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You woke to the scent of breakfast.

Bacon first—crisp, smoky edges mingling with the sweet tang of maple syrup and something buttery, like pancakes warming on a griddle. It drifted through the bedroom like an invitation, warm and familiar, cutting through the soft haze of sleep.

Sunlight filtered in thin shafts through heavy curtains, painting gold stripes across the rumpled silk sheets. Your body felt heavy, content, the gentle swell of your belly a constant, reassuring weight under the loose nightgown.

Remmick must have slipped from bed hours ago.

Or, more likely, he had lain there the whole night.

Sea-blue eyes fixed on you in that silent vigil he loved so much—watching the rise and fall of your chest, the flutter of your lashes, committing every breath to memory. He was always like that now, especially since the pregnancy had started showing. Four months in, and his obsession had bloomed into something tender, all-consuming.

You shifted, propping yourself up on one elbow. The movement stirred a faint queasiness in your stomach—morning sickness lingering like an unwelcome guest—but it was milder today, just a low hum rather than the violent waves of yesterday.

The door burst open before you could fully sit.

Remmick barreled through, barefoot and aproned over his usual white shirt and slacks, suspenders loose on his shoulders. His hair was slightly tousled, as if he'd run a hand through it in haste, and those eyes—glowing faint red at the edges—locked on you with immediate, unneeded alarm.

He crossed the room in three strides, dropping to his knees beside the bed with a grace that belied the urgency.

“Darlin’,” he breathed, voice thick with a lingering morning roughness, hands hovering like he ached to touch but waited for permission. “Ya alright? Hurtin’ anywhere? Morning sickness hittin’ worse again?” His gaze darted to your belly, then back to your face, concern etching deep lines around his mouth. “Need help sittin’ up? Lemme—”

You laughed, soft and genuine, the sound easing the tension in his shoulders just a fraction. “I’m fine, Remmick. Really. Just a little nauseous, but nothing like yesterday. I can manage.”

He exhaled, long and shaky, but didn’t rise. Instead, he reached for your hand, pressing kisses to your knuckles—reverent, lingering. “Still. Let me help ya up. Can’t have my girls overdoin’ it.” His free hand settled warm on your belly, palm splaying wide over the curve, fingers trembling faint with awe. He rubbed slow circles there, thumb tracing the nightgown’s thin fabric, eyes softening to something pathetic, adoring.

You smiled, letting him pull you upright. His arms wrapped around you immediately—strong but careful, lifting you like you were glass. He buried his face in your neck, inhaling deep, lips brushing your skin in feather kisses. “God, ya smell like heaven,” he murmured, voice muffled.

One hand slid to the small of your back, the other daring lower, slipping under the hem of your nightgown to caress the swell of your hip.

You swatted his hand lightly, though your tone held no real heat. “Too early for that, you beast! Breakfast first.”

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, expression crestfallen but pleading, like a puppy denied a treat. “Sorry, darlin’. Can’t help it. Seein’ ya get all round and beautiful like this… drives me wild.” His hand lingered at your thigh, fingers tracing lazy patterns, testing. When you didn’t swat again, he pressed a kiss to your jaw, then your throat, breath hot and uneven.

“Remmick,” you warned, half-laughing, but you let him guide you from the bed. He kept one arm banded around your waist, the other hand never straying far from your belly—or dipping lower when he thought you weren’t paying attention.

His touch was everywhere: stroking your arm, cupping your elbow as you walked, lips grazing your shoulder. The manor’s hallway passed in a blur of polished wood and morning light, but he moved slow, prioritizing you.

“Need the bathroom?” he asked, already steering you toward it. “I’ll help. Everythin’ ya need.”

You nodded, pushing open the door to the bathroom—tile gleaming, steam from last night’s shower still faint in the air. “What about breakfast? Won’t it burn?”

He waved a hand, ushering you inside, eyes never leaving your form. “Cookin’ it on low. Got all the time in the world, sugar. Nothin’ more important than this.” He knelt again as you reached for the sink, hands on your hips to steady you, kissing the side of your belly through the gown. “Sit if ya need. Or lemme draw ya a bath.”

“I’m brushing my teeth, not running a marathon.” You squeezed toothpaste onto the brush, but he was already there—rinsing a washcloth under warm water, dabbing gently at your chin, your neck. His gaze tracked every movement: the way your nightgown clung to your curves, the subtle shift of your belly as you leaned over the sink.

When you bent to spit, his hand slipped over your gown—higher this time, fingers grazing the underside of your breast.

“Remmick!” You straightened, swatting firmer, though heat bloomed low in your belly at his whine.

“Please,” he begged soft, kneeling closer, face nuzzling your thigh. “Just a touch. You’re so perfect. Carryin’ our baby… I can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout it.” His eyes pleaded up at you, red glow intensifying, hands kneading your hips with desperate reverence. He kissed the fabric over your belly, then higher, testing boundaries with every press of lips.

You sighed, affectionate, running fingers through his hair. “Patience. Help me with my hair instead.”

He obeyed instantly—rising to stand behind you, hands gentle as he gathered your hair, patiently wetting then detangling it with a comb from the counter. His chest pressed warm to your back, chin resting on your shoulder, breath ghosting your ear. “Like this?” he murmured, strokes slow, massaging your scalp. But his hands wandered—sliding down your sides, cupping your belly, thumbs circling.

When you didn’t protest, one dipped lower again, palm flat against your lower abdomen.

“Boundaries,” you teased, but leaned into him.

He whispered another halfhearted apology, kissing your neck, voice thick with need. “Ya glow. Every inch of ya. Makes me wanna worship ya all day.”

He helped you slip into fresh clothes next—a loose sundress that draped soft over your bump—fingers lingering on every button, every loop, caressing bare skin whenever he could. His touches built slow, insistent: a graze along your inner thigh as he knelt to adjust your slippers, lips brushing your knee; a nuzzle against your belly as he stood, inhaling deep like your scent was his air.

By the time you finished, the air hummed with it—soft love laced with hunger. He scooped you up without asking, carrying you back toward the kitchen despite your protests. “Gotta keep ya safe,” he insisted, eyes shining. “My girls. Both of ya.”

You let him, heart full and skipping sweet under his touch. Breakfast waited, but so did everything else.

He carried you into the kitchen like a treasure, steps measured and careful, as if the floor might give way beneath you both. The space smelled even richer up close—bacon grease popping faint in the pan, pancakes steaming golden on a warmer plate, the sharp brightness of fresh berries cut in a bowl.

Sunlight poured through tall windows overlooking the estate gardens, casting a warm glow over the long oak table set for two. Remmick’s shirt was crooked now, flour dusting his sleeves, but his focus stayed locked on you.

He eased you down into your chair at the head of the table—a high-backed antique with cushions he’d added just for you, extra padding for your back and a footrest pulled close.

“There ya go, love,” he murmured, kneeling again to adjust the cushion behind you, fluffing it just so. His hands lingered on your shoulders, massaging light circles down your arms before settling a napkin in your lap.

“Comfortable? Need a pillow for your feet? Water? Juice?”

You shook your head, smiling at his fussing. “Perfect. Sit before it gets cold.”

He straightened, but not before pressing a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, hovering like he might add more. “Wouldn’t dream of lettin’ ya wait.”

He moved to the counter with that silent, fluid grace, stacking your plate high. Pancakes first, fluffy towers drowning in butter that pooled golden and syrup trickling slow and sticky down the sides. Then bacon, crisp strips fanned out neat. A generous scoop of fresh berries—strawberries ruby-red, blueberries bursting blue—tumbled over the top, juice staining the edges pink.

Before you could even murmur thanks, he was back, sliding the plate in front of you. His knife flashed quick, cutting the pancake stack into precise fourths, fork already in hand as he murmured, “Don’t need to waste yer energy on this, sugar. I got it.”

You watched his movements, fork poised, and felt a flicker of amusement mixed with exasperation. He was seconds from spearing a bite to feed you himself—eyes already soft, pleading in that pathetic way.

But he caught himself, fork clattering soft to the table.

Wisely so.

You would have absolutely smacked his hand away, pregnancy hormones or not.

“Good boy,” you teased under your breath.

He flushed—actual color tinting his pale cheeks—and leaned in for a lingering kiss. Lips soft, syrup-sweet from tasting, tongue brushing yours just once before he pulled back with a shaky exhale. “Enjoy, darlin’. Made it all for ya.” He straightened, plating his own food—simpler, just bacon and berries, no need for the human pretense of a full breakfast—and dragged his chair close.

Too close.

He used to sit across the table, giving you space to eat in peace. Now, he pulled it flush beside yours, knees knocking yours under the wood, thigh pressing warm against yours.

The contact grounded him, you knew—his way of staying tethered. He settled in, fork in hand, but his eyes fixed on you, watching every bite like it was the most fascinating sight in his centuries.

You speared a pancake quarter, syrup dripping, and brought it to your mouth. The flavors burst—fluffy sweet, butter melting rich. “This is incredible,” you said around the mouthful, swallowing with a hum.

His smile bloomed wide, fangs peeking, but his fork stayed untouched. “Glad ya like it. Anything for my girls.” His hand found your knee under the table, thumb stroking slow arcs, inching higher on your thigh with casual insistence. You didn’t swat it away this time—let it rest there, heat seeping through your dress.

You ate steadily, the queasiness fading under the food’s warmth. Berries popped tart on your tongue, bacon crunching salty. Remmick picked at his plate—more show than substance—but his attention wandered. He’d pause mid-bite, hand drifting to caress your arm, fingers tracing the curve of your elbow.

“You’re eatin’ good today,” he murmured after a minute, voice low, reverent. “That’s my girl. Keepin’ our baby strong.”

His gaze dropped to your belly, hand abandoning his fork to splay there instead—palm warm, fingers spreading wide over the swell. He rubbed gentle, obsessive circles, eyes glazing faint red as he felt for kicks. Minutes ticked by like that; you chewed slow, letting him lose himself in it. His knee pressed firmer against yours, body leaning closer, breath syncing with yours.

“Remmick,” you said finally, popping a berry. “Your food’s getting cold.”

He blinked, as if surfacing from a dream, but didn’t move his hand.

“Don’t care. Rather watch ya.”

Another caress—this time slipping under the table’s edge to your thigh again, fingers squeezing light, testing. His eyes pleaded silently, fork lying forgotten. He shifted in his seat, thigh rubbing faintly against yours like he couldn’t help the subtle grind.

You speared more pancake, letting syrup drip deliberate, watching his pupils blow. The air hummed soft between you—loving, insistent. He leaned in after another long stare, kissing your shoulder through the dress fabric. “You’re glowin’ brighter every day,” he whispered, hand venturing higher, breath hitching. “Can’t keep my hands off.”

The breakfast stretched lazy, his touches building that familiar heat—knee to knee, hand on thigh, eyes devouring.

Your plate was near-empty by now, but you knew Remmick’s hunger was for anything but food.

Before Remmick could all but pounce—his hand inching scandalously higher, breath ragged against your neck—you stood abruptly, plate in hand. The chair scraped back, and you sauntered to the sink, hips swaying deliberate under the loose dress. Water rushed hot as you rinsed syrup from the dish, berries staining pink swirls down the drain.

He followed.

Dronelike.

Silent steps trailing you like a shadow addicted to light.

The second you braced your hands on the counter, he enveloped you from behind—chest flush to your back, arms caging you gentle but insistent. His belly pressed warm against your swell, hands splaying possessive over it.

“Breakfast’s over, sweetheart,” he pleaded, voice wrecked already, lips brushing your ear. “Lemme take care of ya now. Please. Been dreamin’ of it all mornin’. Taste ya. Make ya feel good.”

You arched a brow over your shoulder, still rinsing. “You haven’t finished your plate, Remmick.”

He whined low, nuzzling your neck in a halfhearted attempt at sympathy. But before you could turn, a whoosh of air cut the kitchen.

He’d crossed it in a blur.

Plates clattered as he scarfed his food—bacon crunched savage, berries gulped whole, fork scraping like an animal at the trough. Gone in seconds.

You couldn’t help it. A giggle bubbled up, bright and teasing. “Good boy.”

He was back.

Plate clunking beside yours in the sink, water still running. His greasy lips planted on your neck—wet, salty kisses trailing down to your shoulder, fangs grazing faint. “All done,” he mumbled against skin, hips grinding forward. His cock strained shameless through slacks, thick and hard, rubbing insistent against your thighs. Heat seeped through fabric, throbbing with every rut. “Now lemme—”

You spun in his arms, hands on his chest shoving light. “Breakfast hardly earns you favors, you greedy mutt. Look at you—humping like a dog in heat.”

He whimpered.

High, broken, knees buckling faint. Eyes welled red, pleading. “Please, darlin’. Starvin’ for ya. That sweet pussy—need to taste it. Bury my face in it. Lick ya clean.” His hands gripped your hips, lifting slow—effortless—perching you on the counter edge. Your dress hiked up your thighs, exposing lace panties that were already soaked.

He dropped to his knees between your legs, nose inches from your core, inhaling deep like a junkie. “So wet for me. Lemme eat. Please.”

You smirked, legs dangling. “You just ate, Remmick. But, if you’re good, you can have my leftovers.”

His whine pitched desperate. Before he could lunge, you planted a foot on his chest—the light kick sending him stumbling back into the outward-facing chair. He landed hard, thighs splayed, cock tenting obscene.

“Watch,” you commanded, spreading your legs wide on the counter. You hooked your panties aside, dipping slow into the slick folds. You moaned loud—shamefully exaggerated—head lolling back. “Mmm, fuck. So full already.”

Remmick gripped the chair arms white-knuckled, knowing better than to move. But the begs poured nonstop. A litany.

“Sweetheart—please, lemme finish ya. Taste it. I’ll be so good. Lick every drop. Fuck, ya sound so pretty. Moanin’ like that—g-gonna kill me.”

Tears brimmed his lashes, spilling hot tracks down cheeks.

Drool had gathered thick at his fangs, spilling from parted lips in glossy strands, dripping to his shirt.

His cock strained the zipper to popping point, a dark wet spot blooming huge. Precum leaked like a faucet—endless strings stretching from tip to fabric, snapping wet to pool on the floor in shiny puddles. He rutted the air, helpless, hips jerking, sobs choking into begs. “Need it. Need it so bad, sugar. Please—let me lap it up. Swallow ya whole.”

You plunged deeper—two fingers now, curling vicious, thumb grinding your clit, moans amplified filthily.

“Oh god, yes—right there. So much better than your greedy mouth.”

Your hips rolled exaggerated, slick squelching loud, splashing faint on counter. The dress bunched at your waist, belly swelling proud as your free hand cradled it to tease.

Remmick’s eyes devoured you—tears streaming, drool soaking, precum dangling endless as it coated the chair beneath him.

“Fuck—darlin’, I’m beggin’. Ruinin’ me. C-Cock’s hurtin’—leakin’ everywhere for ya.” He pawed at his slacks, not unzipping, but grinding, palm desperate. The puddle was really starting to become obscene.

A vulgar idea bloomed in your mind as you crested higher, drawing a gasp from you.

“Come here, pet. Kneel under me. Catch it all in your mouth. Don’t even think about touching me with those lips.”

He obeyed.

In a frantic blur of motion, he knelt between your legs at the counter, tilting his head back with his mouth gaping wide. His fangs gleamed under the kitchen lights, and drool cascaded from his lips like a waterfall, pooling thick on his outstretched tongue.

His eyes locked onto yours—completely wrecked and worshipful, tears carving glistening paths through his drool-smeared face. His zipper strained even further as he continued soaking through his slacks from thigh to floor in sticky, endless webs.

The sight undid you completely.

You came hard—shattering, gushing in hot pulses. Your slick squirted straight into his waiting mouth. He swallowed it greedily—nearly every drop—his tongue flicking at the air to catch any stray droplets.

Remmick’s spit mixed thick with your fluids, forming glossy ropes that trailed down his chin and pattered onto the floor. His gulps were audible and desperate, Adam’s apple bobbing frantically with each one. A few pearly strands escaped, splattering the hardwood between his knees.

He stared at them, transfixed.

He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, his eyes pleading up at you in silent desperation—a wordless beg to lick the floor clean.

“Leave it,” you snapped, your voice laced with an exaggerated disgust, though a faint genuine revulsion twisted in your stomach. “Filthy mutt. Look at the mess you made. Stand up.”

He whimpered pitifully, standing before you with his chin still dripping and eyes glassy.

You couldn’t help but smirk.

The sight of him—utterly wrecked—sent a thrill through you. His chin glistened obscene, coated in a glossy mix of drool and your slick, strands still clinging to his fangs like filthy jewels. The top half of his shirt clung sodden too, dark patches blooming from collar to navel where he’d drooled rivers down himself. His pants were ruined too—that was putting it nicely. The zipper bulged grotesque, fabric soaked black with precum, endless strings of it gleaming under the sunlight.

“Shirt off,” you commanded, voice low, teasing.

He scrambled.

