set the pace | s . crosby
warnings: explicit sexual content, 18+, NSFW, minors please do not interact, mentions of bodily fluids, pregnancy sex, strong language
summary: you and sidney have been apart for two months, when you finally get the okay from your doctor to fly, sid jumps at the opportunity
request: yes
word count: 7.9k
a/n: this one was requested with “it had to be you” that I released yesterday so it felt right to have them both released close together
—
The moment your doctor said “you’re cleared to fly one last time”, you didn’t even make it out of the parking lot before you were calling Sid, the phone shaking in your hand. And the second he heard the word—I can come see you—your normally composed, disciplined, game-day-robot of a boyfriend sounded like someone had just handed him oxygen.
He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t ask for details. Didn’t caution you to wait. He only said, “Then I’ll get you here. I’ll get you here right away, baby.”
And he did. Within an hour, you had confirmation numbers, a driver at your door, and a private flight waiting at a hangar near you. He didn’t want you squeezed between strangers, didn’t want turbulence rattling you, didn’t want anything less than comfort for you or the little life you were carrying. You knew he’d been missing you—the late-night calls where he lingered, the way his voice softened at the sound of yours, the way he stared too long at the camera during FaceTime like he was trying to memorize you through a screen—but this made it real.
He wasn’t just missing you. He was starving for you. And God, you felt the same.
Long distance was hard enough when it was just feelings. But now there was a baby on the way, a body that didn’t quite feel like your own, hormones that made everything worse—the loneliness, the longing, the craving for his steady hands. Halifax was home, your work was here, and Sid had never once pushed you to abandon that. He respected you too much. Loved you too deeply. But that didn’t make the hours apart easier.
Sometimes, at night, you’d roll to the side of the bed where he used to sleep, still expecting his warmth. Sometimes the silence of your apartment felt too big, too empty without his voice filling it. And sometimes—more often lately—you cried for no reason at all, overwhelmed by how much you wished he were beside you.
He always tried to soothe you through the phone, whispering that he missed you too, telling you to rest, telling you he’d be home soon. But calls weren’t the same. Not when you knew how he smelled, how he kissed, how he touched you. Not when you knew what it felt like to fall asleep against his chest with his hand protectively curved over your belly.
So when the jet door opened and you stepped onto the stairs you felt something in your throat tighten. It wasn’t even the comfort of the plane—the huge seat, the plush blankets, the lighting that made everything feel gentle. It wasn’t the way the attendants kept fussing over you, offering pillows and fruit and things to help nausea even though you insisted you were fine.
It was the knowledge that all of this was because Sid couldn’t stand the idea of you being uncomfortable for even a second. Because he needed you close. Because he couldn’t wait anymore.
The flight was smooth. You spent most of it staring out the window, hand curled instinctively over your bump, imagining him pacing his house, trying to stay on his routine but failing, glancing at the clock every few minutes. He hated distractions on game day—but he was letting you be one on purpose.
He wanted to be distracted by you.
By the time the wheels touched down in Pittsburgh, your heart was tugging in your chest so hard you could barely breathe. You knew he probably wouldn’t be at the airport—he never broke his game day routine to that extent—but he promised someone would take you to the house, get you settled, make sure you ate—
Except when the jet rolled into the private hangar, you saw him.
He wasn’t supposed to be here. He never did this. But there he was.
Not in his sweats.
Not in his usual pre-game hoodie.
No—in his game day suit. Dark, tailored, perfect on him, the jacket pulling deliciously over his shoulders as he stood there waiting for you at the bottom of the stairs like he was greeting royalty. Or his whole world. Which, you guessed, wasn’t that far off.
“Oh my God,” you breathed, even though no one could hear you. You blinked once. Twice. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t—
The second your foot touched the first step down, his eyes softened in that way he never let reporters see. His hands came up, ready to guide you.
And you lost the battle. Two hot tears slipped free.
He caught them before you could, brushing them away with his thumbs as he pulled you gently into his chest. Not too tight—he was always careful of the baby—but firm enough that you felt his heartbeat.
“Hey, hey… sweetheart, it’s okay,” he murmured, kissing your temple. “I’ve got you. You’re here now.”
You breathed in his scent of clean soap, cologne, something familiar and your knees nearly buckled.
“I’m fine,” you whispered into his chest. “Just stupid hormones.”
“Yeah?” He chuckled softly, tilting your chin up so he could see your face. “You sure it’s not because you missed the hell out of me?”
You sniffed, swatted weakly at his chest. “Don’t be cocky.”
He grinned, leaning in to kiss you. “You look beautiful,” he murmured against your lips. “So damn beautiful.”
You clung to his jacket. “I missed you.”
“I missed you too. More than I’ve missed anything in my life.”
He held your hand all the way to the car—his car, not anyone else’s. He opened the door for you, smoothing a hand over your back as you eased in.
Once he settled into the driver’s seat, he turned toward you, worry flickering behind his eyes.
“Listen.. are you sure you don’t want to go home and rest? You’re probably exhausted. I can meet you right after the game.” His brow creased, thumb tracing the back of your hand. “I don’t want you pushing yourself.”
