Chapter 29: Prenatal Examination
The footsteps stopped at the edge of the bed. I didn’t turn my head. I kept my eyes on the ceiling, my legs spread as ordered, my body humming with a desperate, static ache.
He didn’t speak. I heard the soft rustle of his clothing, the clink of a belt buckle, the whisper of fabric falling to the floor. The scent of him—whiskey, antiseptic soap, and the raw, musky smell of his own release—enveloped me a moment before his shadow fell across my body.
Julian stood there, naked, surveying his handiwork. His cock, spent and softening, was still smeared with the evidence of his pleasure. His gaze was a physical weight, traveling from my face, down the column of my throat, over the swell of my breasts and my rounded stomach, to settle between my thighs. He stared for a long, quiet moment, his expression that of a surgeon assessing a field.
“Beautiful,” he said, the word clinical. “Flushed and open. Absolutely perfect.”
He circled the bed. I tracked him with my eyes, a slow, predatory orbit. He picked up my phone from the pillows, swiped it open, and examined it. He gave a soft, humourless chuckle. “No desperate texts for help. No attempted calls. Good.”
He tossed the phone onto a far chair. It landed with a thud in the soft upholstery.
“You obeyed,” he said, coming to a stop by my hip. His hand descended, not to my sex, but to my stomach. His palm was warm, almost possessive, as it splayed over the curve. “You lay here, wet and wanting, and you waited. That deserves a reward.”
His other hand trailed down my inner thigh, a feather-light touch that made me jolt. He pressed, guiding my leg wider. “But first, a reminder.”
He leaned down, his face close to mine. His breath was warm against my lips. “The reward is mine to give. The relief is mine to grant. You are a vessel. For my child. For my cock. For my will. You understand that now, don’t you?”
I swallowed, my throat tight. “Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, I understand.”
He smiled then, a flash of white in the dim room. “Good girl.”
His mouth crashed down on mine. It wasn’t a kiss of affection; it was a claim. Demanding, intrusive, his tongue delving deep in a rhythm that mimicked the one I knew was coming. I tasted the whiskey, the salt of his skin, his dominant energy. My hands, which had been lying limp at my sides, twitched upward. I didn’t know if I meant to push him away or pull him closer.
He caught my wrists in one of his large hands and pinned them above my head on the silk. The move was effortlessly strong, a demonstration of sheer physical control. He broke the kiss, breathing heavily.
“No. You don’t touch unless I say.”
He held my wrists with one hand, using the other to continue its exploration. His fingers slid through my wetness, gathering it, spreading it. He rubbed slow, tight circles over my clit, and a broken sound escaped me. My hips lifted off the bed, seeking more pressure.
“So responsive,” he mused, his voice a dark murmur. “So hungry for it. This pregnant pussy gets so wet, so fast. It’s like it was made for me.”
He drove two fingers inside me without warning, a deep, curling thrust that stole my breath. I cried out, my back arching. He finger-fucked me with precise, penetrating strokes, his eyes locked on where his hand disappeared into my body.
“Look at you,” he growled. “Taking my fingers so easily. Still loose from earlier. Still hungry. You can’t get enough, can you? You need to be filled.”
He withdrew his fingers, slick and shining, and brought them to my mouth. “Taste.”
The order was simple. Obscene. I opened my lips, and he pushed his fingers in, coating my tongue with my own musky, salty flavor. I sucked them clean, my eyes burning with humiliated tears, a dark thrill coiling in my gut.
“Good,” he whispered, pulling his fingers free with a pop.
He released my wrists, but the command in his gaze held me in place. “Turn over. On your knees. Ass in the air. I want to see every part of you.”
I moved clumsily, the silk slippery beneath my knees and palms. I presented myself, face pressed into the cool sheets, my rear lifted. I felt utterly exposed, more animal than human.
He made a sound of pure approval. One hand gripped the swell of my hip, the other guided the thick, broad head of his cock through my slick folds, not entering, just teasing. He was hard again, fully, impressively so.