Fingers fumbling buttons frantic, peeling wet cotton from pale skin. It slapped the cabinets wet as he tossed it aside, baring his torso—toned and vascular, muscles etched sharp from years of predatory grace. A moderate scruff dusted his pecs, trailing down to his navel and lower. The happy trail was one of the many benefits that came from him not giving much thought to shaving after your pregnancy announcement. His gold chain looped at his throat, catching light and dangling hypnotic between collarbones.

You drank him in.

Slowly.

Appreciating every ridge, every vein pulsing faint under skin, the way his chest rose and fell as he tried to instinctively match your breathing pattern.

Then you held your arms out.

Remmick surged up—immediate, desperate—scooping you from the counter like you weighed nothing. Strong arms banded secure around your back and thighs, belly cradled safe against him. You looped arms around his neck, pulling him into a deep kiss.

Your tongues tangled messy—gifted slick still thick on him, salty-sweet, drool swapping hot. He groaned into your mouth, hips twitching instinctive.

A slight shift—your thigh brushing his cock light through slacks—and it undid him.

He came.

Instant.

A guttural groan ripped from his throat, feral and broken. He yanked you closer, face burrowing deep into your neck—fangs grazing skin as he shuddered violent. Standing strong, but barely—a miracle he didn’t double over.

Come spurted thick, excessive, always warm like fresh blood—pulsing ropes soaking his slacks through, flooding zipper to drip heavy on floor. Splattered your thighs too, sticky trails seeping under dress hem, marking you both.

He rode it out clinging—hips jerking shallow, sobs muffled against your pulse. “F-Fuck—sugar—oh god,” he gasped, body trembling, chain cool against your skin.

Finally, it ebbed.

You burst into laughter—bright, uncontrollable—head thrown back in his arms.

“We really need to get cleaned up,” you managed between giggles, swiping a finger through the mess on your thigh, smearing it teasing on his chest.

He whined soft, still hard despite it all, pupils dazed in worship. “Yes ma’am.”

You laughed again, lighter this time, as he cradled you close and carried you from the kitchen.

His steps remained steady despite the mess soaking his slacks, his bare chest warm against your cheek, and the gold chain cool where it brushed your skin. The hallway passed once again in a blur of polished oak wainscoting and faded floral wallpaper—hallmarks of the old Delta manor, with its high ceilings and the lingering scent of beeswax polish. He shouldered open the bathroom door, where faint steam from earlier still hung in the air.

You were back already.

You giggled as he stepped inside. “Has it even been an hour since the last time? You’re so impatient, Remmick.”

He nuzzled your temple, a sheepish hum rumbling in his chest. “Can’t help it, darlin’. Always wantin’ ya close.”

He set you down gently on the broad marble vanity—its edge cool under your thighs—and braced you with one hand while the other cupped your face for a soft kiss. His lips lingered sweetly, devotion replacing the heat of the morning. Then he turned to the clawfoot tub that dominated one wall—a massive porcelain basin on gilded feet, larger than any you had seen in the other old estates scattered across the Delta. He twisted the brass faucets, and water rushed hot and steady into the deep basin.

He said nothing.

Just focused.

You loved watching him work like this.

Remmick sank into his own quiet world, with every twist of the handles and every test of the stream using his dipped fingers done entirely for you. It was a silent dedication.

It never took him long; he knew your perfect temperature by heart—warm like a summer evening on the bayou, soothing without scalding, easing the faint aches of your changing body. Steam rose lazily, filling the room with humid comfort and mingling with the faint lavender from the soap dish.

Once satisfied, he straightened and turned back to you.

Undressing you came next, reverent and slow. His fingers worked the dress buttons one by one, peeling the fabric from your shoulders and over the swell of your belly. His touch ghosted your skin—worshipful palms skimming your arms, hips, and thighs—while his eyes traced every curve like sacred text.

Your panties followed, with lace tugged away gently and the ruined spots from his spill noted with a murmured apology. He bundled the clothes softly into the wicker hamper by the door.

He stripped himself quickly afterward—slacks peeled away with a wet schlick and kicked aside. His pale skin was marked faintly with old, long-healed scars, the gold chain swinging as he moved.

You slipped into the tub first.

The water embraced you like silk—reaching the perfect depth that lapped at your waist as you settled back against the curve.

“Is the temperature alright?” he asked immediately, kneeling at the tub’s edge with his hand hovering in the water. “Too hot? Is the level good? Do ya need more bubbles, sugar?”

You smiled and sank deeper. “It’s perfect, Remmick. As always.”

He nodded but checked twice more—dunking his elbow and adjusting the faucet faintly—before climbing in himself.

Water sloshed generously as he settled behind you, his legs framing yours and his arms drawing you back against his chest. The spacious tub swallowed you both easily; there was room enough for him to cradle you fully without crowding, your belly floating safe in the warmth.

You remembered the day he had replaced the old one—a cast-iron relic from the manor’s original days, grand but narrow. He had grumbled that it wasn’t right, that he couldn’t hold you both comfortably. This new porcelain monster matched the clawfoot style but was oversized on purpose—almost wasteful for one person.

Lonely, even.

He swore it came from some supplier in Memphis, nothing special.

But you weren’t fooled.

It was custom, through and through. Built for this: you nested in him, always.

His hands found the ivory soap bar—milled and rose-scented from the black-owned New Orleans shops—and lathered it slowly. The bathing began thoroughly and lovingly: his palms glided over your shoulders, massaging away knots from sleep. Suds trailed down your arms, and his fingers interlaced with yours briefly, squeezing gently.

“Lean forward a touch,” he murmured, his voice low and velvety. You did, and he worked your back—thumbs circling your spine and easing tension with practiced care.

Kisses were stolen softly.

One to your temple as he rinsed. Another to your shoulder blade, with lips sweet and chaste. The caresses were laced with tenderness—his hand cupping your belly under the water, cradling the swell like fragile glass and stroking lazy circles where faint kicks fluttered.

There was no grind of hips, no desperate rut. Just softness, with his breath warm on your neck.

“Are ya feelin’ good?” he whispered, now soaping your thighs with a touch that was feather-light over sensitive skin.

“Mmm. Bliss.” You tilted your head back against his shoulder, eyes half-lidded. The water lapped rhythmically, and steam curled lazily around the brass fixtures and marble walls.

He hummed contentedly and moved to your hair—fingers working shampoo in with gentle scrubs, nails grazing your scalp just enough to tingle. The rinse came carefully, with cupped hands pouring water slowly to avoid your eyes. More kisses followed: to the crown of your head, to your earlobe. His chest rose steadily behind you, the chain dipping into your cleavage when he leaned in.

Every motion screamed care.

Centuries distilled into this quiet service. Sunlight filtered gold through the frosted glass, painting ripples on the water’s surface.

His free hand never left your belly for long, tracing the faint veins under your stretched skin and always whispering something. “Growin’ strong in there. Just like yer mama.”

You sighed happily, your hand covering his.

He pressed another lingering kiss to your neck as the bath stretched on.

Neither of you rushed to shatter the comfortable silence that had settled in like a soft blanket. Remmick's hands continued their fond caresses, tracing lazy patterns along your arms and over the curve of your belly, where the water lapped gently with every subtle shift.

His touch grew bolder by degrees—palms cupping the undersides of your breasts a touch too lingering, thumbs brushing the sensitive peaks before sliding innocently away.

He feigned nonchalance, humming a low, tuneless melody under his breath as if he weren't aware of what he was doing, but you felt the faint hitch in his breathing, the way his fingers flexed obsessively before retreating.

You savored it all, letting the intimacy wrap around you both. Finally, you reached back, wrapping his arms tighter around your middle and pulling him closer against your back.

“Remmick?”

“Yes, sugar?”

“What do you think our girl is gonna look like?”

Even without facing him, you felt the big grin spread across his face—the shift in his posture, the sudden warmth blooming in his chest against your spine, the way his hold tightened joyfully.

“Oh, darlin’,” he started, voice lighting up with uncontainable excitement, “I reckon she’ll be your spittin’ image. Just as beautiful as her mama, with that fire in her eyes and a smile that could stop a man’s heart. Smart as a whip, confident enough to rule the world. And that dark skin of yours, glowin’ like amber. Those beautiful curls, too, bouncin’ without a care in the world when she runs. Can’t ya just see it?”

The palpable thrill in his voice wrapped around your heart like vines.

You loved it—his unfiltered joy, the way generations of longing cracked open in that moment. “Mmm, I think she’ll be the perfect blend of us both,” you replied, leaning into him. “No matter what, I know she’ll have your eyes. Those sea blue things are too strong a trait to not win out over everything else.”

He chuckled deep, nuzzling your wet hair. “My eyes on her? Lord, she’d be unstoppable.”

You grinned playful, twisting just enough to tease. “How’re you gonna handle a fanged, hungry vampire infant, then? Little thing gnawin’ on your fingers from day one.”

Silence.

No response.

No rumble of laughter, no clever retort.

You turned in the water, sloshing it gentle, to find his face vacant—eyes distant, jaw slack, heartbreak etched deep into his expression. The joy had vanished, replaced by a hollow ache that stole your breath.

“Remmick?” You pivoted fully, water cascading off your shoulders as you cupped his face in both hands, thumbs stroking his cheeks. “I’m sorry, honey. Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

He blinked back to you slow, like surfacing from deep water. His lips found your palms immediately—kissing fervent, then your wrists, your forearms—pressing into damp skin as if anchoring himself. “M’sorry,” he murmured, voice cracking raw at the edges. “Just... zoned out. Didn’t mean to.” A pause, throat working swallow hard. “I just wanna see her. Hold our girl in my arms. Feel her cryin’, movin’, breathin’. Alive. Real.”

The words hung heavy, steam thickening around them.

Fragments of his past flickered in your mind—stories he had sparingly shared on hushed nights, slowly pieced together over months.

Ireland.

When he was still human, eking out life on fields turned to dust.

The famine gnawing relentless, his wife wasting away despite his desperate hunts, his makeshift soups from foraged roots.

She’d gone in childbirth, body too frail, the baby slipping still and silent with her. Leaving him utterly alone—twenty-four and completely shattered, wandering aimlessly until the vampire curse found him.

Tears welled in his eyes now.

He couldn’t hold them back.

They spilled down his cheeks, mixing with bathwater as his shoulders shook. A sob tore free—deep and hoarse. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, arms banding tight around you both, careful of the belly between.

“Shh, Remmick,” you whispered, cradling his head to your chest, fingers threading wet hair. “I’ve got you. She’s coming, Remmick. Our girl’s strong—kicking up a storm already. You’ll hold her soon. See her eyes, hear her cry. She’s ours.”

He clung harder, sobs muffled against your skin. “Lost ‘em both,” he choked out, voice thick. “Couldn’t save her. Couldn’t feed her enough. Tiny thing, never even drew breath. Been dreamin’ of this... m’terrified it’ll slip away again.”

“It won’t.”

You rocked him gentle in the water, one hand stroking his back in slow circles, the other cupping his nape.

“We’re in this together—me, you, her. She’ll thrive. And you’ll be the best daddy she could dream of. I know it. I promise you that.”

His cries eased gradual, breaths hitching less violent. He lifted his head at last, eyes swollen but clearing, gratitude shining through tears. “Love ya,” he rasped, kissing your collarbone soft. “More’n anything. You and her... my whole world.”

You smiled tender, wiping his cheeks with wet thumbs. “We love you too. Now hold us close. She’s kicking—feel that?”

His palm pressed your belly instantly, a grin flickering back faint as a flutter answered from within—strong, insistent, like she knew her daddy needed the reassurance.

You smiled up at him, tracing the line of his jaw with a damp fingertip. “Ready to get out, Remmick? Any longer in here, and all that’ll be left of us is a couple of prunes floating in the bathwater.”

Remmick’s laugh bubbled up rich and genuine, chasing away the last shadows of grief. Water sloshed as he nodded, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Fair enough, darlin’. Can’t have y’all turnin’ to dried fruit on my watch.”

He moved with care, rising first to step out onto the marble floor—water sheeting off his lean frame in rivulets that caught the sunlight filtering through the frosted window.

The oversized towel from the brass rack enveloped you next; he lifted you effortlessly from the tub, one arm under your knees and the other supporting your back, settling you on the vanity before wrapping the plush cotton around your shoulders.

Drying came thorough and tender—his hands working slow circles over your arms, your back, patting gently at the swell of your belly where droplets clung. He knelt to towel your legs, calves, even between your toes, murmuring soft nonsense about how soft your skin felt, how lucky he was.

Only then did he tend himself—quick swipes over chest and limbs, chain glinting as he dried his hair with a final tousle.

You took his hand and led him from the bathroom. The bedroom waited down the hall—a sunlit haven with heavy oak four-poster, crisp linens in soft cream, and gauzy curtains billowing faint from the open casement windows. The breeze carried magnolia scent through the manor’s old walls. “Not even noon,” you teased over your shoulder, “and you’ve already tired me out.”

He followed close, fingers laced warm in yours, that boyish smile curving his lips. “That was my plan all along, sugar.”

You sank onto the mattress, and he climbed atop you graceful, bracketing your body with forearms, careful not to press too heavy on your belly.

His eyes held yours, blue depths shimmering with affection. The kiss started sweet on your lips—slow, lingering, tasting of rose soap and salt tears dried. Then it trailed: feather-light to your jaw, nuzzling the sensitive spot beneath your ear. Lower still, to the curve of your neck, where his breath ghosted warm, fangs retracted fully now, just the velvet press of mouth.

Heat stirred lazy in your core—a sensual promise in every downward movement—but sleep tugged stronger.

You sat up with a grin, hands on his shoulders to still him. “Nap first, Remmick. I want rest, not another orgasm.”

He froze mid-descent, lips hovering at your collarbone. Color flooded his cheeks—a deep flush gathering on his pale skin, ears tinting pink.

“Oh,” he said, sheepish and endearing, drawing back with wide eyes.

“Right. Nap. Sorry, darlin’.”

You laughed soft, pulling him down beside you. “C’mere, you.”

He settled quick, mattress dipping as you both stretched out. You lay on your side, facing away, and he spooned in perfect—chest to your back, arm draping secure over your hip to palm your belly protective. His legs tangled with yours, thigh nudged gentle between for warmth. You could feel his breath evening steady at your nape.

“Love ya,” he whispered, lips brushing hair. “Sleep well, my girls.”

“Love you more.”

“Love ya most.”

This didn’t feel like a dream.

A glorious ache pulsed between your thighs—wet, insistent, ravenous. Something moved there, thick and unyielding, stroking with obsessive care. A tongue? Yes—but broader, probing deeper, curling just right against that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. Each lap responded to your every twitch, every soft gasp you hadn’t realized you were making. Sopping sounds filled the dark bedroom—obscene, intimate, right there.

You debated it in the haze of sleep.

Dream.

Had to be.

Pregnancy dreams ran wild at six months now—belly heavy and round, skin stretched taut over the life kicking restless inside. Dreams of him, always him, devouring you whole. But this felt too real. The heat too vivid, pressure building heavy in your core. The sound—a wet, rhythmic schlick—echoed too close. Inches away. No way.

No way.

Fangs—

Scraped your inner walls.

Lightning pleasure bolted through you—sharp, searing, exquisite. Your back arched off the mattress, a loud moan ripping raw from your throat.

You shot up.

Moonlight slanted silver through gauzy curtains, painting the king bed in ghostly glows. Remmick knelt between your legs—knees denting the feather ticking, shoulders broad and bare, gold chain dangling low. His face stared up at you, dumbfounded. Mouth parted slight, lips glistening, eyes wide as saucers—blue swallowed by black pupil, shock mirroring yours.

As if he weren’t the culprit.

Slick coated his jaw.

Droplets beaded clear, reflecting the glow like diamonds as they trailed slow down his neck, vanishing into the hollow of his throat.

You gaped.

Shock tangled hot with fury, arousal, confusion—emotions crashing too fast to name. Belly shifted heavy as you scrambled back on elbows, thighs clamping instinctive despite the ache begging more. “Remmick—what the fuck—”

“I’m sorry!”

He surged up on knees, hands hovering placating, palms open like surrender. Words tumbled frantic, thick drawl cracking under panic.

“D-Darlin’, please—didn’t mean to wake ya. Ya looked so goddamn beautiful, layin’ there all peaceful, belly round and glowin’ in the moonlight. Couldn’t stop myself. Had to... had to taste ya. Just a little. Swear I was careful—didn’t wanna disturb ya or the baby. Y’all were sleepin’ so sweet, breathin’ even, her little kicks settlin’ down. Thought I could... slip in quiet, make ya feel good without rousin’ ya. I’m sorry, sugar, truly—”

His eyes pleaded—red glow faint under blue, hunger warring with guilt. Jaw still shone slick with you, a stray droplet catching his chin, dripping onto the sheet. Fangs peeked subtle, not bared but evident, saliva gleaming on lower lip. He looked wrecked—hair tousled wild, chest heaving, briefs tented obvious at his hips. But the shock lingered genuine, brows knit like he’d been caught mid-trance.

You blinked, heart hammering.

Your thighs trembled.