You shook your head immediately. “I want to see you play. Before the baby comes and everything gets crazy.” You swallowed, voice softening. “I want to remember this.”
“Yeah?” he said, voice low. “You really want to be there?”
“I always want to be there.”
He exhaled a soft curse. “Okay.” But his thumb still stroked your knuckles like he needed reassurance. “Then promise me something.”
You raised a brow. “What?”
“Promise me you’ll text me—or someone—if you feel tired, or dizzy, or uncomfortable, or if you want to go home early. I don’t care if it’s in the middle of a period. I’ll get someone to take you back to the house or I’ll leave the ice myself.”
“Sid—”
“Promise,” he repeated gently but firmly.
You nodded. “I promise.”
He squeezed your hand once more before driving. His schedule was shot to hell—he should’ve been at the arena an hour ago—but he didn’t rush. He didn’t speed. He just kept glancing at you like he still couldn’t believe you were real again.
“Y’know,” he said quietly as he turned into the arena parking lot, “I don’t care about being late. Having you here? That’s worth it. All of it.”
At the players’ lot, he parked in his usual spot, hopped out, and jogged around to your side before you could even unbuckle.
“Let me,” he said, opening your door and holding out his hands.
You took them, letting him guide you out, his arm sliding around your back.
“This is already the best game day I’ve had in months,” he murmurs.
Inside, staff greeted him, eyes widening slightly—the captain showing up late and escorting his pregnant partner through the halls? Unheard of. He takes his time with you anyway—hand at your back, other holding your pass, making sure every person who passes knows exactly who you’re with. You get your pass clipped to your jacket, and he helps you into the elevator up to the box.
You turn to him before the doors close. “I’ll be fine. Go do your thing.”
He leans in, kisses you again. “I’ll come find you the second the game’s over.”
“I know.”
“Love you,” he says softly, almost under his breath.
“Love you too.”
Upstairs, you step into his box—your seat is waiting, the same one you’ve sat in for years. You settle in, adjusting your coat and your bag, exhaling slowly as your heart steadies.
Downstairs, Sid is probably speed-walking through hallways, trying to cram his entire routine into whatever scraps of time he has left. And you know—you know—his mind is on you more than the game. On how fast he can get back to you. On how he finally feels whole again.
Sid played like he had something to prove—because he did.
He wanted you to remember this.
Remember him skating hard, remember him fighting for every pass and every shift, remember the way he looked when he glanced up toward the box and saw you there with your hand on your belly.
He wanted this to be part of the story you’d tell your kid one day. “You were there. Right there in my belly, watching your dad go after it.”
But the entire time he skated, a small nagging worry chewed at him. That you were tired. That you shouldn’t have been sitting for hours. He should’ve taken you home. He’s a fucking idiot.
He could practically hear your laugh calling him dramatic—but still. He kept thinking about you shifting in your seat, the little frown you got when your back hurt, the way you had to breathe slower these days. Part of him worried you only came because he wanted it so badly.
But then he scored.
A beauty of a goal. Clean, fast, right under the goalie’s glove. And the first thing he did after pumping a fist wasn’t turn to his teammates or the crowd. He looked for you. And he saw you.
The sight sent heat right down his spine, right to where he absolutely shouldn’t be thinking during a game. He had to look away before he embarrassed himself in front of the entire arena, but the damage was done.
Meanwhile you were in the box thinking the most unhinged thing possible: He really could knock you up again after this. Yeah. As soon as this one’s out. That’s why you got pregnant in the first place—because he knows exactly what he’s doing. Jesus Christ, Sidney Crosby is going to be the death of you.
The thought made you laugh under your breath—which, unfortunately, turned into a sniffle. Hormones were evil like that.
By the time the final horn blew, your body felt about ten pounds heavier than when you’d arrived. Pregnancy wasn’t gracious. It made your feet swell, your back throb, your brain foggy—and now, apparently, it made you sleepy enough to fall over if someone breathed too hard in your direction.
You made your way to the family lounge. Some staff smiled warmly at you as you passed.
“Good to see you back,” one of the security guards called.
“Hey, sweetheart,” a physician waved. “Big win tonight.”
“Right?” you murmured, rubbing the side of your belly. “Feels like I’m carrying a small bowling ball, but I’m here.”
She laughed softly. “You look great. Go sit, hun. He’ll be a bit.”
Yeah. A bit. A hockey player’s post-game routine was a nightmare in slow motion. Shower. Cooldown. Stretching. Treatment. Media. More treatment. Meetings. You could grow out your hair, knit a sweater, and write a novel before Sid was done.
You lowered yourself carefully into one of the soft couches in the lounge, letting your head fall back as you exhaled a long, slow breath.
A couple families were scattered around—partners, parents, kids playing on the carpet—but everyone kept to themselves. No gawking. No fuss. Most of them knew you. Knew him. Knew you traveling this late in pregnancy was a big deal. A small, respectful smile was the extent of the attention.
You appreciated that more than you could say.
You pulled out your phone, trying to text Sid, but your fingers felt clumsy and heavy.
You: I’m in the lounge. I’m okay. Just tired.
You stared at the message before sending it, rubbing your eyelids carefully.