“This cunt is mine,” he stated, pushing the head just inside my entrance, making me gasp. “This ass is mine.” He swatted my rear cheek, the sharp slap echoing in the quiet room—a stinging brand. “This mouth is mine.” He reached down, fisted a hand in my hair, and pulled my head back slightly. “This mind, this career, this life… mine.”
With that, he slammed home.
The air punched from my lungs. He was so big, the stretch so intense, my body clamping around him in shocked, overwhelming friction. He didn’t wait for me to adjust. He set a punishing pace from the first stroke, each deep drive pushing a choked sob from my throat.
“Yes,” he grunted, his hands digging into my hips, holding me impaled. “Take it. Take all of it. Milk my cock with that tight, swollen pussy.”
The filth poured from him, low and guttural, syncopated with the wet, rhythmic slap of his flesh against mine. He described what he was doing in crude, graphic detail, each word a twist of the knife of my degradation and a spike of electric pleasure.
“Feel how deep I am? I’m in your fucking cervix. You’re so fucking wet for me, you’re dripping down my balls.”
He leaned over me, his chest plastered to my sweat-slicked back, one hand snaking around to find my clit. His fingers worked me ruthlessly, matching the brutal rhythm of his thrusts.
“Come for me,” he commanded into my ear, his voice ragged. “Come on my cock. Now.”
The pressure, the overwhelming fullness, the relentless stimulation broke me. A climax tore through me, violent and shattering, my internal muscles clamping around him in frantic, pulsing waves. I screamed into the sheets, my vision whiting out.
He kept fucking me through it, his movements becoming harder, faster, more erratic. The pleasure-pain was exquisite, unbearable.
“That’s it,” he snarled. “Squeeze me. Fuck, yes… you’re perfect. This is perfect. You were made for this. To take me. To carry my child. To be my good little fuck.”
His control shattered. His hips stuttered, his rhythm faltering into a series of deep, grinding, final thrusts. A raw, animal sound ripped from his throat as he came, flooding me with his release, his body bowing over mine, his teeth sinking into the juncture of my neck and shoulder in a final, possessive claim.
We collapsed together onto the soaked silk, a tangled, breathing mess. His weight was crushing, absolute. His heart hammered against my back. The smell of sex and sweat was overwhelming.
For a long time, there was only the sound of our ragged breathing slowing. The city lights still blinked, indifferent.
Slowly, he shifted his weight, rolling to the side but keeping an arm draped heavily over my waist, his hand once again resting on my stomach. He nuzzled into the back of my hair.
His phone, on the nightstand, buzzed once.
He ignored it.
A minute later, it buzzed again—a call this time.
With a sigh, he reached over and grabbed it. “Hayes,” he answered, his voice rough but instantly composed.
I lay motionless, listening to the one-sided conversation.
“Now?… It’s one-fifteen in the morning, Richard… I understand it’s critical, but… Fine. Yes. Tell them I’ll be there in twenty. Prep the OR. I’ll need a full cardio team.”
He ended the call and dropped the phone. For a moment, he just lay there, his breath warm on my shoulder. Then he pressed a kiss—strangely soft—to my skin.
“Duty calls,” he murmured, a hint of his earlier irony returning. “Aortic dissection. Sounds like a mess.”
He disentangled himself and stood up. I didn’t move. I listened to him move around the room, the sounds of him picking up his clothes, dressing with swift, efficient movements.
He came back to the side of the bed, now fully dressed in his elegant suit, every inch the formidable Head of Department. He looked down at me, my body still marked, spent, and glistening with the proof of his possession.
“Sleep,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “The car will take you home at seven. I’ll see you in the hospital.”
He turned and walked toward the door. His hand was on the handle when he paused, glancing back. His sharp eyes found mine in the dimness.
“And think about what we discussed. Your submission isn’t just for this bed. It’s for the operating theater, the boardroom, the street. It’s for everywhere. I’ll expect a decision soon.”
He left, the door clicking shut with finality behind him.
I was alone in the immense silence, the ghost of his touch on my skin, the smell of him on the sheets, the dull, deep ache between my legs a constant, physical reminder.
The vibration started quietly. Not from his phone on the nightstand.
It came from the chair across the room.
My phone.
Someone was calling. In the deep, quiet heart of the night. Someone who wasn’t him.