Empty now—but echoes lingered, walls clenching on nothing, slick gushing fresh down. Six months had changed everything: breasts fuller, heavier, nipples dark and peaked constant; hips wider, stretch marks silvering faint across belly; cravings sharp, body hypersensitive, every nerve lit eternal.

Remmick had been reverent through it—hands gentle on the swell, feeding you midnight cravings before you could even name them, rubbing almond oil into your skin. But this...

This was beyond words.

“Remmick,” you breathed, voice unsteady—anger fracturing into something molten. Your hand drifted low unbidden, fingers brushing folds swollen and slick. His smell was everywhere—scent thick in the air, copper-sweet like blood and lust. “You... you were inside me. While I slept.”

He winced, crawling closer, cautious. His knees dragged the sheets, not touching you just yet.

“I know. God, I know. Yer scent, darlin’, it’s stronger now. Sweeter. Woke me up achin’. Saw ya shift in sleep, legs partin’ just so, and... lost my mind a touch. Wanted to worship ya. Make ya come quiet, lap it all up so ya’d wake refreshed. I-I didn’t think—should’ve woken ya proper.”

Confusion swirled thicker.

He looked so sorry—eyes downcast now, hands fidgeting with the sheet's edge, broad shoulders slumped vulnerable.

You exhaled shakily.

Part of you wanted to shove him away.

Part of you wanted to pull him back in.

“Could’ve hurt the baby,” you managed, though doubt crept in as soon as the words left your mouth. He’d been feather-gentle always, attuned to every flutter.

“Never,” he vowed fierce, inching forward. “Felt her the whole time—strong heartbeat, content. Stopped at every kick and adjusted. You’re safe. Both of ya. Ya know that.”

You nodded immediately, guilt piercing your heart as you saw the devastated flash in his eyes at the very notion of putting his little girl in harm’s way.

You bit your lip hard, tasting blood as you mulled over how to proceed. Sharp shadows were carved across his face—wide eyes pleading, jaw slack with remorse, that slick sheen still drying sticky on his skin. Your arousal thrummed insistent, but confusion knotted tight with it, demanding words first.

Finally, you drew a deep breath, steadying your voice.

“Remmick, listen. For now—no more of that while I’m asleep. Wake me up next time, properly. Or just watch, silent like you usually do when the hunger hits. Hell, touch yourself if you need to, I don’t care. But not... not that. Not without me knowing.”

He nodded fervent, knees shifting restless on the sheet, hands twisting fabric like a lifeline. “Yes, darlin’. Anythin’. I swear.”

Your hand pressed instinctive to the swell of your belly, feeling a light flutter. “It’s not that I’m disgusted. Far from it. I could see myself liking it, even wanting it someday. But tonight? You caught me off guard. I woke up to fangs inside me. My body’s changing fast. My hormones are wild and everything’s heightened. I need to feel safe, especially now. I need to have my say in everything. Can you give me that?”

Remmick deflated further, shoulders slumping as if kicked, eyes glistening wet in the silver light. His voice cracked just a hair. “God, yes. Your word’s law, sugar. Should’ve known better—centuries old and still actin’ like a fool. I’m so sorry. Won’t happen again without you sayin’ yes first. Clear as day. Please believe me.”

He looked so... small. His broad frame curled inward, fangs tucked fully now, cheeks flushed deeper than blood could explain. You could almost see the tail between his legs.

“I do,” you said softer, tension easing faint. “Just... talk to me. Always.”

“Always,” he echoed, desperate. Head ducked low, chain swinging. “Can I... can I hold ya? Kiss ya? Make it right?”

You nodded.

He all but collapsed to your side—body folding careful around your pregnant form, arms banding gentle but needy across your back. He buried his face in your neck, lips peppering fervent kisses: forehead, cheeks, nose, jaw. Soft, worshipful presses, breath hitching with each.

“Sorry,” he whispered into your skin, hot puffs against your collarbone. “So damn sorry, darlin’. Love ya too much—gets me stupid. Won’t fail ya again.”

Kisses trailed lower—shoulder, swell of breast above nightgown. Apologies murmured endless, voice thick with shame and devotion.

Mixed emotions churned in you—forgiveness warm, but darkening quick.

Another idea bloomed.

What a terrible time to be so clever.

“Lay on your back for me, Remmick,” you asked, voice light and innocent, fingers still tangled in his hair.

He obeyed without question—shifting quick onto the mattress, broad back sinking into the comforter, head propped on pillows. His expression held mild confusion, brows knitting slight as he glanced up at you.

“Like this, darlin’?”

“Perfect,” you murmured, swinging a leg over to straddle him slow.

Your pregnant belly swayed heavy with the motion, nightgown whispering against thighs as you settled onto his not-fully-soft hardness. He throbbed immediate under you—thick length trapped between folds, heat radiating through thin fabric.

Remmick’s breath hitched sharp. Babbling erupted wild, words spilling frantic and filthy from his lips.

“Oh, sugar—fuck, yes, ride me like that. Gonna fill that pretty pregnant pussy so full, breed ya deeper till ya can’t walk. Lemme in ya, pump every drop till it’s leakin’ down yer thighs for days. Yer mine to ruin, darlin’, gonna—”

You ground down deliberate, slick coating his bulge, clit dragging perfect friction along the shaft.

A giggle bubbled free when his tip nudged insistent against your folds—fabric barrier doing nothing to stop the copious pre leaking through, soaking hot and sticky.

He bucked up instinctive, eyes rolling back.

Before excitement overtook him fully, you shifted abrupt—forward crawl on hands and knees, hiking nightgown high over hips. Silk bunched at waist, exposing everything: swollen folds glistening, ass cheeks parting slight, belly hanging round and full below. You settled onto his face deliberate—thighs framing his head, core hovering teasing inch above mouth.

Then you sank.

And Remmick went feral.

His mouth latched voracious, lips sealing suction-tight around clit before tongue plunged deep. He devoured like a starving man at feast, broad laps slurping every drop of arousal with obscene schlurps echoing in the quiet room.

Fangs grazed your outer lips careful—pinpricks of thrill without pierce—while his nose ground firm against mound, inhaling your scent like a drug.

“Fuck—yes,” he growled muffled into core, voice vibrating straight through you. His hands clamped your thighs with a bruising grip, pulling you down harder, drowning himself willingly. His tongue fucked relentless—curling thick inside, twisting to hit spot after spot, then retreating to circle clit swollen and throbbing. Saliva flooded excessive, mixing with your slick to drip messy down his chin, pooling in the hollows of his neck and collarbone.

You moaned loud, fingers fisting his hair to ride face mercilessly. Your belly pressed lightly against his forehead with each rock. Pleasure coiled vicious, thighs quaking as he sucked clit between lips, teeth nipping a faint spark of edge.

Remmick pulled off gasping once—barely—eyes a wild red-glow, jaw drenched to ears. “Drown me, darlin’. Fuck my face till I choke on it. Gonna drink ya dry, then fill ya back up.”

His tongue speared again immediate, deeper, faster—lapping clenching walls, probing your cervix with a gentle nudge that sent lightning up your spine.

Hips bucked unbidden.

His fingers dug deep into your thighs, spreading you wide for better access—tongue delving obscene, rimming entrance before thrusting back in. Growls rumbled constant, vibrating core to bones. Precum soaked his underwear darker now, cock straining untouched, twitching desperate against his abdomen.

You chased the high ruthlessly—grinding circles, chasing friction on his nose, clit pulsing under the relentless assault. Saliva bubbled at corners of his mouth, frothy white from fervor, smearing your thighs shiny. Fangs scraped your inner walls again—deliberate drags now, pleasure-pain booming.

“Remmick—fuck—”

He hummed approval, doubling suction, his lips pursing tight around bundle, tongue flicking rapid-fire. One hand abandoned your thigh to palm at your belly, reverent.

Your orgasm crashed suddenly.

You shattered—walls spasming violent, gush flooding his mouth in hot wave. He drank greedy, swallowing audible gulps, tongue milking every quiver. Your thighs clamped his ears tight, vision whiting as cries tore free raw.

He didn’t stop.

Remmick lapped through aftershocks gentle, coaxing a second build immediate. His fingers joined—two thick digits curling inside, scissoring stretch while the thumb circled your clit, still endlessly slick.

Sweat beaded both of your foreheads.

Moonlight gleamed off fluids everywhere.

His face a mask of devotion, your thighs rivers of combined mess.

You rode harder.

He begged muffled—“More, darlin’. Gimme everything.”

High number two built savagely, coiling tighter and bursting white-hot. Another gush, cries peaking as your body convulsed, belly contracting sympathetic ripples.

Remmick groaned in ecstasy, finally relenting as you slumped forward, panting and boneless. He licked you clean like you were the last source of water on Earth, slow laps savoring remnants, kisses peppering your mound and inner thighs.

“Perfect,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “My perfect girls.”

Remmick sensed your utter spentness immediately—body limp and quivering in the afterglow, breaths coming in shallow pants.

He shifted gentle beneath you, strong arms encircling your waist with effortless care, lowering you to the mattress as if handling fragile porcelain. The bedding sighed soft under your back as he laid you out proper, knees bracketing hips for stability until you settled full.

“There ya go, darlin’,” he murmured, voice velvet-thick with tenderness. He reached for the pillows piled at the headboard, fluffing them one by one with precise pats, stacking them high behind shoulders and neck. “Lift up just a touch... perfect. Comfy now?”

You nodded hazy, sinking into the nest he’d made, nightgown still rucked high around your waist. Six months’ weight distributed easier on your back, belly rising prominent like a moonlit hill.

Satisfied, he twisted to the bedside table. A silver basin gleamed faint in moonlight, soft cloth draped ready over the edge.

Remmick had insisted on it weeks ago, filling it nightly with warm rosewater despite your initial eye-roll at the fuss. Now, gratitude flooded warm. You couldn’t imagine the sticky aftermath without it. He wrung the cloth gentle, steam rising faint, then returned—kneeling between your parted thighs, eyes all soft worship.

Cleaning began indulgent and reverent. Warm fabric glided first over your inner thighs, wiping away trails of slick with slow, circular strokes, chasing every bead and smear. He leaned in constant, lips brushing cleaned skin: a kiss to your knee hollow, another to the hip bone. “So beautiful,” he whispered against flesh. “Every inch of ya glows, sugar. Thank whatever stars or saints or old gods brought you here to me, to us. And our girl... Lord, every day I wake grateful.”

The cloth moved higher—dabbing folds swollen and sensitive, parting labia minor gentle to cleanse deeper. You sighed content, arching faint as he avoided overstimulus, kisses peppering mound and lower belly. “Strongest woman I know,” he continued, voice cracking earnest. “Carryin’ our miracle, lettin’ me love on ya like this. Could spend eternities kneelin’ at yer feet.”

He dotted a final kiss to your cleaned thigh before setting the cloth in the basin, returning to smooth the nightgown back down proper—tucking the hem under your belly swell. Basin water splashed soft as he set it aside.

Next came a candle—a beeswax taper from the drawer, lit with a match struck by the flick of his thumbnail. The flame danced gold, casting a warm glow across the room and pushing back the moonlit shadows. He disappeared briefly to the kitchen downstairs, bare feet silent on the oak steps, and returned with a steaming mug: chamomile and mint, honey swirled in with a faint, soothing sweetness.

“Here, darlin’,” he said softly. “Sip it slow.”

You propped yourself up on your elbows, taking the mug in both hands. The warmth seeped into your palms, and the first sip soothed your throat, still raw from your cries. He watched you closely, his thumb idly stroking your ankle.

When the mug was half-drained, you set it aside.

Then he slid between your legs, moving with careful ease, his body curling into place. His head came to rest against the curve of your stomach, cheek pillowed against your skin. One arm draped loosely over your thigh, his fingers tracing lazy circles around your navel.

Remmick’s gaze lifted to yours, soft and adoring in the candlelight—blue eyes gentle now, the red beneath them dimmed to quiet embers.

You couldn’t help it. Your hand moved on instinct, cupping his jaw, your thumb brushing over the roughness of his stubble.

“Thank you,” you whispered. “For everything. The care… the love. You make all of this feel right.”

He nuzzled into your palm, pressing a soft kiss to your fingertips.

“Ain’t nothin’ compared to what you give me,” he murmured.

Silence lingered, soft and unbroken, the kind that didn’t press or crowd but settled warm over everything. Beneath his ear, your daughter’s kicks fluttered faint and steady, little pulses of life that drew a quiet hum from him without thought. It slipped out low in his chest, contented, almost absent, like breathing.

“Speakin’ of our girl…” he murmured after a while, his voice easy, the words folding naturally into the quiet. “Been thinkin’ more on the nursery.”

Your fingers kept moving through his hair, slow and absent, smoothing back the strands that always refused to stay tamed. “Have you now?”

“Mm.” His cheek shifted slightly against your stomach, just enough to follow another faint kick. His mouth curved, not quite a smile, something softer. “Got the crib near done. Hand-carved oak. Took my time with it—made sure every rocker’s smooth as silk. Ain’t gonna have her catchin’ a splinter on my watch.”

You smiled, picturing it without trying.

“Spells are set into the rails,” he continued, tone still gentle, but threaded with quiet pride. “Druidic. Nothin’ that’ll hum or flicker. For safety, subtle as breath. She won’t even know it’s there.”

“She doesn’t have to,” you said. “That’s the point, isn’t it?”

“Exactly. I... hadn’t done ’em in a while.” Remmick’s hand drifted wistful across your stomach, thumb brushing slow circles as if he could already soothe her through skin and bone. “Changin’ table’s next. Want drawers deep enough for every little thing she might need. Cloths, blankets, whatever nonsense she decides she can’t sleep without.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “You’re already assuming she’ll be difficult.”

“She’s ours,” he said simply.

You couldn’t argue that.

“But the look of it…” he went on, his tone shifting just slightly, thoughtful now. “Walls are still bare. Can’t seem to settle on somethin’ that feels right. Been runnin’ it over in my head. Sketchin’ ideas that don’t quite land.”

Your fingers paused for a moment before resuming their slow path through his hair.

“What about a forest?” you offered.

He went still.

“Not something dark,” you added, more certain now. “A grove. Soft, open. Moss underfoot, light coming through the trees, vines curling along the edges. And maybe… fireflies. Just a few. Enough to glow when the room’s quiet.”

His head lifted almost immediately.

The shift was instant—like striking flint.

“A forest?” he repeated, and the word carried something brighter now, something alive. His eyes lit, wide and intent, that grin breaking across his face without restraint. “Darlin’, that’s—” He shook his head once, breath catching on the edge of a laugh. “That’s perfect.”

You felt it ripple through him, the idea taking hold, rooting deep.

“Our little grove,” he said, the words softer now, almost reverent. “I can see it.”

Remmick pushed himself up just enough to look at you fully, but his hand never left your stomach, still tracing slow, thoughtful paths like he was already mapping it out beneath his palm.

“Walls’ll start deep,” he said, his voice picking up momentum but never losing its rhythm. “Emerald at the base, real rich ’n grounded. Then it fades as it climbs—softens into the lighter greens, like the light’s filterin’ through leaves overhead.”

You nodded.

“Tree trunks are gonna come up from the baseboards,” he continued, one hand lifting now, gesturing as if the shapes already stood around you. “Twisted a little. Oak, maybe. Willow where it curves. Bark textured just enough that she can feel it when she’s old enough to reach.”

“That sounds beautiful,” you said quietly.

“It will be,” he answered, not boastful, just certain.

His gaze flicked briefly to your stomach again.

“Leaves layered over that,” he went on, slower now, more deliberate. “Spring green, summer deep, a touch of gold for autumn. Let ‘em shift just a little in the light if we paint it right.”

You smiled, your thumb brushing along his jaw now.

“And the vines?” you asked.

His grin softened, turning thoughtful again. “They’ll frame it all. Wind along the edges, curlin’ near the crib. Keep it open in the center so she ain’t feelin’ closed in.”

“Good,” you murmured. “I don’t want her to feel trapped.”

“Ain’t never gonna let that happen,” he said, almost absently.

You believed him without a second thought.

“Flowers,” he added after a beat. “Not too many. Just enough to break it up. Magnolia, maybe. A little fern. Soft things. Nothin’ that’ll overwhelm.”

“And the fireflies?” you prompted.

His eyes lit again, just a little.

“Glass,” he said. “Tiny jars, hung from the ceiling. They’ll glow soft—yellow, maybe a touch of blue. Gentle. And they’ll move, just enough. Like they’re breathin’. If she wakes, they’ll be there.”

You exhaled slowly.

“That sounds perfect.”

“It will be,” he repeated, quieter this time.

He settled back down, his cheek returning to your stomach, his hand smoothing over the curve like he could already feel her nestled there in that imagined space.

“The floor…” he continued after a moment. “Can’t leave it plain. Needs to feel like somethin’. Thick rug, maybe. Woven soft, but dense. Mossy, like you said. So when she starts walkin’, she’s got somethin’ gentle under her feet.”

“And when she falls,” you added.

He huffed a faint, amused breath. “She’ll fall. I’ll make sure it don’t hurt too bad.”