Your belly felt rounder than usual, tighter under your hand. You shifted, curling slightly to one side, letting your head tilt against the back of the couch.
And then—
God, your body just… shut down.
Your eyes fell closed slowly. You weren’t sleeping, not fully, but drifting. The lounge moved around you in laughter, soft conversations, the distant sound of equipment carts rolling down the hall.
You tried to stay awake. You really did. You wanted to see Sid walk through those doors with wet hair and pink cheeks from the shower, wanted to see his smile when he spotted you waiting for him.
But your body was heavy, warm, and worn out. You folded your arms protectively over your bump and let your breathing slow, the exhaustion pulling at you like a tide.
Somewhere in the corner, a little girl’s voice whispered, “She’s sleeping.”
“No, honey,” her mom murmured, amused, “she’s just very tired. Growing a baby is hard.”
You wanted to laugh at that, but even smiling felt like too much work. You drifted. Half-aware. Half-dreaming. Hands resting over your belly, head leaning to the side.
Sid’s voice pulled you back from the edge of sleep like a warm hand dragging you gently to the surface after who knows how long. “There she is,” he murmured, soft and pleased.
You blinked yourself awake, and the moment your eyes focused, you saw him—damp hair, dress shirt slightly wrinkled from peeling it off in a hurry, tie barely hanging on, cheeks flushed from the game. God, he looked good. Too good. Stupidly, unfairly good.
“Hi,” you whispered, smiling as he bent to kiss your forehead.
“C’mon, sweetheart,” he said, slipping an arm under yours to help you stand. “Let’s get you home before you pass out on the couch.”
You murmured a barely coherent goodbye to the staff, but Sid didn’t linger. No conversations tonight. No polite small talk. He had you moving toward the exit like a man with a mission.
The moment you stepped outside, you tugged weakly on his sleeve. “You scored,” you said, still a little dazed. “I’m impressed.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, well… I wanted you to have something good to watch.”
“That was more than good,” you murmured. “If I wasn’t already pregnant, I’d absolutely be letting you put a baby in me because of that goal.”
He froze. His mouth opened. Closed.
Then: “E—excuse me?”
You snorted, leaning against the SUV as he unlocked it. “You heard me.”
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, half flustered, half horrified, cheeks coloring. “You can’t just say shit like that outside the arena, babe.”
“Why? Afraid people will find out we fuck?” You raised your brows pointedly. “Pretty sure the evidence is right here.” You patted your belly.
Sid put a hand to his heart like you’d stabbed him. “Don’t say it like that. That’s—that’s—”
“Hm?”
He gestured helplessly. “You’re very pregnant, and you’re talking about me knocking you up again because I scored a goal.”
“Well,” you shrugged, “you scored on me too, so.”
His jaw dropped. “Oh my god.”
You started laughing—which made him laugh—though he still tried to maintain some fake air of scandalized dignity.
He failed.
“You know,” he said, helping you into the passenger seat, “you’re the one who climbed on top of me that night. Don’t blame me for this.” He waved a vague hand at your bump.
“Don’t rewrite history, Sidney.”
“I’m just saying—”
“Nope,” you cut in, buckling yourself in. “We’re not doing the ‘you seduced me’ routine. You practically begged.”
“I did not beg,” he argued, starting the car.
“You did. In that voice you think isn’t obvious.”
He shot you a horrified look. “Babe—”
“And then you said—”
“Nope!” He smacked the radio on so fast the speakers crackled. “Game recap time. We’re listening to that.”
You dissolved into giggles all over again because you’d gotten him—fully gotten him—and he knew it.
But the worst (best?) part?
All that teasing had you thinking about his dick.
And that… was a problem.
Because once you started thinking about it—thinking about the way it felt inside you, the way he held you when he was deep, the way he sounded when he lost control—your body reacted instantly. Heat curled low in your belly. Weeks without him. Hormones wrecking you. And now he was right next to you in a suit, smelling unfairly good, looking unfairly good, veins in his forearms unfairly good—
You shifted in the seat.
“You okay, sweetheart? You went quiet.”
God, hormones are evil.
“I’m horny.”
He exhaled so hard it almost whistled. His grip on the wheel tightened, knuckles going white.
“Baby, please don’t say that while I’m driving.”
“I’m just telling the truth.”
He dragged a hand over his face. “Okay. Alright. We’re almost home. Just—fuck—give me a second to keep my head on straight.”
By the time the car rolled into the driveway, exhaustion and horniness were fighting inside your body like two cats in a bag. Sid hopped out and jogged around to open your door again, always gentle, always steady.
Inside, he hung up his coat, loosened the rest of his suit jacket, then turned to you.
“You hungry, babe? I can make you something. Pasta? Eggs? Sandwich?”
“No.” You shook your head quickly, a little breathlessly. “I don’t want anything.”
He blinked. “You sure? You barely ate and—”
But you were already turning away, climbing the stairs because if you stood here next to his stupid suit and his stupid jawline one more second, you were going to do something embarrassing like drag him down onto the couch and beg.
“Baby?” he called faintly. “You—you okay?”
“Perfect,” you call back.
You reached the bedroom, closing the door softly behind you.
