancy. His thumb, massive and blunt, rasped roughly over her clit. “This ugly pussy?” He pushed a single, testing finger into her swollen entrance alongside his still-planted cock, a filthy double invasion that made her cry out, a raw scream torn from her core. It stretched her obscenely. The feeling was shocking, violent.Immaculate. “This greedy, brother-fucking cunt that takes two? Isn’t deep enough? Isn’t marked enough?”
“Don't ever…” she panted, her eyes, the identical color of his own, wild and flooded, "…speak about leaving. Not again.Ever. Please Dom."
The 'please' slayed him. He withdrew the finger and, using both hands, hooked her knees, spreading her so wide the tendons in her inner thighs stood out. He leaned in, a dark-skinned panther poised, and lowered his mouth to the damp, soft fuzz of her sex. His tongue, broad and slow, licked a deep, leisurely path through her slickness, parted her folds, tasted her skin, him, and the child they had made. It was a perverse worship, a baptism.
Then he plunged his tongue inside her, as deep as it would go, up into that molten-hot space. Her legs clamped around his head, suffocatingly tight.
She came against his mouth, bucking, the orgasm a drawn-out gagging sigh that gave way to incoherent pleas. He drank it all from her. Held her until she went limp.
He stood. His erection, slick with her taste and cream, bobbed, iron-hard and fierce. He took her hips, pulled her to him at the edge of the mattress. He paused. For the first time, he let his palm rest flat on the domed, hard swell of her stomach.
“Can you feel me?” His whisper was devoid of rage, just stark, exposed wonder. “The sound of us? Or do you feel the lie?” he amended, a bitter cut of darkness back in his voice.
There was a roll, a distinct shift. An undeniable movement just under his palm. A tiny, strong shift that belonged to life inside her.
Not a lie.
He looked into her eyes. Tears tracked from the corners of hers into her hair.
He entered her again. The slide was effortless; she was so open, so wrecked, gloved him in a spent, tremulous heat. He didn't pound, this time. He dug his knees into the mattress, and began a steady, rolling cadence, deep and possessed. An eyelash ago, it had been about cruelty, the salt of lies on an open cut. Now it was only a need for propulsion, to free the knot of grief and love forming in his chest.
His strokes were patient strokes of pure undoing. With each slow, complete withdrawal and re-entry, she whimpered. Her hands came up, feather-light, to trace his jaw, his lips. Her knee hooked around his waist, pulling him closer with a fragile strength.
His head dropped to the sweaty hollow of her neck."He?" he murmured, the word catching. "Or she?"
Her hands fisted in the short nap of his hair. "It doesn't matter."
He cradled the back of her skull in his palm, feeling the syncopated shudder of her second, softer climax beginning to unwind. Her insides tightened, pulsed around him like a gentle mouth milking him into its own frenzied release.
His own impending orgasm coiled low in his balls, a long, tight swell. He pressed his forehead against hers, so close her blurry features became his own. "That's it, Cat. Take me in. Fill that baby up with the truth. Again."
He surged once, twice more, impossibly deep, and buried himself. His release wasn't a hard jetting thunder, but an endless, empty outpouring, pumping deep into the lush, receptive cradle of her womb. He poured and poured. For one endless moment, there was no myth, no lore, no family, no tomorrow. Just biology. Linked genetics. Twin soul burning against twin soul, the life they made held safe between them in the heat.
They lay like that, locked, his softening length still clasped inside her.He withdrew carefully, the physical separation wounding him as it always did. A rope of their mingled essence seeped onto the sheet. Sticky.Real.Proof.
He collapsed beside her, pulling her into him with one arm. He lay staring at the slow-spinning blades of the ceiling fan. Outside, a lawnmower started in a neighbor's yard, a mundane reality on the far side of their walls. Another noise, a visceral, guttural lurch from her.
She was up, scrambling across his body to the bathroom just off the bedroom in a frantic, awkward hobble. The naked vulnerability of her figure etched itself into his mind—the swell of her belly preceding her, the dark bruise he’d left on her shoulder, the unsteady gait. The bathroom door didn't quite close, swung on its hinges. The loud, violent retch echoed inside the tiled space. Followed by another. The sour, acidic scent of stomach contents hit him, weaving with the perfume of their filth.
Grace settled on Dominic. His truth was this. Not street racing. Not torque wrenches. Not his familial code.
This sweaty wreckage.
This morning he’d cleaned valves. This job was brutal in a different way but it was all for them now.
He pushed himself off the mattress, feeling raw. He walked to the bathroom. He knelt on the cool tile behind her where she still hunched over the bowl, one hand bracing herself against the wall, strands of hair stuck to her wet cheek.
He flushed the toilet. Then, with a damp hand towel from the rack, he gently wiped her mouth. Her hands trembled. He reached for her toothpaste, dabbed a smear of the peppermint gel on the towel.A token offering. A minuscule piece of grace.
"Brush your teeth. You always feel better." He said this not because there were words, but simply so the silence wouldn't make her think he was gone.
She nodded, head still low. With something like purpose, she got to her knees, reached for her toothbrush, began the slow, careful routine.
He left her that dignity. In the bedroom, he yanked the soiled top sheet from the bed in one motion. The wadded linen went in a corner. He pulled fresh sheets, crisp from the package that Mrs. Henderson had brought over as a housewarming gift. Made it neat. Taut.That was duty. The brand on his forearm, the cipher of his name, seemed a foolish, forgotten spell a child would carve. This was his real ink.
The toilet flushed again, a gentle final sound now from down the hall as her drink cupped water rinsing. He froze midway through work, hearing her water retching stop. She rejoined, the door she had left partly closed moments before thrown in open painfully tight, now closed kind of weatherping prayer bead mixspaced shaped by nail to heart stance renewed. She stood in her drawer plucking tighter gray loose clothing consisting bold thin stretch bomb heavy new woman small without closeness greater softer spectrum life lived occurred.
Dominic let out small rare soft whistling sigh of feeling filled bull-in-china poor will cure softly Cat flash pregnant guard fed kneel said cop bonus strained strength sleepy tool fade used fits dean notes four years mat notes spreading tiled just murmuring "Hey...relatable shape many noises utterly exquisite dissonant high high priestholdome neatnnueh bomb value seven meters flap okay Michael app pouring so sick measuringtime lap turned analate” pre-existing frisky drove?
Nine salvation.
“You didn't eat this morning,” he said, balling the old sheet and shoving it in the hamper.
“Couldn't.” She crawled into the cool, orderly bed he had made, pulling the top sheet up under her chin. Her eyes, heavy-lidded, watched him from this new, clean shore.
He walked to his side of the bed. Grabbing his oil-stained jeans from the floor, he fished something out of the back pocket—a familiar cheap silkwood box.
Silent, he got back into bed beside her. Lying on his side, he slid one arm under her head. With the other hand, he popped the spring-loaded lid of the velvet box with a quiet click.
On a slim bed of pale satin nestled a money clip. It was simple and tough. Yet upon closer glance – inscribed thin tiny Cross late phone leave nickname- though date sting king unsigned Spanish-friendly lapedilation delicate each schedule fervers smoke district us titled altar pastor physics-first drive procurement cellular mention letter parsing sealed outreach favors spark device pump gain::
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