Your hand slipped down to the back of his neck, thumb tracing slow circles there now.

“What about above the crib?” you asked. “You always forget that part.”

“I ain’t forgettin’ nothin’,” he muttered, though the corner of his mouth twitched.

“Well?”

“A mobile,” he said after a beat. “Hand-carved. Nothin’ store-bought. Owls, maybe. A deer or two. Rabbits. Somethin’ that moves slow. Can’t ever be loud. Just enough to catch her eye.”

“And the ceiling?” you pressed gently.

He went quiet for a moment.

Then—

“Sky,” he said simply. “Almost full open. Big glimpses. Like you’re lookin’ up through branches.”

You felt your chest tighten, just a little.

“She’ll trace them,” you said softly.

“She will,” he agreed.

“And you’ll sit there and name them all.”

His lips curved faintly against your skin. “Course I will.”

You smiled, fingers drifting again, slower now.

“Anything else?” you asked.

He thought about it.

“Shelves,” he said eventually. “Low. Within reach when she’s ready. And we’ll line ‘em with things that matter. Things she can touch and hold and learn from.”

“Pressed leaves,” you suggested.

“Yeah,” he said. “Pressed leaves. Stones, too. Smooth ones. From the river.”

You nodded.

“Keep it real,” he added. “Even if the rest ain’t.”

Silence settled again, but this time it felt full—filled with something growing, something taking shape between the two of you.

His hand slowed.

His breathing evened.

“You like it?” he asked after a while, quieter than before.

“I love it,” you said, without hesitation.

He didn’t answer right away.

Just pressed his cheek a little closer, his hand resting more firmly against your stomach now.

“Good,” he murmured.

And the way he said it made it feel like it was already done.

The months peaked warm and golden on the Delta, the sun hanging lazy in an endless stretch of blue that seemed too wide, too full for anything but long days and slower breaths. The manor gardens had become your sanctuary in these final days—lush and sprawling, a cultivated wildness that wrapped itself around the estate’s rear where old brick walls met the untamed edge of woods.

At thirty-nine weeks, your body had become something else entirely.

There was no easing around it, no softening the truth of it. Your belly dominated everything. An immense, undeniable curve that strained the seams of every loose sundress you owned. The fabric stretched thin across skin pulled taut, every movement of your daughter visible beneath it if you watched closely enough. You felt immense in every sense of the word. Heavy. Full. Slowed down to careful steps and measured shifts of weight.

Even walking had become a negotiation.

Still, stubbornness kept you moving.

It always had.

Remmick hovered more now than ever, his concern no longer subtle or hidden behind easy charm. He watched you with a constant, quiet intensity, offering his arms, his strength, his everything—ready to carry, to steady, to intervene at the smallest sign of strain.

You had pushed back against it this morning.

“I need air, honey,” you had told him, brushing his hand aside with a soft smile. “A fresh breeze. No fuss.”

He had painstakingly agreed, but not without that shadow lingering behind his eyes.

Even now, you felt him.

Not seen or heard, but present all the same.

That familiar prickle at the nape of your neck, like the weight of his gaze following the slow sway of your hips as you moved along the crushed-shell paths. You let it be. Let him linger at the edges where he thought you wouldn’t notice.

You let him play at being sneaky.

The path curved through the garden in soft arcs, shells crunching faint beneath your feet. Your espadrilles were comfortable enough, but even so, your soles ached with every step. You moved carefully, one hand braced beneath your belly for support, the other trailing occasionally along whatever you passed.

Everywhere you looked, his touch was evident.

Rose trellises climbed iron arches overhead, blooms heavy and full in shades of crimson and soft peach, petals curling outward like they couldn’t contain themselves. Herb beds spilled over with lavender and rosemary, their scents thick in the air, blending with the sweetness of honeysuckle that clung to the garden’s edges.

The back walls were draped in wisteria—lavender cascades that should not have been blooming so late in the season, yet did so anyway under his careful, unnatural coaxing. The flowers swayed gently in the breeze, shedding soft dustings of pollen that caught the sunlight like drifting gold.

Butterfly bushes thrummed with quiet life.

Monarchs and swallowtails moved lazily from bloom to bloom, their wings catching the light in flashes of orange and blue. The central fountain murmured steadily, water bubbling over smooth stone, koi gliding beneath the surface in flashes of bright orange and white.

From a breeder in Louisiana, you remember him telling you.

Pausing came so easily out here.

Not because you wanted to stop, but because your body demanded it.

Each lull gave you a moment to breathe, to settle your weight, to feel her.

Your daughter shifted beneath your hand, a firm press of elbow or knee that pushed outward against your palm with unmistakable insistence. She was strong. Active. Restless in a way that felt almost eager.

You smiled, tracing slow circles over the place she pressed.

“I know,” you murmured. “I know, sweetheart.”

A peach tree stood nearby, branches bowed under the weight of fruit that ripened far too late for any natural season. Remmick’s doing. Of course it was. The fruit hung heavy, skins blushed gold and rose, the scent faintly sweet in the warm air.

You breathed it in.

Let it settle.

Let yourself feel, for a moment, something close to peace.

By the time you reached the wrought-iron bench at the garden’s center, your body had begun to protest in earnest. The curved seat sat tucked beneath a rose arbor, shaded and inviting, the metal warmed just enough by the sun to be comfortable.

Lowering yourself took effort.

Hands braced on your thighs, you eased down carefully—one hip first, then the other, shifting your weight slowly until you were fully seated. Your dress rode up slightly, the fabric clinging to your damp skin, but you didn’t bother adjusting it.

A soft sigh slipped from your lips as the weight lifted from your feet.

Relief.

Immediate and deep.

“Remmick,” you called, your voice carrying easily through the garden, threaded with quiet amusement. “I don’t appreciate the stalking.”

There was no pause.

The hydrangea bushes rustled almost immediately, large blooms parting as he stepped through them with far less grace than he probably intended. Leaves clung to his hair, dirt smudged the knee of his slacks, and for once, he looked… caught.

The faint flush along his pale cheeks made your smile widen.

“Darlin’…” he started, brushing his hands together as though that might erase the evidence.

You patted the space beside you.

“Come sit.”

He didn’t hesitate.

He crossed the distance quickly, settling beside you with a familiarity that felt like home. His thigh pressed warm against yours, his arm draping over your shoulders as though it had always belonged there.

The apologies came soft and quick, lips finding your temple, then your cheek, then the line of your jaw.

“Sorry, sugar,” he murmured between them. “Couldn’t help it. Yer so close now… carryin’ all that weight. One wrong step, one stumble—” He shook his head faintly. “My heart’d stop.”

His nose brushed yours, then your forehead, his touch lingering, affectionate and just a little desperate.

“Forgive me?” he asked, quieter now. “Sneakin’ instead of just comin’ to ya proper.”

You leaned into him, a soft laugh escaping.

“You’re always forgiven,” you said. “But next time, just join me.”

“Deal.”

The word came easy, accompanied by a grin that softened his features again. He nuzzled into the curve of your neck, breathing in deeply, like grounding himself in your presence.

Above you, the wisteria stirred.

Petals drifted down slowly, catching in your hair, settling on your lap.

His hand found your stomach again, palm spreading wide, thumb brushing absent circles over your navel through the thin fabric.

The conversation slipped forward as naturally as the breeze.

“The nursery’s comin’ together,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter, steadier. “Furniture’s finished. Crib rails are smooth, rockin’ chair’s set just right. You’ll have a place to rest while she feeds, even in the middle of the night.”

You nodded, resting your hand over his.

“And the walls?” you asked.

“Paint is up, just dryin’ now,” he said. “Greens are settlin’ the way we wanted. Light shifts through ‘em real soft.”

You smiled.

“I can’t wait to see her in it.”

“Neither can I.”

His voice softened, something deeper settling into it.

“Every day I watch you,” he continued, his gaze lowering briefly to your stomach, “and I think about how that’s real. How she’s real. I spent a long time thinkin’ that kind of thing wasn’t meant for me.”

You glanced at him, your thumb brushing lightly over his hand.

“And now?” you asked.

He huffed a quiet breath.

“Now I don’t know how I ever thought that,” he admitted. “Feels like she’s always been on her way.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder.

The garden hummed around you, alive in small, quiet ways—the splash of koi, the distant rustle of leaves, the soft drift of petals overhead.

“What do you think she’ll be like?” you asked after a while.

Remmick went still for a moment.

Then his hand shifted slightly, thumb tracing a slow line where she pressed outward beneath your skin.

“Strong,” he said. “Stubborn.”

You laughed softly.

“That’s your fault.”

“Ours.”

His gaze softened again.

“But gentle, too,” he added. “In her own way. Curious. I think she’ll want to see everything. Touch everything.”

You nodded, the conviction in his voice making you smile without realizing it.

Remmick’s kisses resumed without warning, his mouth finding the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. They were softer at first—a gentle press, a flick of tongue that lingered longer than before, tasting the faint salt of garden-warmed skin. But they deepened quickly, lips parting wet and insistent, drawing a quiet hum from low in his throat as his breath ghosted hot against you.

You felt his hand move again, deliberate and unhurried.

Fingers trailed down from your belly’s immense curve, slipping beneath the hem of your sundress once more. They moved agonizingly slow, tracing the plush inner curve of your thigh with feather-light strokes that raised gooseflesh despite the sun’s warmth.

Inch by inch, they climbed higher, brushing the damp edge of your panties with maddening patience. He tugged the thin fabric aside casual, callused fingertips gliding between your awaiting folds.

The touch was exquisite torture at first, parting your outer lips with deliberate slowness, circling your entrance in lazy loops without mercy. Fresh slick welled immediate, coating his fingertips shiny, the faint wet glide audible in the garden’s hush amid distant koi splashes and leaf rustles.

“We’re outside,” you reminded him, voice already breathy, edged with half-hearted protest as heat rebuilt low and insistent. “Sun’s still high, beaming right down. Someone could walk by.”

He kissed along your jawline sweet and unhurried, brushing the concern off between lingering presses of lips that left trails of saliva glistening in sunlight. “Nobody’s on the grounds, darlin’. Y’know that better than anyone. And if some fool peeks through the hedges?” His mouth drifted lower, nudging the sundress neckline aside with his nose to expose the heavy swell of your breast.

His lips latched onto your nipple—dark, peaked, already beading under attention—suckling slow and deep. Tongue swirled broad and flat around the areola, fangs grazing the tender edge in a faint, thrilling scrape.

A warm bead of milk welled up.

He groaned deep from his chest, lapping it up greedy with open mouth. “Nectar,” he murmured reverent against your skin, voice muffled thick with drawl and hunger. “Tastes like heaven’s own honey, sugar. So damn sweet—gimme more, please. Love nursin’ from ya like this.”

Suction tightened rhythmic—pulling insistent, drawing another leak that spilled warm. He chased it all, drool mixing messy, lips smacking soft as his free hand kneaded your other breast, gentle but firm, coaxing twin flow through thin fabric. Milk darkened the linen spotty, your faintly sweet scent blooming in the air.

Pleasure sparked vicious—nipples wired straight to core, walls fluttering empty and aching, clit throbbing neglected.

His fingers pressed inside then.

Two thick digits sliding home easy on abundant slick, stretching you full. He fucked them agonizingly slow at first, curling immediate to stroke that spongy g-spot deep inside with perfect precision.

Every thrust hit you flawlessly.

Grazing your walls on withdrawals, pressing firm against the bundle with every plunge, thumb finally joining to circle your clit.

“Please,” Remmick begged between hungry suckles, switching breasts to lavish the other nipple with the same worship—fangs nipping faint, tongue laving leaks voracious. “Lemme fuck ya proper, darlin’. Cock’s throbbin’ so hard it hurts—need that pussy squeezin’ me. Gonna fill ya slow, deep—breed ya even fuller, pump every drop till yer leakin’ my come. Hit every place ya love, make ya scream in this garden. Please, sugar—say yes.”

Your moans spilled free and unrestrained, a lewd litany of breathy “ah-ah-ah” gasps syncing with his building rhythm, punctuated by the wet schlick of fingers plunging deeper.

“You can,” you managed between noises, hips bucking instinctive into his hand, chasing friction. Your sundress was fully hiked now, belly heaving. “Just... fuck—not out here. Take me inside first.”

He growled, surging up to claim your mouth fanged and messy—tongue plunging deep to tangle, sharing your nectar’s sweet tang mingled with his thick saliva. His fingers never faltered, pistoning faster now with another obscene squelch.

“C’mon, sugar. Right here on this bench—strong enough to hold us both while I rail ya. Sun’s kissin’ yer skin perfect. Nobody sees us but the butterflies and koi. Let me have ya.”

Remmick tried shifting you then, strong arms banding your waist, careful around your belly’s weight. He lifted slight as if to swing his leg over, cock grinding insistent through slacks against thigh.

“No,” you gasped firm, pressing your hand against his chest hard despite the pleasure fog. Your shameless symphony crescendoed: moans pitching a desperate soprano, slick gushing fresh rivulets down his knuckles to pool on wrought-iron below, petals sticking thighs damp. “Make me come first. Then inside—oh god—”

Command ignited him.

He obeyed perfectly. His fingers hooked ruthless now, pressing your walls mercilessly with unmatched precision while his thumb assaulted clit with rapid-fire flicks, edging you brutal.

His mouth returned, alternating between your breasts—suckling hard enough for his fangs to scrape your areola, the deliberate sting amplifying every feeling. “Yes—fuck yes, darlin’. Drench my hand, soak this whole damn bench. Gonna lap it clean after, taste ya on the metal. Come hard for me—show the garden how good I make ya feel.”

You could feel your walls clamping vice-tight around his fingers, clit pulsing electric under every press. The breeze cooled your slick-soaked thighs in its own tease, a butterfly circling a rose mere feet away, oblivious. Koi splashed emphatically in the fountain, almost mocking your building cries.

Your orgasm ripped through you, a shattering white-hot supernova. A raw cry tore through your throat into the garden air, echoing off the estate's brick walls. You came endlessly around his hand, flooding thighs and bench in a hot flood that dripped audibly to the shells below.

Remmick milked every last pulse relentlessly, fingers grinding deep and unyielding. His mouth soothed your nipples with tender laps now, drawing further waves until tears began to prickle from the overstimulation.

He finally eased his fingers free with a slow drag, slick rivers trailing obscene in the sunlight. He brought it to his mouth without a second thought, licking knuckles clean in deliberate swirls. His eyes stayed locked on yours, the feral red glow only diminishing slightly.

“Inside now?” He rasped hopeful, cock straining against his slacks obscenely, his soaked crotch all but completely unnoticed.

You nodded, breath still ragged.

Remmick moved immediately, scooping you up effortlessly yet impossibly careful, one arm banding under your knees, the other cradling the immense weight as if handling glass.

His strength made it feel weightless.

Centuries of vampire power rendering your thirty-nine-week fullness feather-light in his hold. He paused deliberate, eyes scanning your face with doting concern. “Comfy, darlin’? No pinch anywhere?”

“Perfect,” you murmured, arms looping neck, head tucking shoulder.

Only then did he start walking at an instantly fast pace. His strides were long but smooth across crushed shells, excitement betraying a hurried rhythm despite care. “That’s my girl,” he praised low, lips brushing temple. “So strong, takin’ me so good out there. Beautiful. Full of our miracle, glowin’ like summer sun. Gonna worship ya proper now, make ya feel every bit cherished.”

Praises flowed nonstop, murmured husky against hair as he mounted the steps two at a time. “Look at ya, sugar—carryin’ her so proud, body made for this. Love seein’ ya like this, all ripe and ready. My perfect wife, my everything.”

You weren't even sure if his feet were touching the ground anymore as the hallway blurred past, his excitement thrumming audibly through his ribcage.

Remmick kicked the bedroom door open with his foot.

Laid you down gentle on the vast four-poster bed, your soft mattress sighing a welcome under your weight. The cool Egyptian cotton sheets felt impeccable against your skin.

He blurred then, clothes vanishing in a whirlwind. Shirt unbuttoned and flung, slacks kicked aside, suspenders dangling forgotten. He was naked in literal seconds, chest heaving in anticipation.

He turned to you deliberate, taking his time undressing, fingers reverent against the linen of your sundress. Slid it down your shoulders slowly, peeling fabric from sweat-damp skin, exposing breasts heavy and leaking faint, stomach looking even fuller somehow.

“Goddamn beautiful,” he breathed, a worshipping gaze raking every curve. “Look at ya laid out like this—tits full, belly round perfection, pussy still glistenin’ from me. Most gorgeous thing I ever seen, darlin’. Made for carryin’ my young, for takin’ my cock deep.”

He slipped your espadrilles free gently, kissing up from feet to thighs.

He grabbed the wedge pillows from beside: one under your lower back, another under your knees, and a third to prop up your head. He adjusted you with a quiet fuss, hands smoothing the fabric for no good reason.

Finally, Remmick took off his underwear, shoving them down his legs, cock springing free with a heavy bounce. He was oozing precum nonstop, fat beads welling through his slit, dribbling ropey down his veined shaft. Even under his stretched-taut extra skin, his vascularity remained savagely defined.