Your clothes were uncomfortable—tight where you didn’t want tight, itchy where you didn’t want itchy—so you peeled everything off with a sigh, tossing each piece to the floor until your skin felt free again. You pulled one of Sid’s shirts from his drawer—soft, worn, smelling like him—and let it fall over your body.
Warm. Comforting.
Too big.
Perfect.
And then, without thinking twice, you went straight to his side of the bed. You didn’t even bother with your own. You climbed in, curled onto his pillow, breathing in the scent he’d left behind. Your hand settled over your belly again, but it wasn’t the baby you were thinking about.
It was him.
The bedroom door opened not five minutes later with a soft click, and then he was there, moving like he didn’t want to wake you even though your eyes were open and watching him.
Sid stopped when he saw you lying on his side of the bed, curled into his pillow, wearing his t-shirt that’s stretched over your belly in a way that shouldn’t be as hot as it is.
A smirk tugged at his mouth. “Well, well,” he murmurs. “Couldn’t even wait for me to get in here before stealing my spot?”
You don’t answer—mostly because he’s already reaching for his tie, sliding it off with one slow pull. That alone should not make your breath catch… but two months without his dick is starting to feel personal.
He drapes the tie over a chair, then shrugs out of his suit jacket with an easy roll of his shoulders. Broad shoulders. Shoulders you have very clear memories of digging your nails into.
He hangs the jacket neatly. He’s always neat. It kills you.
“You comfy over there, sweetheart?” he teases gently, unbuttoning his dress shirt now—one button, then the next, slow, each one revealing warm skin and a chest you would absolutely lick if you weren’t pretending to be half-asleep.
You swallow hard. “I’m comfortable,” you manage.
“Mhm.” He smirks without looking at you, sliding his shirt off. “You look real cozy. Real settled. Like you live on that side now.”
He definitely knows you’re staring. He definitely likes it. He toes off his dress shoes, undoing his belt with a soft metallic clink that shoots heat straight through you. Then he drops his pants, folding them over the same chair.
And now he’s just standing there in black briefs. Thick thighs. Defined abs. That soft happy trail that disappears downward. And a very noticeable outline pressing against the fabric.
You lick your lips before your brain catches up.
You haven’t had him in two months. You’re nearly eight months pregnant—not celibate. The man makes you cry from missing him and then acts surprised you want him?
“Sid,” you breathe, “Come here.”
He freezes mid-reach for a towel. Turning slowly. “Baby… I’m literally about to shower. I’m sweaty as hell.”
“I don’t care.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You should. I smell like a locker room.”
“I said come here,” you repeat, softer but deeper, your tone landing somewhere that makes his nostrils flare just a little.
He shifts his weight, fighting the instinct to listen to you without argument. “Sweetheart,” he says quietly, “I really should shower. Just give me five minutes.”
You shake your head against the pillow. “Just lay with me until I fall asleep.”
His whole expression softens—eyes, mouth, posture.
“Oh. Yeah. Okay. I can do that.”
He drops the towel, comes around the bed, and slides in beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. He fits himself against you carefully, one arm slipping under your head, the other resting over your belly.
Your back presses to his chest, your legs tangle with his. He inhales against your hair.
“God, I missed this,” he murmurs, voice low and honest. “Missed you.”
You let yourself melt back into him, sighing as the warmth of his body sinks into your bones. “I missed you too.”
He presses a kiss to your shoulder. Then another. “You good, sweetheart? Comfortable?”
“Mhm.”
“Good. Try to sleep, okay?” he whispers. “I’ll stay right here.”
Yeah. Sure. Sleep. He truly, genuinely believes that’s why you pulled him into bed.
He curls around you protectively, his hand tracing slow circles on your belly—the kind that always calms you. His breath evens out a little, and you can tell he thinks you’re starting to drift.
But you’re wide awake. More awake now than you’ve been all day. Because his body is right against yours. And his dick—his thick, warm dick you’ve missed like air—is resting against your ass through his briefs.
Your hand moves before you fully think about it. You drag your palm down his thigh slowly… Then gently cup him through the fabric.
He jolts behind you, breath catching hard.
“Baby—” His voice cracks, sharp and startled. “What are you—?”
You squeeze him just a little, feeling him thicken instantly in your hand, hot and eager against your palm.
He groans—low, deep, helpless.
“Jesus Christ,” he hisses, hips flexing involuntarily. “I thought you were trying to sleep.”
“I’m not sleepy,” you whisper, pushing back into him, your ass brushing the length of him. “Not even a little.”
He buries his face in your neck for a moment, breathing hard, like he’s trying to get a grip.
But you feel him. You feel how fast he’s getting hard. How much he wants you. How much he’s missed you too.
“Sweetheart…” he manages, voice strained and already thick with arousal, “that’s not—fuck— that’s not just laying down.”
His mouth claims yours before you even finish that second stroke. The kiss is messy, deep, his breath shaky as your hand keeps working him through those thin briefs. You feel how hard he is already, how badly his body reacted the second you touched him.
“Jesus, sweetheart…” he groans against your lips, hips pushing helplessly into your hand. “Two months and you do this?”
You swallow his words with another kiss. He kisses you like he’d been deprived, like he is trying to relearn the shape of your mouth. His tongue traces yours, hesitant and desperate all at once, like he can’t decide whether to savor you or devour you.
Your palm slides up the length of him again, and he makes a sound you rarely hear from Sid—a raw, low whine he immediately tries to swallow back.
“Sensitive?” you breathe into his mouth.
He laughs breathlessly, forehead falling to yours. “No fucking clue,” he whispers sarcastically, voice shaking. “Couldn’t tell at all.”
His hand slides to cup your belly with a tenderness that contrasts beautifully with the way he is rutting into your palm.
His voice softens, even as he pants. “You okay, baby? Not too much?”
“I’m fine. More than fine.”
He let out another shaky breath, eyes fluttering shut. “God, you feel good. You always feel good.”
You grin, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw. “Sidney… what do you want?”
“I want you,” he murmurs against your cheek. “I want whatever you want.”
Your smirk fades into a look he knows—the one you only give him when you need him.
“You know exactly what I want.”
He exhales sharply, chest rising against your back. Then, because he was still him—always thinking, always considering—he tries for responsibility.
“Let me shower first,” he says, kissing your shoulder. “Just two minutes, babe. I smell like a locker room. Let me at least smell better for you.”
“No.”
He blinks. “No?”
You shake your head, squeezing him through his briefs again, loving the way his whole body shudders.
“I like how you smell,” you admit. “I don’t know why. It’s just… you. Pure you. It's driving me insane.”
His eyes go wide. “You— fuck.” He swallows hard. “You’re serious?”
Instead of answering, you reach down, take his hand that has been resting so protectively on your belly, and slide it downward… until his fingers brush the inside of your thigh.
Sid freezes completely.
You guide him gently. You spread your legs for him, your breath hitching as you bring his hand between them, right where you’re already warm, already wetter than you have been in weeks.
His fingers hover, shaking slightly, as if he needs permission even though you’ve already given it.
“Here,” you say, placing his hand exactly where you need him. “I want you right here.”
“Baby…” he groans, almost pained. “You’re—you’re so fucking wet and I haven’t even touched you.”
“You haven’t touched me in two months,” you counter, rolling your hips against his hand just enough to make him gasp. “What did you think was going to happen?”
He makes a broken sound—part curse, part prayer—as he finally lets his fingers move, slow and gentle at first, like he was reacquainting himself with territory he’d missed like hell.
You stroke him in rhythm, your hand and his hand moving together, bodies pressed tight, breaths tangling.
His lips drag up your neck.
Your hips roll into his palm.
His cock throbs under your fingers.
Your thighs tremble under his touch.
You kiss him again—because it helps when you both get overwhelmed, because you haven’t kissed like this in weeks, because your whole body lights up when his tongue slides slowly against yours. His fingers dip lower, nudging the soaked fabric of your underwear aside. You gasp when he finally feels you bare.
“Oh fuck… Baby, you’re dripping.”
“Then touch me,” you urge, grinding into his hand. “Please.”
He doesn’t make you ask again.
Two fingers press to your entrance—not inside yet, just stroking, gathering the slick from you. You stroke him again, rubbing your thumb over the head of his cock until he moans into your neck.
“Sweetheart—I’m—fuck, I missed this. I missed touching you.”
“Then touch me. More.”
He kisses you again while his fingers circle you, dipping just inside, teasing you with barely-there pressure.
“Okay, okay, baby. Tell me what you need.”
“Two.”
He slides them in—slow, careful, but deep. The stretch makes you whine, your forehead pressing into his jaw.
Sid kisses your cheek, your jaw, murmuring, “There you go… I’ve got you. Breathe, sweetheart.”
His fingers curl just right, stroking inside you, working you open with slow pumps that make your thighs shake. You keep stroking him too, your hand sliding over him in the same rhythm his fingers move inside you. Both of you are breathing heavily. Both of you moaning into each other’s mouths every few seconds because the closeness is too much, too good, too overdue.
“Fuck, Sid. That feels so good…”
He groans, lips dragging along your ear. “You’re gripping me so tight, baby. It’s been too long. Way too fucking long.”
His fingers pump deeper. Your hips roll harder. Both of you lost in it.
“Sid…”
“Yeah, sweetheart?”
“More.”
His breath stutters. “More?”
“Three.”
He stops for half a second, as if he isn’t sure he heard you right. “Three? Baby, that’s—you sure?”
You nod against his cheek, grinding down onto his fingers again. “Mhm. I want it. I can take it.”
He exhales a shaky curse, pulling his two fingers out, and sliding three back in—careful, but deep enough you gasp loudly, clutching at his arm.
“God—baby—” Sid says, kissing your temple as your walls flutter around the intrusion. “That’s a lot. Breathe. Breathe for me.”
You do. And oh fuck, the pressure—the fullness—your whole body tightening around him as he slowly, carefully works them in and out of you.
“Sid…” you whimper.
“I know… I know, sweetheart. You’re taking me so good…”
You squeeze him again, harder this time, and he instantly bucks into your hand, groaning, forehead dropping to your shoulder.
“Jesus— fuck— don’t do that if you want me to last, babe…”
You smile weakly, overwhelmed. “Then fuck me.”
“Baby… I want to. I want to so fucking bad.”