Like clockwork, he fell into another obsessive ramble. Kneeling at the edge of the bed, stroking himself lazily while eyes devoured.

“Fuck, sugar—ya look like a goddess, all swollen and needy for me. Wanna fuck ya so bad, bury this cock in that molten heat, make ya feel good—better than ever. Stretch ya wide, hit that spot till ya squirt again. Gonna fill ya full, breed ya even deeper now. Swear, darlin’, gonna make sure we see our little girl today—push her so close with how good I fuck ya.”

Remmick shoved himself inside you—bottoming out with just one thrust, girth splitting your walls with an obscene stretch. He swallowed your moans with a filthy kiss. Fanged and drooling and open-tongued, his tongue attempting to fuck your mouth in a mimic of what was happening below.

“Fuck—,” he groaned through the kiss, hips snapping with a punishing rhythm. “Pussy squeezin’ me just like this, all wet and hot and perfect. Feel that, sweetheart? Cock kissin’ yer cervix, grindin’ that spot—gonna make ya come so hard.” He pulled back for a moment, letting a saliva string follow him down to your throat as he began to bruise.

“Walls already—milkin’ me greedy. Best feeling in the world, darlin’. Gonna ruin ya for anyone else—fuck—takin’ every inch like I knew you would.”

He pounded into you relentlessly, hips a pistoning blur, slap-slap-slap reverberating against every surface of the bedroom, precum-slick churning froth at base.

His hands bracing your belly, the other pinching your nipple, coaxing nectar he’d lap up mid-thrust greedily. His fangs constantly grazed your collarbone, kissing sloppy trails down your sternum.

“Tell me how good m’doing,” Remmick begged between praises. “Pussy feels like paradise—grippin’ so tight, suckin’ me deeper. Gonna flood ya baby, paint yer walls white—give our girl a siblin’.”

He shifted his angle wickedly then, drawing a guttural cry out of you.

Your moans blended with his bestial growls, the smell of sex filling every inch of the room, sheets tangling between your thighs.

He railed you endless, promises spilling between every lunge.

“Would knot ya if I could, sugar.”

“Wanna lock my cum inside ya forever.”

“Gonna keep y’like this for so long ya forget what not being pregnant is like.”

You knew he meant every single one.

“I—fuck—I’m close,” you stammered, the words fracturing on the tail end of a particularly devastating thrust. Your walls clenched involuntarily around his invading thickness, as the coil low in your belly wound tighter, heat licking up your spine in merciless waves.

Remmick’s rhythm never faltered for a heartbeat—absolutely wrecking, relentless and unforgiving, hips snapping forward in that piston-like drive that split your soaked folds open again and again, his cock dragging every pronounced ridge and pulsing vein along your hypersensitive inner walls with filthy devastation.

The vulgar orchestration of slaps and smacks and squelches filled the sunlit bedroom alongside your shared, ragged gasps and the creak of the four-poster bedframe straining under the onslaught.

Yet even through the raw savagery of his pace, his voice dipped into something earnestly gentle, breath hitching soft and vulnerable against the shell of your ear as he leaned in impossibly close.

“Okay, okay, darlin’—fuck, yeah, I feel it,” he rambled fervent, words tumbling out in a breathless cascade, his unyielding thrusts continuing to press you into the mattress without mercy. “Yer squeezin’ me so goddamn tight—like ya can’t get enough. I’m right there with ya, sugar. Can we—shit, please—come together? Flood that pretty pussy same time ya drench me? Wanna feel ya milk every drop—please?”

His touch remained impossibly tender amidst the chaos—one broad hand cushioning the underside of your stomach, fingers splayed wide to support and soothe the taut skin where your daughter kicked frantic flurries in response to the rhythm. The other hand stroked sweat-damp tendrils of hair from your forehead with aching gentleness, callused thumb tracing your temple in slow, grounding circles.

His lips peppered your cheek with soft, lingering kisses, fangs grazing harmlessly over your earlobe in a scrape that sent shivers racing down your neck, his breath a warm, honeyed plea.

“Y-yes,” you gasped out, the affirmation dissolving into a broken whine as another deep plunge kissed your cervix with bruising bliss, your walls clamping down in a spasm that had him groaning low. “Together—oh god, Remmick—”

Tears spilled sudden and unchecked down his pale cheeks—silvery tracks glistening in the afternoon light filtering through gauzy curtains, his blown crimson eyes now shimmering with raw, vulnerable emotion as centuries of isolation cracked wide open. His pace became even harder in response—thrusts turning fractionally erratic, deeper, cock swelling impossibly thicker mid-plunge, the fat head battering your deepest barriers while veins throbbed hot against every inch.

“Goddamn, darlin’,” he sobbed openly, forehead pressing against yours, tears dripping onto your chest.

“Waited so fuckin’ long for this—nights bleedin’ into nothin’, achin’ for a real heartbeat against mine. Here I am now, buried to the hilt in the only other woman who’s ever made me feel alive, makin’ our girl with ya, buildin’ somethin’ eternal. Exactly where I wanna be—need to be. Gonna keep ya forever, sugar—you, her, and every baby we make after. Fill this manor wall-to-wall with our blood, laughter echoin’ halls, little feet patterin’ everywhere. Mine. Ours. Fuck, love ya—love—”

Somehow, each thrust became more methodical. Shallow teases at the outset, withdrawing just enough for the head to pop free with a wet schlick and grind insistently against your clit. Then a single devastating plunge slamming home balls-deep with a resonant thud, holding there to rotate his hips in filthy, cervix-kissing circles. The pattern repeated with a hypnotic, creative cruelty.

Precum flooded constant now—hot, voluminous spurts jetting from his slit to paint your cervix in sticky prelude, slickening your passage into a frictionless glide. Your nipples throbbed with neglected ache, breasts leaking lazy rivulets of sweet nectar that trailed sticky paths down your ribs. He chased one errant drop mid-thrust with a tongue-lash, fangs scraping faint as he hummed in delight.

“Feel that, sugar? Hittin’ ya perfect—gonna make it last. Waited lifetimes, ain’t rushin’ heaven.” Remmick’s babble hiccuped through fresh sobs, tears flowing freer now, one splashing your parted lips for you to taste salt mingled with his spit from earlier kisses.

You had no control over your body anymore, pussy clenching frantically around him, squirts coating his thighs and the sheets beneath.

Pleasure fractured into endless waves and swells, your clit throbbing under his thumb, g-spot swollen to rutted ecstasy that bordered pain. Your breaths synced ragged—his cock twitching violent warning flares deep inside, your thighs quaking vise-grip around his hips.

The precipice held no longer as Remmick’s thumb delivered one last rolling pinch to your clit, twisting with diabolical precision that sent lightning jagged through every nerve. Deep inside, his cock throbbed with violent urgency, nudging your cervix in teasing half-grinds.

His tear-streaked face hovered mere inches from yours, eyes locked in a desperate, soul-baring intensity, babbles fracturing into a sob-choked mantra. “Now, darlin’—c’mon, gimme everythin’—please—”

“It’s—time!” you shouted, the cry shredding raw from your throat like shattered glass as the dam finally burst.

Your orgasm hit without mercy, erupting from your core and radiating outward in shockwaves that made you see stars, walls clamping down around his girth, convulsing in rhythmic, milking pulses that dragged a guttural sound from the depths of his chest.

Squirts erupted violent and immediate—hot, forceful floods soaking your joined seam with ferocity, absolutely soaking him, matting the coarse hair at his base, drenching your trembling thighs and the supportive pillows beneath in a pooling torrent that spread dark across the sheets. Your body arched off the mattress like a drawn bowstring, belly rippling with uncontrollable contractions, thighs quaking in uncontrollable tremors that locked him.

Remmick shattered in sync, his own release flooding you thick and seemingly endless, the first spurt a volcanic surge painting your cunt in a blistering heat, bloating your walls instant with viscous fullness. “Fuck—yes, take it—all of it!” he hollered, voice cracking, rutting through the deluge.

His cock pulsed with immense jet after jet that he chased with savage snaps forward, churning the creamy overflow that bubbled with every plunge. He just couldn’t stop—wouldn’t stop, pace turning even more wrecking in a frenzied abandon, heavy balls contracting visibly as they drew up tight to pump more in relentless barrages. “Takin’ it so good—milkin’ me fuckin’ dry—yer so perfect, sugar, squeezin’ like ya never wanna let go!”

The warm, voluminous pulses bloated you fuller by the second, excess cum squirting back out with each withdrawal, mixing with your own floods into a slippery puddle that spread bed-wide, soaking the Egyptian cotton to translucence and dripping off the edge onto the hardwood floor.

“Ours now—our family—fuck, I love ya, love this—” He rutted like a beast unchained, fangs fully bared in a snarling mask of ecstasy, thick drool spilling from parted lips to land hot on your leaking breasts.

Your release blissfully mirrored his, squirts hosing continuously in forceful jets that arced high to splatter his abdomen and the headboard. Moans devolved to pure animal—shrieks pitching into desperate cracks, nails raking bloody marks down his back that healed near instantly, heels bruising his ass as you bucked wild to meet every slam.

He chased every last quiver and aftershock with brutal, overstimulated grinds that wrung fresh whimpers from your spent body. The froth whipped to airy peaks now, sheets sodden beneath you, the air thickened to choking with a salty-sweet primal mix.

Remmick finally collapsed forward with a shattered groan—burying his face in the crook of your neck, cock still twitching spent and softening deep inside, one final lazy dribble pulsing into your flooded channel. His breaths heaved wrecked against your skin— “Beautiful... my perfect girls... forever...”

But the liquid kept coming.

A rush. An unending, steady, insistent flow pooling fresh beneath you, soaking thighs and pillows anew in a flood that didn’t taper.

You shook him frantically, hand fisting sweat-matted dark hair to yank his head up. “Remmick—my water just broke!”

He jerked upright instantaneously, eyes flaring wide with manic, triumphant joy, hands thrown skyward in victorious exaltation as all that spent energy surged back electric, vigor reigniting in a full, blazing inferno.

The crisp winter air carried the scent of woodsmoke and decaying leaves, a fitting backdrop for the warmth that had taken root in your heart. You’d spent the afternoon with the Hendersons, cooing over their newborn son, his tiny fists waving in the air. It was a familiar, wonderful ache, one that you knew well. You and Patrick already had your own sweet joy, your daughter, a little girl of three with your eyes and Patrick’s tinge of red hair. Watching her sleep in her bed just last night had filled you with a love so profound it hurt.

You thought of your daughter, an only child, and imagined her as a big sister, her small hands carefully holding a baby, her voice whispering secrets to a new sibling. The thought completed a picture in your heart you hadn't realized was unfinished.

Now, you sat by the fire in the parlor, the house quiet save for the crackle of the flames and the scratch of Patrick’s pen. He was hunched over his desk, a good, steady man, the best father you could have imagined for your little girl. You watched the firelight catch the dark strands of his hair, and the longing intensified. A brother or sister for your daughter. Another piece of him and you.

Rising from your chair, you went to him, your hands resting on his broad shoulders. He stopped writing, leaning into your touch with a soft sigh.

"What is it, my love?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.

You leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of his head, your fingers tracing the line of his tense shoulders. "Just thinking," you murmured, your lips brushing against his hair. He tilted his head back to look up at you, his dark eyes warm in the firelight, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips.

"About what?" he asked, his voice a low vibration you felt through your hands. "About our little girl? Or about the Hendersons' new lad?"

"Both," you admitted, moving to stand beside his chair, your hand sliding down his arm to lace your fingers with his. "Seeing them today…holding their baby. It made me think."

His thumb stroked over the back of your hand. "Think what?"

You took a breath, the words feeling both terrifying and thrilling on your tongue. "I was thinking about our daughter. About how she'd be as a big sister. And I was thinking… I want another one, Patrick."

His smile softened, his gaze turning impossibly tender. He let go of your hand, his large palms coming to rest on your waist, pulling you closer until you stood between his strong thighs. "Another one?" he repeated, his voice dropping to that intimate rumble that made your stomach flutter. "Are you sure, my love?"

You nodded, your heart thudding against your ribs. "I've never been more sure of anything. I feel a little silly- the ravenous need I have for you is unlike any other, and I want to have your child again, I want to be filled.”

Patrick let out a slow breath, his eyes searching yours. Then, a different kind of understanding dawned in his gaze, a look that was both doctor and husband. "My love," he said softly, his voice a low, intimate caress. "Are you aware of what day it is?"

Your brow furrowed in confusion. "Tuesday?"

A slow, handsome smile spread across his face. "It's the fourteenth," he clarified, his hands tightening on your waist. "The fourteenth day of your cycle." He watched as the realization washed over you, the scientific precision of his words colliding with the deep, emotional yearning in your heart. He knew your body as well as he knew his own. "You're at your peak. You're most fertile."

The air crackled with a new, potent energy. It wasn't just a wish anymore, it was a possibility, a tangible, scientific fact. "Oh," you breathed, the single word full of awe.

"Oh, indeed," he rumbled, his eyes darkening with a primal heat. "So you see, my love, we have a very small window of opportunity." He surged upward, his arms wrapping around you as he buried his face in the soft fabric of your dress at your stomach. You tangled your hands in his hair, holding him close, the desperate ache in your chest finally easing, replaced by a wave of pure, unadulterated want.

He pulled back just enough to look up at you, his hands sliding down to cup your backside, squeezing gently. “It's your body telling you- it’s nature.”  

He rose from the chair in a fluid motion, his strength effortless as he swept you into his arms. You wrapped your legs around his waist, your arms around his neck, and his mouth found yours in a searing kiss. It wasn't gentle or questioning; it was a kiss of agreement, of a shared purpose, deep and full of all the love you had for one another. He carried you from the parlor.

In your bedroom, he lay you down on the soft quilts as if you were something precious, his body following yours, covering you with his familiar weight. His hands were everywhere, pushing up your skirts, his calloused fingertips tracing the sensitive skin of your thighs. "You're so perfect," he murmured against your lips, his voice a reverent praise. "So ready for me. Your body knows what it wants, doesn't it? It knows it's time to be bred."

You arched into his touch, a soft gasp escaping you as his thumb found the slick clit between your legs, circling slowly. "Patrick," you whimpered, need coiling tight in your belly.

"Shh, I know, my love," he soothed, his mouth trailing down your neck. "I'll give you what you need. I'll give you everything." He freed himself from his trousers, and you felt the thick, hard press of him against your entrance. He looked down at you, his dark eyes burning with an intensity that stole your breath. "Right now," he said, his voice a low growl, “Big stretch like always, sweet girl, breathe in-”

With one slow, deep thrust, he was inside you, stretching you, completing you. You cried out, your nails digging into his shoulders.  

"Your cervix is soft, open, ready. I'm going to push my seed as deep as it can go, right where it needs to be." Each soft, steady stroke was a declaration, a promise. "That's it," he grunted, his forehead pressed against yours. "Take it. Take all of me. You feel that? M’right in there, sweet girl. That's me giving you our future."

The pleasure built, a blinding, all-consuming wave. His words were a litany of praise and desire. "So good for me. Always so good. My beautiful wife. The mother of my children.”

"Tell me, love. Tell me what you want."

"You," you gasped, your head thrown back against the pillows. "You, Patrick. A baby. Our baby."

"God, yes," he groaned, his pace quickening just enough to make your toes curl. "Say it again."

"Give me a baby," you whimpered, the words tumbling out, broken by his powerful strokes. "Please, Patrick. Fill me up."

"That's my girl," he praised, his voice thick with satisfaction. "I'm going to. I'm going to flood this sweet little womb until it can't hold anymore. I'm going to make sure you're carrying our child by morning." He lifted his head, his dark eyes locking onto yours, and the raw, possessive love you saw there was your undoing. "Look at me when I give it to you. I want to see your eyes when I put our baby in you."

You blinked your eyes open, your vision blurred with pleasure, and held his gaze. The connection was electric, a circuit of pure, unadulterated need. "So so big- ngh!" You choked out, “feel so full,"

"And you're going to stay that way," he promised, his voice a low, commanding growl that sent you spiraling. "I'm not going to let a single drop go to waste. I'll keep you plugged up all night if I have to. You'll go to sleep with my seed inside you, hmm?" His hand slid down your body, his palm pressing flat against your lower belly, right above where he was buried so deep inside you, and he gave you a sweet, wet kiss to your cheek. "Right here. Ngh! S’where my come belongs-”

The thought, combined with the relentless, perfect pressure of his cock, sent you over the edge. Your orgasm crashed through you, a violent, beautiful wave that ripped a scream from your throat. Your inner walls clenched around him, a greedy, desperate pulse, milking him.

"Fuck, yes," he snarled, his control finally shattering. He drove into you one last time, impossibly deep, and his whole body went rigid. “Look at me, honey, look at your husband- let me see those beautiful eyes,”

You felt the hot, thick flood of his release, a powerful, endless surge that seemed to fill every part of you. He pulsed inside you again and again, his groans a sound you would cherish forever.