“Then do it.”
But then you gasp, the stretch with three fingers was getting to be a lot, intense, too intense.
“Two. Go back to two.”
Sid reacts instantly—easing out, replacing them with two, sliding back in with a relieved groan when your body relaxes around him again.
“There you go. There’s my girl… fuck, that’s better, huh?”
Sid’s fingers are perfect—careful where you are swollen, firmer where you need pressure—but it isn’t enough. Not tonight. Not after watching him play, not after two months without feeling him inside you, not after the way he stripped in front of you like a tease.
You grab his wrist.
“Wait—” .
“You okay?” His thumb strokes once over your thigh, grounding. “Did I hurt you?”
You shake your head quickly, breathing unsteady. “No. No, you didn’t. I just… Sid, I need more.”
“Yeah? Okay. Let’s get you on your side then—”
But you shake your head again, firmer this time.
“No.”
He blinks. “No?”
You push gently against his chest. “Get on your back.”
Sid stares at you. “…what?”
You lean back against him, bracing one hand tangling in his hair, your breath brushing his lips. “I said get on your back.”
“Baby,” he starts, like you were already overexerting yourself. “You’re exhausted. You shouldn’t be—”
But you already push his shoulder, rolling him flat onto the mattress with surprising determination for someone nearly eight months pregnant. He lets out an “oof,” more shocked than hurt, staring up at you like you’ve just broken the laws of pregnancy sex.
“Oh my god,” he mutters, “you’re serious.”
You swing one leg over him, straddling his hips before he can collect himself. Your hands come down on his chest.
“Babe…” His voice a little panicked. “You—you don’t have to—”
“I want to,” you cut in, leaning down to kiss him. “Let me.”
He nods immediately, the fight draining out of him like someone pulled a plug. His hands slid to your hips, strong fingers massaging the tension there, thumbs brushing the edge of your belly.
“Fuck. Okay. Okay… whatever you want.”
You sit up, tugging his briefs down just enough, your fingers curl around him. He sucks in a sharp breath, hips arching into your hand.
“Baby—fuck, be careful,” he pleads, voice cracking. “I’m already—Jesus, I’m right there.”
You only stroke him one more time. And still his eyes flutter shut, jaw clenching as he tries—and fails—to control himself.
Then you push your underwear aside, line yourself up, and sink down onto him in one go.
Sid’s entire body jolts.
“Holy—fucking—shit—”
His hands fly to your hips, fingers digging in as his head tips back into the pillow.
“Baby—sweetheart—oh my god—”
He doesn’t last a second.
Not even close.
The heat, the tightness, the way you eased down on him, so intimately after two months of nothing—it hit him like a freight train. His stomach tightens, his thighs tense under you, and his breath stutters out in a desperate, helpless gasp.
“Fuck—fuck, I’m gonna—baby—sweetheart I’m—”
And then he was coming.
Hard.
Spilling into you with a groan so deep and broken it vibrated through your whole body. His hands clutched your hips like he was trying to anchor himself to the bed. His eyes screw shut, his mouth falling open in disbelief.
You watch him fall apart beneath you—the captain, the calm one, the controlled one—undone in seconds just from being inside you again.
And you smile. A little smug.
You leaned down and kissed him gently as the last shudder ran through him.
When he finally opened his eyes, dazed and flushed, he whispered:
“…holy shit.”
You smiled softly, hands resting on his chest. “Flattering, honestly. Didn’t know I still had that effect.”
“Sweetheart,” he panted, brushing a thumb over your hip, “you have no idea what you do to me.”
You didn’t move at first.
You just sat there, full of him, with his come leaking around the seal of your swollen pussy.
Sid tried to catch his breath, eyes half-lidded as he looked up at you like he couldn’t believe what had just happened.
You didn’t say anything.
Instead, you lifted your hips just barely—a slow, tiny roll that made his softened cock drag against your inner walls, slippery and warm.
“Baby—fuck—don’t… I’m so sensitive…”
But his hands were already tightening again on your hips.
You rocked again, a slow, deliberate glide of your cunt against his softening length. Because soft or not, he was still thick, still warm, still inside you, and your body was greedy for every inch of him.
His come made everything slicker—each movement a filthy, wet slide that had both of you exhaling.
“Jesus Christ,” Sid gasped, head tipping back into the pillow. “You feel—fuck, you feel good.”
You leaned forward and kissed him, open-mouthed, tasting his panting breaths as you rolled your hips again, stroking him with your pussy. He kissed you back sloppily, hungrily.
And while he kissed you, his hands slid from your hips to your thighs, kneading them slowly—big, warm palms massaging your soft skin, his thumbs pressing circles that made your muscles relax. He was touching you like he couldn’t decide whether to worship you or pull you down harder onto him.
Your little movements kept working him, rubbing along every sensitive ridge of his cock, the messy mixture of your wetness and his cum creating slick sounds between your bodies.
And then you felt it. The twitch. The slow swell. His soft cock filling out inside you again, thickening against your walls. Your pussy squeezed around him reflexively.
Sid groaned into your mouth, voice breaking.
“Baby—fuck—don’t clench like that—”
You did it again.
His hips jerked.
“Sweetheart…”
His breath stuttered.
“Oh my god… you’re getting me hard again.”
You smiled against his lips and answered by rolling your hips just a little harder, letting him feel the full stroke of your pussy around him.
It didn’t take long. Not after two months apart. Not after everything. His cock hardened inside you—thick and swelling and filling you again, stretching you open until you gasped softly into his mouth.
“Fuck—baby—yeah—ride me—”
Not yet.
Because before he could finish lifting his hips, you braced one hand on his chest, fingers splayed over the rise and fall of his breath. Then you took his other hand and pushed it above his head, interlacing your fingers and pinning it gently to the mattress.
His eyes blew wide.
“Baby…” he breathed.
Not a protest—a surrender.
You lowered your hips once, letting yourself slide down his fully-hard cock until you took all of him again, your walls stretching and fluttering around him.
Sid’s head rolled back, mouth falling open.
“Fuck—oh god—”
You rose up again, his cock dragging slick and thick out of your swollen, wet cunt. Then you sank down again, this time a little deeper, a little firmer.
You didn’t talk.
You didn’t need to.
He needed this.
You needed this.
Your bodies had been starved and now you were making up for all the lost months in every slow, filthy grind.
You started riding him slowly at first, rolling your hips to feel every inch, the thick head of his cock sliding against the deepest part of you. Sid’s free hand clamped on your thigh, fingers digging in as he tried to keep some control and immediately lost it.
“Baby… baby… fuck—ride me—oh my god—”
You rode him deeper, harder, your wetness spilling down his shaft, dripping onto his balls, covering his upper thighs with slick warmth.
Your tits bounced softly with each movement, your belly shifting with your motions, and Sid looked like he was going to come a second time just from the view.
He bucked up into you, breath breaking:
“Oh—fuck—sweetheart—don’t stop—don’t—don’t stop—please—”
His voice cracks because you’re not riding him gently; you’re using him. Your cunt grips him tight, wet and swollen and greedy, stretching around the thick length of him as you bounce off his hips.
He watches all of it.
That glassy, overwhelmed stare—his eyes locked on the place where your body is swallowing his cock over and over, your pussy stretched around him, squeezing him like you’re trying to take him even deeper.
And fuck, you're trying. You want him so deep you feel him in your spine.
You try to keep a steady rhythm—hips lifting, dropping, grinding forward so your clit drags on his pelvis—but you’re so goddamn horny for him it’s impossible to stay composed. Every time you come down, it’s with a little more force.
It feels like your hormones are gasoline and he’s the match. You want to fuck him until your legs shake. You want to fuck him until he can’t walk.
You want to ride his dick off and keep it.
Sid’s hand slides up the swell of your belly. He rubs the curve softly, thumb brushing over the skin.
“Oh my God,” he groans, head falling back. “You’re gonna make me lose it.”
But you don’t slow.
You ride him harder.
Your thighs burn. The bed creaks. Sid is fully pressed into the mattress now, muscles tense, jaw hanging open as he watches you take him. His hands roam your hips, ass, thighs—touching everywhere he can reach, guiding you subtly but letting you set the pace.
You grab the wrist of the hand you’d pinned above his head earlier, bring it down to your chest, and shove it against your tit.
“Touch me.”
Sid’s eyes snap up to yours before dropping to your chest. He listens, squeezing you, rolling your nipple between his fingers until your back arches hard.
The movement forces him deeper.
“Ohh—fucking—Sid—” you gasp, grinding down with a sharp roll of your hips.
Your clit throbs. Your pussy gushes around him. You’re so sensitive it’s making you dizzy. And you still reach down with your free hand, sliding two fingers to your clit and rubbing fast tight circles, chasing the heat building low in your belly.
Your rhythm shifts. Harder. Faster. Meaner.
Slamming down onto him with every ounce of strength your pregnant body has left.
Sid’s voice turns unintelligible—moans, curses, your name mumbled into the dark.
You ride him like you’re trying to fuse your bodies together. Like you’re trying to fuck him into the mattress. Like you want to break him with how good you feel.
And he wants it.
He wants you to take everything.
He wants you to fuck him until he can’t think.
He wants you to ride his dick off and keep going.
And you’re sure you have him pinned. You’re pregnant, heavy, taking him deep enough that your belly presses against him with every drop. No way he’s moving. No way he’s doing anything but lying there and taking it while you fuck yourself stupid on his dick.
Then his hands clamp down on your ass—
And Sidney Crosby thrusts up into you so hard your vision blanks white.
You gasp because you weren’t expecting it. Because he spears up into your pussy in one brutal, perfect stroke that hits the exact spot inside you that makes your knees go weak.
Your mouth falls open, a sharp cry tearing out of you.
Sid just looks up at you with this dark, wrecked hunger, jaw tight, eyes wild.
His thighs flex under you—thick, powerful, fucking obscene—and then he does it again.
A mean upward snap of his hips slamming his cock up into your cunt, stretching you, bottoming out so hard your ass meets his thighs with a wet slap.
“Fuck—Sid—”
You can’t even finish because the next thrust knocks the breath right out of your lungs.