For a long moment, the only sounds in the room were your ragged breaths and the frantic pounding of your own heart in your ears. He was a heavy, welcome weight on top of you, but he didn't move. He didn't pull out.

"Patrick," you breathed, your voice hoarse. "I can't, I can't feel my legs."

A low, rumbling chuckle vibrated against your skin. "Good," he mumbled into your shoulder. "Means you won't be going anywhere." His dark eyes soft and hazy with satisfaction. "We're not done, my love."

Before you could ask what he meant, he was shifting. With a strength that never failed to astonish you, he wrapped an arm around your waist and rolled, taking you with him until you were straddling his lap, his cock still buried deep inside you. You gasped at the new angle, the way it filled you to the hilt.

"There now," he murmured, his hands coming up to cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your pebbled nipples. “Shhhh...” He watched you, brushing back the little baby hair stuck to your sweaty forehead.

"You're going to take another load, aren't you? You're going to take everything I have until I'm sure it's taken."

He began to move you up and down, with a slow, subtle rocking of his hips that sent jolts of pleasure through your oversensitive body. You whimpered, your hands bracing on his chest. "Patrick, I can't, it's too much."

"No, it's not," he soothed, his voice a hypnotic caress. "It's exactly enough. It's what your body was made for. To take me. To carry my child." He leaned up, capturing a nipple in his mouth and sucking gently, his tongue swirling around the peak. The dual sensations of his mouth and his hips rocking into you were overwhelming, stoking a fire you thought had been extinguished. "Just one more, sweet girl. One more to make sure. Give me one more, and I'll give you everything."

His words were like a drug, the pleasure began to build again. You began to move with him, matching his rhythm, your body knowing exactly what to do.

"That's it," he praised, releasing your nipple with a soft pop. "Ride me, love. Take what you need. Show me how much you want that baby." His hands gripped your hips, guiding you, his own hips rising to meet yours, each thrust a deliberate statement. Your husband takes your chin in his handa nd guides you to look down at the bulge in your tummy at each thrust. "Look down. Look at us. You feel me there, angel?"

Seeing him disappear into you again and again. It was the most erotic thing you had ever seen.

“Y-yes!”

"Fuck, you're beautiful," he groaned, his eyes fixed on the same sight. "My beautiful, fertile wife. Taking my cock so well." He picked up the pace, his thrusts becoming harder, more demanding. "I'm going to fill you again. I'm going to make a mess of this pretty little pussy, and you're going to thank me for it, aren't you?"

"Yes," you sobbed, the pleasure cresting, a sharp, blinding peak that stole the air from your lungs. "Yes, Patrick, thank you..."

Your second orgasm tore through you, and this time, he followed you right over the edge. With a guttural roar, he slammed you down onto him, his hips jerking upwards as he spilled himself into you for a second time. You felt the heat of it, another thick, copious flood that mingled with the first, filling you to overflowing until you could feel it beginning to leak out, trailing down your thighs.

“There- there-” he cooed between pants,

He held you there, his arms wrapped around you like a vise, his face pressed against your chest as he fought for breath. You were boneless, spent, a complete and utter mess, and you had never felt more loved.

After a long moment, he kissed you, a slow, deep kiss full of lingering passion. Patrick lifts you gently and grabs a pillow to place under your hips, guiding you to lie down.

"Stay just like that, angel," he whispered against your mouth, his hand coming to rest possessively over your lower belly. "We'll give it a little while. Let gravity do its work. We want to be absolutely sure."

The door to the laundromat clicks shut behind the last customer of the day, and you hear the lock turn before the familiar weight of Lion’s steps crosses the tile. It’s hot—sticky, end-of-summer Reno hot—the kind of heat that makes the air heavy, that clings to your skin like damp cotton. Out front, the sky hangs low and bright behind sun-faded awnings and warped pavement. The kind of heat that bakes the parking lot until it smells like rubber and old oil.

Inside, though, it smells like home. Fabric softener and dryer sheets. Soap and lemon. The faint trace of clean sweat. You’re sitting on the counter near the register, sipping a lukewarm iced coffee and watching him move.

Your husband is folding fitted sheets with a precision that makes your stomach flutter. And not just folding, either—he’s mastering them. His fingers work the elastic corners like a puzzle he’s solved a hundred times over, smoothing and flipping with calm, deliberate care. There’s a streak of pink crayon on his shirt—Hannah’s doing—and a glitter sticker stuck to his left knee that Harper must’ve pressed there when he bent to tie her shoes that morning.

You might actually combust.

Eight years of marriage. Two daughters. A mortgage. A shared business with rent paid up and a schedule pinned crooked on the bulletin board in the back office. And still, somehow, he looks like that.

He scratches the side of his jaw and mutters to himself about the folding, unaware of your gaze, his brows knitted. That stupid little furrow in his brow still gets you after all this time. He’s dressed down for the heat today—worn white tee clinging to his back where it’s damp, work jeans low on his hips, belt unbuckled just enough to breathe.

The muscles in his arms flex every time he shifts a stack of towels.

You cross your ankles to keep from shifting in your seat. You don't succeed.

“Daddy!” Harper’s voice rings out from the corner of the laundromat you’ve carved into a play area with puzzles and a tiny pink tent. “Hannah spit up on my bear again!”

A thump. A squeal. A tiny, guilty little voice: “Uh-oh.”

Lion sighs. It’s not annoyed, not really—just full of that long-suffering dad patience you love him for. He scrubs a hand down his face and throws you a look like, You seein’ this shit?

You grin into your coffee.

But he’s already moving. Already crouching down to scoop Hannah up in his arms with a grunt.

“What did we say about spit, trouble?” he murmurs as she wriggles, giggling.

She flings her arms around his neck and mashes her cheek into his shoulder.

“Sorry,” she mutters, muffled.

He rubs her back gently. “That ain’t Harper, baby. You gotta tell her.”

Hannah squirms down to her feet and toddles back toward her big sister, who’s holding the damp stuffed bear like a wet dishrag. Lion turns to Harper and crouches again, opening his hands.

“Bring it here, sweetheart. We’ll clean him up.”

You swear to god, you ovulate on the spot.

He takes the bear with both hands like it’s a sacred relic, carries it to the utility sink near the back, and gently starts to scrub at the spit-up with soap and a washcloth while Harper hovers beside him. Hannah, now bare-footed and dragging a blanket behind her, clutches the hem of Lion’s shirt like she’s tethered to him.

He doesn’t flinch when she steps on his boots. Doesn’t even look down. Just keeps washing the bear, murmuring something low and rhythmic about bubbles and bravery while Harper leans her chin on his shoulder.

Your chest hurts watching it.

Your thighs have done that clench thing three times in the last ten minutes.

You could write a damn dissertation on the veiny forearms of your husband, the strong curve of his nose, the quiet patience in his voice. No one would believe the same man who growled at a guy in traffic last week for cutting him off is the one explaining the delicate art of blot-drying plush toys to your six-year-old.

He catches you looking.

Doesn’t say anything—just cocks his head, one corner of his mouth lifting slow.

You glance away like that’ll help. It doesn’t.

He rinses the bear one last time, squeezes it gently, and sets it on top of the dryer to dry. Wipes his hands off on a towel. Walks straight toward you.

When he passes by to toss the towel in the bin, he leans close—low, voice rumbling just for you.

“You’ve been lookin’ at me like you wanna climb me like a tree since I bent over to fix that lint trap."

Your skin prickles. Heat rising to your neck.

You say nothing. Sip your coffee like it might protect you.

He stops in front of you. Hands on the counter on either side of your hips. Leans in.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice,” he says, voice thick. “You’ve been staring for a while now, Mrs. Kaminski.”

That name still does something to you.

You can smell the fabric softener on him. The faint scent of apple soap. Underneath it, the smell of Lion himself—salt and sun-warmed skin and laundry heat.

“I was just watching,” you say, too fast.

He smiles. Slow. Knowing.

“You were drooling.”

“Was not.”

“You were starin’ like you wanted to suck the dad right outta me.”

You nearly choke.

He chuckles under his breath.

“Jesus,” he murmurs, eyes flicking toward the play area. Cartoons are playing. The girls are settled. Safe. “You’re lucky they’re busy. You keep lookin’ at me like that, I’m gonna take you home and remind you why you married me.”

You swallow.

“Maybe I need reminding.”

The noise he makes is low, deep, feral. He grabs your chin between his fingers, tilts your head up, leans in close.

“You say that again when we get in the house,” he mutters, “and I’m putting you on your knees first thing.”

You blink up at him, breath caught. Your thighs pressed tight. Your whole body buzzing.

He lets go with a grunt, turns on his heel.

“Girls! Grab your shoes—we’re headed home!”

You hop off the counter on shaky legs.

Lion leans in as he passes by, mouth brushing your ear.

“Gonna put the girls down for a nap,” he whispers, voice wrecked and low, “then I’m puttin’ you down for a stretch, Mrs. Kaminski.”

You nearly trip over the mop bucket on your way out.

The ride home is quiet. Golden. Late afternoon Reno sun bleeds through the windows of the truck, casting warm streaks across the dashboard and catching in the curls of Hannah’s hair as she dozes in her car seat. Harper hums along to the radio, swinging her little legs in time with the music, still clutching her freshly laundered bear like it’s brand new again.

You glance sideways.

Lion’s got one hand on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh.

Thumb rubbing slow circles.

You don’t think he even notices he’s doing it. But you do.

Every pass over your skin—lazy, slow, familiar—sinks just a little deeper than the last.

You pull into the driveway of your small, sun-bleached house on the edge of town. The stucco's warm and cracked in places, the shutters could use repainting, and the porch light still flickers when it storms—but it’s home. There’s sidewalk chalk art trailing up the walk and a pair of muddy pink sandals left forgotten on the front step.

You unbuckle Hannah while Lion grabs the tote bag of snacks and half-folded coloring pages from the back. She whines in her sleep, curling against your chest as you carry her inside. Harper darts past you both, bare feet slapping against the tile, her voice already announcing that she’s gonna pick the movie today, Daddy!

Lion follows behind, closing the door with his foot. His eyes catch yours over the top of Hannah’s head.

You feel it like a jolt.

That look again.

You manage to get both girls down for a nap after a shared bowl of popcorn and ten minutes of some animated fairy movie. Harper falls asleep face-first into the throw pillows on the couch. Hannah goes under with a thumb in her mouth and one chubby hand tangled in your shirt. Lion lifts her gently, tucks her into her toddler bed with the kind of care that makes your breath catch all over again.

He lingers for a moment after, brushing her hair back from her forehead.

You wait in the hallway, heart thudding a little too hard.

The house settles into stillness. The TV’s on mute now. The fan hums from the kitchen. A warm breeze presses through the open windows, thick with sagebrush and desert dust.

Lion steps into the hallway and closes Hannah’s door behind him with a soft click.

You barely have time to straighten up before he’s in front of you.

That same heavy, loaded silence stretching between your bodies.

He doesn’t touch you yet. Doesn’t speak.

Just looks at you like you’re the first clean breath after a long-held one.

And then he says—low and wrecked and reverent:

“Bedroom. Now.”

He doesn’t raise his voice.

Doesn’t have to.

The second he says it—“Bedroom. Now.”—you’re moving.

There’s no rush. No mad scramble. Just this simmering urgency under your skin. Like something slow-boiling finally tipping over. Your bare feet hit the hallway carpet. You hear the quiet creak of the door behind you as he follows.

By the time you reach the bedroom, he’s on you.

His hand slaps the door shut behind you—click—and his mouth is already finding yours, rough and greedy, all teeth and heat and years of knowing exactly how to kiss you. His fingers grip your jaw, tilt your head back, and he takes his time sucking on your bottom lip before biting down, just hard enough to make you gasp.

“You know what you do to me?” he growls, crowding you back toward the bed. “Walking around all day watching me be a good fuckin’ dad—lookin’ at me like I invented the damn sun.”

“I didn’t say anything,” you breathe.

He chuckles dark.

“You didn’t have to. Your pussy was talkin’ loud enough.”

He kisses you again—hot, open-mouthed, hands on your hips. He walks you back step by step until the backs of your knees hit the bed, and you drop with a breathless little bounce.

He doesn’t follow you down. Not yet.

Instead, he stands over you for a second, breathing heavy. Shirt rumpled, belt hanging loose, eyes dark and locked on yours.

Then—

“You gonna thank me?” he asks, voice low. Dangerous.

You blink up at him, dazed. “For what?”

“For bein’ the best fuckin’ husband and father alive,” he says, grabbing your ankle and dragging you to the edge of the bed, “and for not bending you over that dryer earlier when you were eye-fucking me in front of our daughters.”

You moan—half embarrassment, half fuck yes.

“Thank you, Daddy.”

He grunts. Hard.

“Say it again.”

“Thank you, Daddy,” you whisper.

His pupils blow. His jaw clenches. And then he’s down on his knees.

Spreads your thighs without ceremony, yanks your panties aside like they offended him, and groans when he sees the mess between your legs.

“You’re soaked,” he growls, breath hot on your skin. “All that just from watchin’ me fold fuckin’ laundry?”

You nod, breath hitching. “You’re hot when you’re domestic.”

He laughs—a real one, hoarse and disbelieving—and then buries his face between your legs like he missed you. Like he’s been starving.

His tongue is slow at first. Wide, lazy strokes that make your hips twitch. He pins them down, forearms hooked under your thighs, mouth working you over with obscene, practiced confidence. Like he knows every nerve ending by name. He groans into you, like he needs it—like he missed tasting you.

You tangle your fingers in his hair and tug.

He moans so loud it vibrates into your spine.

“Fuck, Lion—”

“Say it right.”

You whimper. “Daddy—fuck—Daddy, please—”

He pulls back for a second, lips wet, panting. “Gonna let me have it? Huh? Gonna let Daddy fuck that tight little wife pussy ‘til you’re cryin’?”

Your answer is already written all over your face.

He gets up and strips fast—belt undone, jeans shoved down, briefs next. His cock is already hard, already leaking, and fuck, it still makes you clench just looking at him.

“C’mere,” he mutters, dragging you further up the bed, flipping you over onto your stomach. “Face down, ass up—just like that. My good girl.”

You arch for him instinctively. He runs a rough hand down your spine, then grabs your hips in both hands and drags you back onto him.

You gasp—no warning, no teasing, he just slides in deep, slow but unrelenting, and holds you there. Your fingers clutch the sheets, legs shaking, jaw slack.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he hisses behind you. “Still tight after all these years. Fuck, you were made for me.”

“Only for you,” you whimper, voice muffled.

“Damn right,” he growls, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in. “You hear me, Mrs. Kaminski? Only I get this pussy.”

You cry out—high, broken.

His wedding ring presses into your hip when he grips you harder.

He sets a rhythm—slow, deep, mean—and you take it, moaning into the mattress, eyes wet, body boneless. Every thrust hits that spot that unravels you. His hand comes up to your hair, fisting it, dragging you up so your back arches deeper and you have to take it.

“Pretty little fuckin’ wife,” he rasps. “So goddamn perfect for me. Gonna knock you up again if you’re not careful. Fill you up so deep you’ll be waddling around the laundromat.”

You whine.

He leans in, breath hot on your neck. “You want that?”

You nod—frantic.

“Use your words.”

“Yes, Daddy. Want it. Want all of it.”

“Yeah?” he pants, thrust-thrust-thrust, rougher now. “Wanna be Mommy again just ‘cause I did the dishes and tied some shoes?”

You moan like it’s killing you. Your orgasm's building fast. Your body’s starting to shake.

He notices.

“Oh, fuck—are you gonna cry for me, baby?” he coos mock-soft, still fucking into you hard. “Gonna let Daddy fuck you so good you cry like a sweet little wife?”

You do. Your body tips over the edge and your orgasm rips through you. You sob—truly sob, overwhelmed and wet and wrecked—and he curses behind you, hips stuttering, and then he’s grinding into you, teeth bared, as he empties himself deep inside you with a growl.

“Fuck—fuck, take it—take all my cum, baby—fuckin’ wringing me out—”

You whimper, legs giving out beneath you.

He collapses over your back, chest heaving, one hand still tangled in your hair, the other gripping your hip like a lifeline. His cock still twitching deep inside you. His wedding ring glinting where it’s pressed tight to your skin.

For a long moment, the room is just heat and breath and aftershocks.

Then, quiet—softly—he kisses the back of your neck.

“You okay?"

You nod, still trembling. “Better than okay.”

He chuckles into your hair.

“My girl.”

You’re still shaking when he rolls off you.

Not because he was too rough—not really. But because Lion Kaminski fucks like he loves: with everything he’s got. Every stroke, every sound, every filthy praise-laced word meant something. And now you’re wrung out from it.

You’re stretched, sweat-slicked, and full—both literally and emotionally.

Lion groans as he flops onto his back beside you, one arm flung up, the other lazily reaching for your waist to reel you in.

“C’mere, baby,” he mumbles, voice ruined.

You curl into his chest without hesitation, cheek pressed against the damp plane of muscle beneath his tattooed collarbone. You can feel his heartbeat, erratic but settling. He kisses the top of your head.