He’s under you, but he’s not passive—he’s taking control back, fucking you from below like your weight doesn’t matter, like your body is nothing against what he’s been holding back for months.
You thought pregnancy would slow him down?
He’s a goddamn athlete.
And he’s been starving for you.
He grips your ass harder, fingers digging in so deep you know you’ll bruise. He pulls you down onto him at the exact moment he fucks up into you, making your pussy squeeze around him like you’re milking him.
You try to keep your rhythm—but your thighs start shaking. Your strokes hesitate. Your hips falter.
Because Sid starts pistoning into you, raw and ruthless, his cock punching into your cunt hard enough the bed frame slams the wall.
You’re loud.
He’s louder.
The room is full of wet, filthy sounds.
He’s fucking up into you like he’s trying to tear you open with his dick.
You slow—just a little—because it’s too much, too intense, too overwhelming—
And Sid doesn’t slow for a damn second. He snaps his hips up faster, harder, rutting into your soaked, swollen pussy with these deep, brutal thrusts that make you hold your breath.
You cling to his chest, fingernails dragging down his skin.
He grabs your hips and forces you to take every inch. Your body rattles with each thrust. Your clit grinds against his pelvis so hard you see stars.
The headboard is slamming now. The mattress is shifting. The bed frame groans like it’s going to split. Sid is under you like a man possessed, jaw clenched, throat tight, eyes glued to where his cock is disappearing into your messy, stretched cunt.
And the look on his face makes your pussy squeeze around him so tight he chokes on his spit.
Your belly bounces with every thrust.
Sid’s palm glides over it, proud of himself, thumb brushing the spot just above your belly button.
“God,” he breathes, voice breaking, “this is mine. This is all from me—fuck—look at you.”
You’re so close.
So unbelievably close.
You don’t want it to end—you want to stay on his cock forever—but you’re falling apart, shaking, desperate. Your hand continues your clit, rubbing fast because you need it, because Sid is fucking you too hard for you to keep up.
You want to ride him forever—
You want him to fuck you until your legs give out—
You want to come so hard your vision shatters—
And Sid is fucking you like he wants the same thing.
Like he wants to fuck you so good you scream.
So good you collapse.
So good you remember it for weeks.
Your climax builds like a scream at the back of your throat—
And you know you’re going to come.
Hard.
Violent.
Explosive.
And Sid knows it too.
And he doesn’t stop.
Not for a second.
He fucks you straight toward it—
And you break.
“Baby—” he murmurs, breathless but focused, eyes locked on your face. “There you go. Let it hit you. Just let it—”
You can’t answer.
You can’t breathe.
You can barely think.
Your voice breaks—a gasp, a cry, a strangled moan all tangled together. Your pussy clamps down so tight it forces his cock out of you with a slick, wet pop—and then you squirt. A gush that splashes against his pelvis, coating his lower stomach, dripping onto the sheets.
“Holy fuck—sweetheart—” Sid gasps, eyes snapping open wide. “Oh my god—look at you—look at that—”
But you can’t look. Your head flings back, spine arching, belly tight and hard as the pleasure ricochets through you in sharp, uncontrollable waves. More liquid pulses out of you, spilling over his abs, his cock, his thighs.
It’s the most you’ve ever released. Sid has made you squirt before—many times—but nothing like this.
And he holds you through it.
His hands stay locked on your hips, not letting you jerk away or collapse sideways. Only when your legs buckle completely and you fall forward does he catch you—strong arms wrapping around your back, pulling you down into his chest.
You collapse against him, panting, half-conscious with pleasure. Your big belly presses awkwardly against his torso, throwing off the usual alignment, but Sid adjusts instantly—one arm under your ribs, the other sliding down to cup you.
He places his palm against your drenched pussy, warm and wide, holding you steady as the last spurts drip out of you. His thumb strokes the crease where your leg bends.
“Baby… Jesus Christ…” he whispers into your hair. “You okay? Good—good girl. Fucking good job baby.”
You whimper. You can barely lift your head.
He shifts you just slightly, lifts your hips and guides the head of his cock back to your entrance.
And you’re so open, so sensitive, so slick with your release that he slides in with one slow, heavy thrust, burying himself fully.
You moan into his chest, overstimulated and limp.
Sid groans because even after cumming once, the feeling of your pussy clenching around him post-orgasm is too much, too good, too fucking perfect.
He plants his feet again. His hands grip your hips. And then he fucks up into you. You can feel him swelling again. Feel his breathing against your shoulder. Feel his cock throbbing inside you as he chases his own release.
You’re still overstimulated, still floating, still trembling—but god, it feels good. It feels so good.
Sid’s breath shudders. And then he comes.
Inside you. Thick, hot pulses of release that pour deep into your still-sensitive pussy. His cock throbs with each pass, pressing snug against your walls as he empties himself into you, burying his face in your neck with a broken groan.
His arms wrap around you tighter, pulling you down fully onto him as he rides out the final tremors of his orgasm
You stay there, pinned to his chest, his softening cock still inside you, both of you panting, trembling, drenched in sweat and slick.
You’ve never felt so fucked. You’ve never felt so full. You’ve never felt so wanted.
Sid breathes into your hair. “Sweetheart…we’re never waiting two months again.”
—