His chest rises and falls. His skin’s still sticky. The sheets are a disaster. But you don’t care. This is your favorite part. The quiet that comes after.

His hand strokes up and down your spine, fingers trailing along your ribs, your side, the dip of your hip. You shift slightly, wince.

“Was I too rough?” he asks instantly, voice thick with concern.

“No,” you breathe, dazed. “You were perfect.”

He exhales, presses another kiss to your hair. “Still—gimme a second. I’ll get a warm towel.”

You hum. “If you move, I might cry again.”

He chuckles, low and warm. “Don’t tempt me, Mrs. Kaminski.”

You lie there a moment longer, tangled up in each other, your limbs heavy and loose. You trace the edge of one of his tattoos with your fingertip. He catches your hand and kisses your knuckles, wedding band and all.

You whisper, “You really like it when I call you Daddy, huh?”

He huffs a laugh. “You say it like that and I’m gonna start all over again.”

“I don’t think I can survive round two.”

He smirks, clearly pleased. “Did I wear you out, baby?”

You nod against his chest. “You’re gonna have to carry me tomorrow.”

He stretches, lazy and content. “Good. I’ll do the school run in the morning. You sleep in.”

“You’re really gonna do drop-off solo? You and Harper always end up getting slushies and showing up to first bell sticky and late.”

“She’s got a reputation to uphold,” he says, mock serious. “Kaminski girls don’t roll in clean. We roll in loved.”

You snort.

He grins.

It’s quiet again for a moment. The sound of the fan ticking. A dog barking two houses down. The rustle of a sheet being pulled half-heartedly over your sticky bodies.

You let your eyes slip closed.

Lion’s voice floats up, rough but soft:

“You think we did alright?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs, arm tight around your back. “With them. The girls. I dunno. I think about it sometimes. What they’ll remember. What they’ll keep.”

You look up at him. His lashes are damp with sweat. His hair’s a mess. His expression’s that rare blend of thoughtful and unsure—something he doesn’t show often.

“They’ll remember being loved,” you say simply. “Safe. Heard. Held.”

He swallows hard.

Doesn’t say anything for a second.

Then murmurs, “I fuckin’ love you, baby.”

You press a kiss to his shoulder. “I love you too, Daddy.”

He groans—long and loud.

“I just got my heart rate back down—don’t start.”

You giggle into his chest.

He tightens his arm around you like he wants to sink into the mattress and never come back up.

And then—

Knock knock knock.

The bedroom door creaks.

“Daddy?” Harper’s voice.

You freeze.

Lion lifts his head, eyes wide. “Yeah, baby?”

“Um…Hannah flushed Barbie’s head down the toilet and now it’s making a glugging noise.”

You press your face into his chest to muffle your laughter.

He sighs—deep, dramatic, resigned.

“Ten minutes,” he calls. “Tell her Daddy’s on his way.”

“…Can we have fruit snacks?”

“…Ten minutes, Harper.”

You lift your head and look at him. His face is twisted somewhere between affection and pure defeated exhaustion.

You grin.

“What?” he asks, mock suspicious.

“Just…you really are the hottest fuckin’ dad alive.”

He groans and flops backward again. “Woman. I will fold you in half if you don’t shut up.”

You laugh and kiss him, one last time, slow and soft.

Then sigh, already reaching for your robe.

thigh-fucking.

it was the only thing you’d allow him to do while you were bleeding.

he looked heartbroken when you said it. not because he didn’t want it—no, he wanted anything you’d give him. but he craved more. craved the slick, pulsing heat of your cunt wrapped around him like a vice.

“please,” he’d whispered, voice rasped and aching. “just let me have it… let me feel you.”

but you said no.

now, his hands tremble as they knead into the softness of your thighs, spreading them wider over the edge of the bed. his knuckles press into the backs of your knees as he lowers himself between them, mouth watering—literally—as thick strings of spit dangle from his parted lips and drip onto your inner thighs.

“fuck,” he groans, forehead pressing to your knee for a moment as his cock jumps in his fist. he looks up at you like he’s starving—like you’re the only thing that could ever satisfy him.

he jerks himself slow at first, hand slick with spit and pre-cum, sliding over the flushed, leaking head. you can see how swollen he is—how red and angry the tip looks from neglect.

“baby, please,” he whimpers, voice cracking as his thumb rolls over the slit. “i just wan’ to be inside of you.”

you stare down at him, lips parted slightly, breath shallow. but still—you shake your head.

“no, remmick,” you murmur, voice barely a breath. “you know the rules.”

he lets out a strangled sound, somewhere between a growl and a cry, and buries his face against your thigh.

“then let me fuck them,” he breathes against your skin, hot and wet, kissing the curve of your flesh. “let me fuck your thighs like they’re your cunt.”

you hum, teasing, letting your knees fall open just a bit more.

“is that what you want?”

he nods frantically, stumbling to his feet with his cock still in his hand. one hand finds your thigh again as he steps closer, dragging you just a little more to the edge of the bed until your ass barely clings to the sheets.

his tip grazes your skin, smearing precum over the softness as he lines himself up between your thighs, jaw clenched tight.

“please—please,” he babbles, voice unsteady, almost breaking. his hands grip the tops of your thighs, squeezing tight as he pushes forward, slotting his cock between the blood-warmed press of your skin.

you tense around him slightly, thighs pressing together just enough to mimic the feeling of your cunt. he lets out a low, guttural moan, hips twitching.

you look up at him, eyes heavy-lidded, lips parted.

“then fuck them, baby,” you whisper, voice like honey. “fuck them like you wish it was me.”

he lets out a ragged groan as he pulls back, then drives forward again, his cock sliding hot and heavy between your thighs. your skin slicks with sweat and blood, and the friction only makes him moan louder.

his hips slap against you with more force now, the sound obscene—wet and sharp, over and over. drool slips from the corner of his mouth, falling messily onto your abdomen, mixing with the sheen of sweat already there.

“fuck… you feel so good,” he slurs, voice choked with need, the words barely coherent through his panting.

his pace quickens—sloppier now, more frantic.

you tighten your thighs around him, pressing in, and he cries out like a wounded animal.

“shit—fuck—do that again,” he whines, already fucking into the vice of your thighs like he can’t hold himself back anymore.

his fingers dig into the plush flesh of your thighs, hard enough to bruise. his knuckles turn white from the pressure.

“smell so fuckin’ sweet,” he growls, inhaling the coppery scent of your blood like it’s perfume. he salivates.

“want to fuck you properly,” he pants. “want to split you open and stuff you full, feel this bloody little cunt pulse around me while i fuck you raw—”

you feel his cock throb between your thighs as he ruts harder, desperate, hips jerking like he’s already close.

his brows knit together, muscles straining as his thrusts grow faster, harder.

he moans, loud and wrecked, chest heaving as his body curls forward just slightly—like the pleasure’s too much to bear. his eyes squeeze shut and his rhythm starts to falter, every snap of his hips more desperate than the last.

you feel it—how close he is. how his thighs start to tremble.

and then you speak.

“stop.”

his eyes fly open, wide and glassy, a pained whine ripping through his throat as he slows to a trembling halt.

“n-no,” he stutters, voice breaking. “fuck—please.”

your name falls from his lips, guttural and raw, as his cock twitches between your slicked-up thighs.

then—your legs spread, slow and deliberate.

the bloody mess between them glistens, spilling onto your inner thighs and smeared across the crease of your cunt.

he stares like he’s hypnotized. drool spills from his mouth again, thick and slow as it drips down his chin.

“come on,” you whisper, breathless.

he lunges forward instantly, grabbing your thighs and yanking them up around his waist. his cock slides up against your folds, already seeking your heat.

but just before he can breach you—

“you can’t fuck me.”

he lets out a deep, broken groan, his body shaking with the need to come, to bury himself deep.

he snarls softly under his breath, grinding his cock against your cunt instead, letting the flushed head slide along the wet, bloody mess.

his tip nudges your clit with every pass and you jolt each time, breath catching as your moans start to echo his.

he fists the sheets behind you for leverage and ruts hard, faster, his cock coated in the sticky sheen of blood and slick.

he pants, watching the way his cock glides against your folds, dragging your swollen clit every time.

you clench around nothing, your walls fluttering from the pressure and the build.

his moans get louder, almost pained, as your blood paints his cock in messy streaks.

you watch him unravel.

his breath hitches every time your clit catches under the swollen head of his cock, slick and red smearing across both of you. his muscles shake as he ruts into you, chasing the high you’re dangling just out of reach.

you lean back slightly, propping yourself on your elbows, eyes heavy as you look down at the scene between your thighs.

“look at you,” you murmur, voice slow and syrupy. “so fuckin’ desperate. cock all messy and throbbing, and you’re not even inside me.”

his head drops forward, forehead brushing your shoulder, a strangled groan leaving his chest.

“please,” he gasps. “baby, please let me—”

“no,” you cut him off, rolling your hips slightly to meet his next thrust, just enough to tease him, to keep him shaking. “you come like this. not inside me. not tonight.”

he whimpers, actually fucking whimpers, grinding harder like he can force his way in if he tries.

“god, you’re mean,” he moans, voice thick with frustration. “so fuckin’ mean to me.”

you smile lazily, trailing one hand up his chest, nails dragging through the light sweat gathered there.

“then stop,” you offer softly. “pull back. get off me.”

he jerks his hips again in answer, a growl rumbling in his chest.

“can’t,” he chokes out. “you smell like blood and sex and you’re fuckin’ soaked—fuck—i can’t.”

you hum low, pleased, and shift your hips so that your folds part just a little more, letting his cock nestle perfectly between them. your clit throbs from the stimulation, but you bite down on the whine building in your throat.

“you keep going like this,” you whisper, voice dipped in threat and promise, “and you don’t get to come at all.”

his whole body stutters, cock twitching hard between your folds.

“n-no, don’t do that,” he gasps, fingers bruising your thighs now as he clings to them like a lifeline. “please, baby—i’ll be good. i’ll be good, i swear, just let me—fuck—just let me use your cunt.”

you tilt your head, pretending to think, enjoying the way he begs—how wild he looks with his face flushed, his jaw tight, his mouth wet, cock pulsing and soaked in blood.

“i said no,” you whisper against his ear. “you’re gonna come. outside.”

he lets out a sound that barely qualifies as human, hips snapping wildly, frenzied now.

and you—

you don’t stop him.

you just watch him fall apart.

you can feel it in the way his thrusts lose rhythm, in how his cock twitches violently between your folds, tip catching on your clit with every sloppy drag.

his hips stutter. he gasps your name like a prayer, like a curse.

“fuck—fuck, baby, i’m gonna—”

his hands grip your waist, desperate to hold himself steady, to not come before you give him the word.

but you see it—the way his jaw locks, the way his thighs shake, the way his moans grow ragged and high.

he’s right there.

and just as his body starts to curl forward, just as his cock pulses hot against your blood-slicked cunt—

“stop.”

one word. soft, but firm.

and it cuts through him like a blade.

he sobs. actually sobs, a sound torn from the back of his throat, thick with denial and disbelief.

his body convulses as he forces himself to still. his cock jumps against your clit, leaking, throbbing, aching.

his chest heaves, mouth open, spit stringing between his lips and your collarbone where he’d leaned in too close.

“please—please, i can’t,” he gasps, voice hoarse and broken. “baby, don’t—don’t do this to me.”

you lean forward, one hand stroking down his trembling stomach, stopping just before you touch his cock.

“you almost came without permission,” you murmur, lips brushing his cheek. “that’s not very good of you, remmick.”

he shudders, his cock twitching again like it’s trying to come anyway, leaking thick pre against your folds.

“but i—I tried,” he stammers, eyes glassy, tears threatening. “i stopped, i stopped, please, i’ll do anything—just let me finish, please.”

you hum softly, pressing your fingers into his jaw, forcing him to look at you.

“then prove it,” you whisper. “prove you deserve to come. get on your knees.”

he blinks, confused for half a second—then his legs fold beneath him like he’s been shot, collapsing to the floor at the edge of the bed.

his cock stands flushed and furious, twitching with every mimicked beat of his heart, streaked with blood and thick strings of slick.

he presses his cheek against your thigh, panting, shaking, whimpering softly into your skin.

you tilt your head.

“no touching,” you warn, one hand sliding gently through his hair. “not yet.”

his hands clench uselessly at his sides.

you smile.

he’s so close you can feel it vibrating off him.

he stays still.

kneeling between your legs, chest rising and falling like he’s run miles, face pressed to your thigh.

you feel the heat of his breath—fast, uneven, desperate—as it ghosts over the mess between your legs.

he whimpers again, soft and pathetic, like a dog trying not to whine, and it makes you smile.

“good boy,” you murmur, dragging your fingers through his damp curls, slow and teasing.

he makes a noise at that, a quiet broken little thing, like just the praise alone might undo him.

your thighs part a little more. the blood has started to dry in some places, but the warmth still lingers, slick and coppery and thick.

“clean me up,” you say.

his head jerks up immediately, eyes wide and blown black, like he didn’t believe you’d actually let him close.

but you nod, just once.

“with your mouth.”

he doesn’t hesitate.

his lips press to your inner thigh first, reverent, like he’s praying.

then—his tongue.

slow at first. testing. trembling.

he licks a stripe through the blood smeared across your skin, groaning at the taste.

and then it’s like something snaps.

his mouth drags lower, hotter, messier.

he moans into you, lapping at the blood pooled between your folds, drinking it like he’s parched.

“fuck,” he pants against you, tongue flicking your clit by accident—and you jerk, biting your lip.

he freezes, like he’s afraid that was too much.

“don’t stop,” you whisper, fingers in his hair again. “but slow. tease it. just like that.”

his breath shudders against your cunt as he licks again, slower this time, taking his time now, dragging his tongue through the mess he’d made earlier—your blood, his spit, your slick.

every now and then, he bumps your clit just right, and you twitch, thighs tensing around his head.

he moans again, like your reactions are the only thing keeping him alive.

his hands grip your thighs—not to guide you, not to pull you closer, but just to hold on.

his cock hangs between his legs, flushed and twitching, untouched and angry.

you look down at him, his face painted with blood and lust, mouth slick and red, eyes pleading even as he obeys.

“such a good mouth,” you murmur. “you want to come, don’t you?”

he nods into you, desperate, tongue slowing just to answer.

“then make me come first,” you say softly, “with that pretty, bloody mouth.”

he moans into your folds again, the sound vibrating against your clit just enough to make your legs twitch.

your fingers tighten in his hair.

you don’t guide him—he’s learned by now.

and fuck, does he want it bad.

his tongue laves through your mess, slow at first, then faster, more focused, circling your clit before flattening against it, dragging long, wet strokes over the sensitive bundle.

you gasp softly, hips rocking forward.

“just like that,” you whisper, breath breaking, “keep going.”

he hums in response, and the sound rumbles through you like lightning.

his mouth moves with more purpose now, more pressure. messy, but good—so good, so fucking good.

your thighs clamp around his head.

you start to pant, sharp, fast, your hand fisting in his hair as your body begins to tense, the pleasure burning up your spine like fire.

he sucks gently, then flicks his tongue in quick, tight strokes—again, again, again.

you cry out.

your whole body jerks as it hits—hard.

your orgasm rips through you like a storm, blood rushing in your ears, your thighs clenching, your back arching just slightly as you grind into his mouth.

and he doesn’t stop.

he moans like he’s the one coming, like tasting you unravel against his tongue is better than anything he’s ever known.

you breathe heavy through it, letting it take you, letting him have it.

and when you finally come down, you tug gently at his hair, easing him back.

his face is soaked—slick, blood, drool, all of it—and his cock is still flushed and twitching, drooling precum onto the floor beneath him.

he’s shaking.

“please,” he rasps. “please, can i—can i come now?”

you drag your fingers down his throat, watching him swallow hard beneath your touch.

“stand up.”

he stumbles to his feet, cock bobbing, angry and glistening red.

you look at it, slow and deliberate.

then up at him.

“you come,” you murmur, voice low, “but you don’t touch yourself.”

his jaw falls open.

“w-what?”

“grind against me. like before.”

he groans—loud, pained—as he steps forward, dragging the tip of his cock along your still-throbbing folds.

“fuck—fuck, baby—”

he ruts into you, wild and broken, his cock slipping against your blood-slick cunt, head catching on your clit again and again.

you moan softly, overstimulated, but you let him use you.

“gonna come,” he gasps, hips stuttering. “gonna come all over your pussy, please, let me—fuck, let me—”

“do it,” you whisper. “make a mess of me.”

that’s all it takes.

he lets out a strangled, half-sobbed cry as his cock jerks against you, hot ropes of cum spilling across your folds, painting you with thick, pulsing streaks of white.

his legs nearly give out as he collapses forward, forehead pressed to your shoulder, body trembling.

“thank you,” he pants, voice cracking. “fuck—thank you—”

your fingers stroke through his hair again, slow and soft.

“good boy,” you whisper. “such a good fucking boy.”

— — — —

blearing, white-hot pain shoots through the side of your neck, and a gasp tears through your throat. it is so sudden—so sudden, and you barely have time to understand how you ended up how you did. 

he had grabbed you, holding you so close to him—his arms wrapped around your waist, holding you upright while his tongue licked lazily up your neck. 

“shh…don’t cry. it’ll be alright.”

he had murmured against your ear, breath hot and dripping with thirst. 

it was a cruel thing.

cruel in the way it stole breath before you could even scream, in the way it mocked the simplicity of your night—how only minutes earlier, your hands had been warm, reaching for the last pair of drawers on the line, the wind tugging gently at your nightgown like a teasing friend. you had only stepped off the porch. just a few steps. just to gather what was yours.

and then he was there.

the roughness of his grip was so sudden, so wrong, it split the air like a crack of thunder. your body flinched on instinct, mind fumbling to catch up to the moment—was this real? did you know this man? were you dreaming? but the pain blooming beneath his fingers on your arm told you otherwise. told you this wasn’t the kind of nightmare you could wake from.

you had opened your mouth to say something—anything, but no words could escape before his teeth—no—fangs punctured your neck. 

his rough tongue darts quickly, his mouth slurping as your blood—warm and tangy—leaks down your neck from where his mouth hadn’t been quick enough to catch. the splatter of it spills onto your cotton nightgown.

a movement—sudden, but clear, spills from him. more so, from the space where he is pressed up against you. a stuttering breath passes through your lips at the contact.

he’s flushed up against you, and aside from the blearing pain flying through your body, you feel him pressing into your bottom.

he ruts against you, chasing the friction provided. he lets out a sound—a whine, you assume through the mind fog. 

a heat flushes through you—sudden, unprovoked, and sickening. it crawls beneath your skin like a fever you didn’t ask for, one that sets your nerves on fire in all the wrong ways. shame follows fast behind it, swallowing you whole. it pulses in your fingertips, clenches in your gut, coats your teeth like bitterness.

you hate that you feel it.

hate that your body reacts at all.

because the pain—sharp, raw, burning—should’ve been enough. but somehow, it’s the shame that lingers heavier. shame that makes you feel small. shame that makes your skin feel too tight. shame that makes you wish you could disappear, not because of what’s happening, but because some awful part of you believes you’re supposed to bear it.

the suction of his mouth grows sharper for just a second—you swear he’s going to drain you. just before he can, you feel his head snap back, the crimson fluid he just stole from you dripping down his chin, coating his cheeks.

“oh….oh.”

your head slowly turns, and you spot his eyebrows furrowing as he glances down to the space—or the lack of—between you.

he seems confused as his eyes scan the way he fits against you—firm and hard, like instinct. like muscle remembering what the mind had long tried to forget. Like something inside of him is remembering something he had buried and traded for the concept of survival. 

his mouth opens with a smack, before it slowly forms into an ‘o’.

you’re sure he’s about to say something when suddenly, he presses forward, flushing his chest to your back, ripping a gasp from your throat.

“i…i don’t think this is ‘posed to happen’”

his breath ghosts over your ruined neck, and the confusion falls from his lips.

a groan, low and abrupt, passes through his blood-stained lips. it’s a sound that doesn’t belong to hunger or pleasure—it’s uncertainty. reluctance. it rumbles like a warning he doesn’t understand himself, and it sends a jolt through your body, sharp as a spark beneath the skin. your breath catches. you’re not sure if it’s fear or revulsion or some terrible, trembling mix of both.

your eyes flit back to the porch—to the basket where your clothes lay, spilled and crumpled in the dirt. a shirt hangs over the edge like it’s reaching for you. the sight guts you.

you had dropped it when he grabbed you.

your arms had been full of ordinary things.

of clean linen, still warm from the sun.

and all you want now—achingly, desperately—is to return to it.

“please,” your voice comes out with a breath—choking up in your throat, “…let me go.”

he pauses. 

the arm around your waist tightens and it causes a soft gasp to sound from your throat. 

“why you wan’ me to let you go?”

his nose pokes into the bite mark on your neck, eliciting a wince from you. the question comes out a bit uncertain—like he’s confused as to why you want to leave him like this.

“you don’t feel this,” he punctuates his word with a rut against you. “you can’t leave me like this.”

the tone in his voice is desperate—needy even, causes you to freeze.

confusion laced with desire falls from his mouth. his rough, hot tongue darts out to lick at your neck once more. 

a sound of disgust slips through your mouth—sharp and guttural, rising before you can stop it. it’s instinct, raw and trembling, the only thing you have left to give.

he pauses.

just for a breath. just long enough for the air between you to shift.

then he pulls back—confused, maybe stunned—and that retreat is all you need. you don’t think. there’s no space for thought. only a surge of heat.

you ram your head back, hard into his chin. bone meets bone. the crack echoes inside your skull like a church bell rung wrong.

a grunt tears through his lips, and his hold falters.

you move. not gracefully, not cleanly—

just fast. just desperate.

you push forward, wrenching yourself out of his arms. your feet slam against the cold grass, slick with dew, and the ground tilts underneath you. your vision veers sideways, spinning from blood-loss, from panic, from the weight of everything all at once.

“s-stop! you can’t leave me like this.”

his voice rings out behind you—desperate, yearning, maybe even startled—but it feels distant, like it’s echoing from underwater. you don’t dare look back. the only thing you see is the porch rising in front of you like salvation.

your legs nearly give out as you reach the steps, but you launch yourself upward, stumbling and scrambling until your body crashes against the door with a dull, aching thud. pain flares along your shoulder, but you don’t stop. you brace for the worst—for the hard slap of wood refusing you, for the cruel slam of a locked world.

but you’d left it cracked.

you don’t even remember doing it, but thank god you had.

your body falls forward, toppling past the frame in a blur of heat and breath and blind panic. the wooden floor meets you with a thud, and for a heartbeat, you just lie there—half-sprawled, half-curled, heart pounding against the floorboards like it’s trying to get free of your chest.

past the threshold.

inside.

safe.

the door was still splayed open, and you could hear the heavy boots of him pacing on the worn wood of your porch, but you didn’t care. didn’t care how or why he couldn’t just walk in and take you right back out.

no. you didn’t think that far, and as the weight of the blood-loss settles over your body like a wet blanket, your eyes roll to the back of your head. 

——————

it had been a week. 

a week since you had stepped outside your house at night. 

that morning—when the light finally broke across your floorboards like a quiet apology—you woke with your head pounding and your mouth dry as cotton. every part of your body felt sore, like you’d been wrung out and left in the sun too long.

he was nowhere to be seen.

no shadow. no sound. no sign he’d ever been there at all.

but you knew better.

you didn’t step outside. not even once.

you stayed inside your home, locked behind the door like it was the only thing keeping the world from splitting open again. a strip of cloth was pressed against your neck, stained from the wound that throbbed beneath it. the ache pulsed steady with your heartbeat—a quiet, cruel reminder.

your fingers stayed curled around the handle of a kitchen knife, white-knuckled and still trembling, long after the sun had crept across the room. even when your hand went numb, you didn’t let go.

he didn’t return that day. or the next.

you didn’t want to worry, but a part of you still clung to the idea that he was out there, waiting. waiting for you to slip up so that he could grab you once more.

by the third day, you decided to continue on with your life. stepping outside onto the porch with your breath held in your throat.

he wasn’t there. 

the sun beat down heavily across your home, and the clothes line danced with the wing—rustling gently.

that night, you dreamt. 

your body jolted with each thrust, already caught in the storm, and his voice—ragged and wild—only pulled you deeper under.

“say it… s-say my name!”

it came out in a near-snarl, not cruel, but desperate. like the sound of a man barely holding himself together, trying to find something to anchor to as he pounded into you with reckless, trembling need.

but your voice—

it wouldn’t come.

your mouth opened, but nothing formed, just broken gasps and choked cries, your face still buried in the pillow, now damp with sweat and spit. your throat ached with moans you hadn’t meant to make. you were unraveling, bit by bit, your body pulsing around him, clenching tight as the pressure in your belly twisted into something unstoppable.

his hand on your clit didn’t let up. if anything, it grew more deliberate—ruthless in its rhythm. his thumb swirled over you, hot and slick, heavy and rough as your hips twitched uncontrollably. every nerve in your body was alight, the sound of his groans behind you nearly as dizzying as the slaps of skin and the bed frame straining beneath the force of him.

his cock throbbed inside you, each stroke deep and hurried now, dragging against your swollen walls like he was trying to carve his name into you from the inside out. the sound of it—wet, sharp, filthy—filled the room like a song that only your bodies knew how to sing.

and then it happened.

your body locked.

your toes curled.

and your lungs emptied.

a sharp cry tore from you—his name half-formed, almost there—as your climax hit, sudden and all-consuming. your vision blurred as your body convulsed, waves crashing through you so hard you nearly forgot where you were.

he let out a strangled groan behind you, his hips jerking erratically, chasing your release with his own. his cock twitched deep inside, and with a hoarse, broken sound, he spilled into you—warmth flooding you, filling you, marking you.

he rode it out, his body pressing down on yours, hand still moving, dragging the orgasm from you until it left you limp and shaking beneath him.

your fingers finally released the sheets, trembling, and you gasped into the pillow like it was the first breath you’d taken in years.

your mind blanked.

you woke with a startle—your body jerking, breath caught sharp in your throat like you’d been yanked from the depths of something unspeakable. heat flooded you, thick and sudden, pooling beneath your skin as if you were still there, still lost in it.

your chest rose and fell too fast, lungs aching from how hard they worked to steady you. your hands clutched the sheets without realizing, the fabric damp beneath your palms. your mind, still fogged with fragments, tried to twist back into itself—tried to make sense of what was real and what had only felt that way.

your thighs rubbed together—and you felt it.

a wet, sticky warmth clinging to the soft skin between them. slick and unmistakable. your breath hitched as the realization hit you, and a wave of shame surged through your chest so suddenly, you flinched.

“fuck…” you whispered under your breath.

your fingers curled tightly into the fabric of your nightgown, bunching it against your stomach as if the pressure alone could make the feeling go away. like you could press the memory down, flatten it, bury it under cotton and guilt.

your mind spun, trying to make sense of why him.

why that.

you didn’t understand why you dreamt of him in such a scandalous, filthy way—why his hands, his mouth, his body had felt so real.

why your own body responded like it wanted it.

like it remembered.

your face burned.

hot and clammy to the touch, even in the cool quiet of your room.

you squeezed your thighs together, trying to contain the pulsing ache that hadn’t yet faded. it sat there, low and heavy in your gut, begging to be soothed. your fingers twitched at your side, and for a split second, you almost let them drift lower.

but you stopped yourself.

you clenched your jaw and shut your eyes tight, pressing your legs together like a seal. like that would hold back the memory of his name falling from your lips, the feel of him stretching you open, the sound of skin slapping and breathless groans in your ear.

————

by the end of the week, you felt as though he was truly gone for good.

the silence had settled again, not like a threat this time, but like dust returning to undisturbed corners. no voice behind you, no shadow in the tree line, no sudden breath against your neck. just the wind. the sun. the familiar creak of the porch beneath your steps.

it didn’t take long before you slipped back into the rhythm of your days—those quiet, outdoor chores that had always grounded you. you began hanging clothes again, your fingers brushing the warm fabric, sunlight catching the edges of the sheets like a blessing.

in the back of your home, you knelt beside your small herb garden, pressing your fingers into the dirt like it could anchor you. rosemary. sage. thyme. they greeted you like old friends, unaware of what you’d endured. or maybe they knew—and simply chose not to ask.

the peace didn’t last long.

on the sixth night, he returned.

you’re taking the clothes down that had been drying all day—like you had before, when he first got you. 

a crack sounds behind you.

sharp. sudden. too close.

your body jerks, instincts sharper than thought, and your head whips around—fists clenched tight around the soft fabric of a freshly-dried gown. your heart lurches upward, caught somewhere between your ribs and your throat.

your body knows before your mind.

knows the rhythm of danger. the hum beneath the skin.

and without a thought, your feet begin to move—gravel crunching beneath them as you pull yourself toward the front door like safety is just inches away.

“wait.”

you hate how you stop.

how the sound of his voice roots you in place.

there’s something in it—something cracked open. desperate. searching.

and for some godawful reason, it reaches you.

your feet freeze.

your head turns, slow and reluctant, toward the right.

and there he is.

dressed in dark pants, suspenders hanging loose like they’d been tugged too hard, too fast. a pale blue button-up clings to his frame, sleeves rolled, top buttons torn clean open. it might’ve once looked neat. now it clings to him like second skin—filthy, sweat-soaked, streaked in places with grime and something far worse.

blood.

so much of it.

his brown hair is tousled and damp, the front sticking to his forehead in matted curls. and beneath the fabric, the white of a wife-beater peeks out—though it’s barely white anymore. more a rusted red, like someone had tried to scrub the stain but it refused to fade. a thin gold chain glints against his collarbone, catching the moonlight like it doesn’t realize it’s resting on a monster.

your eyes widen.

your breath catches.

you take a step back. your heel digs into the dirt. and still, your gaze is fixed on him—on the smear of blood across his cheeks, dried and flaking at the edges, like war paint. it trails down his throat, painting the lines of his neck, seeping into the cotton of his shirt. it looks fresh.

his mouth opens as he takes a step forward.

you take a step back—slow, deliberate, your heel skimming the earth like you’re testing the ground beneath you, unsure if it will hold.

“i ain’t goin’ to hurt you.”

his voice is soft. too soft. like he’s trying to fold himself into something harmless, like he doesn’t still have blood on his face, like he didn’t tear through you once already. it’s a tone that might’ve calmed you in another life. in this one, it makes your stomach turn.

your fingers clutch the dress tighter, knuckles paling with the strain. you can feel the seams of the fabric pressing into your skin, grounding you, even as your body begs to run.

you want—desperately, urgently—to look back. to see how many steps remain between you and the safety of your door. but you don’t dare move. not even your eyes. not when he’s watching you like that. not when you know how quick he can close the space between you.

even the smallest glance away might invite him forward.

“you hurt me before.”

the words fall from your lips before you’re ready. soft. strange. unfamiliar.

the sound of your own voice jars you. it doesn’t sound angry. it doesn’t even sound afraid. it sounds… disoriented. like the memory has begun to blur around the edges, melting into something that doesn’t make sense anymore. like you’re not certain if it happened the way you remember. if it happened at all.

and that terrifies you more than anything.

because you know what he did.

your body still remembers, even if your voice has started to forget.

your mind flits back to the dream—the dream that had you gasping for air once you’d awaken. 

it’s strange. 

here, in front of you, was the man—the beast—who had held your life in the palm of his hand, threatening death with a final pull of your blood into his mouth. 

and now, all you could think about was the way he rubbed against you—like the feeling was both foreign and enticing to him. 

he lets out a strained laugh.

“yeah. you’re right about that, b-but, i ain’t goin’ to do that again. 

“how can i trust you?”

your voice is more certain this time around, and your hands fall to your sides, still holding the dress in your hand as your chest moves with your breaths.

the wind sweeps between you.

he takes another step forward and you mirror by taking another step backward.

his arms lift, elbows jutting out wide as his hands settle on top of his head. his fingers thread through his messy hair, gripping at the roots like he’s trying to hold something inside from breaking loose.

then comes the sound.

low, cracked—something between a groan and a whine.

“please… why is this happenin’ to me?”

his voice trembles at the edges, and for a moment, it almost sounds like grief. like confusion twisted into something uglier. and that unsettles you even more. because this isn’t remorse. this isn’t shame. it’s self-pity—sharp and misplaced.

you blink, heart rattling in your chest.

you have no idea what he’s talking about.

and the not knowing—it’s beginning to twist in your gut, cold and tight.

he starts pacing, erratic and restless, but still a good distance off. far enough that you can breathe. far enough that you don’t yet have to run.

“i’ve been runnin’ ‘round everywhere,” he mutters, almost to himself, his voice thick with something that borders on frustration. “drainin’ folks left an’ right…”

he pauses, his body stiffening.

“but i ain’t do this with them.”

his arms drop heavily to his sides, and then one hand presses flat against his pants—lower. against himself.

your breath stutters.

the gesture is crude, almost unconscious, like his body is betraying him, like he doesn’t know what to do with what he’s feeling. and that’s what makes it worse. not the motion itself, but the fact that he’s unraveling—right there in front of you.

and you’re the one he’s unraveling over.

you take a step backward, slow and cautious, and the snap of a small branch beneath your foot cuts through the quiet like a shot.

he stops.

his head turns toward you—slow, deliberate, like he already knows exactly where you are. his eyes lock onto yours, and something in your chest flinches. not from fear. not entirely.

no, it’s something else.

something low and stirring, unwelcome but real, curling hot in your belly beneath the weight of his gaze. it shames you the moment it blooms, but it doesn’t leave. it sits there, twisting—because the look in his eyes isn’t hungry for blood. not right now.

he looks torn.

like a man fraying at the seams.

like something inside him is breaking open under the weight of a need he doesn’t understand—had forgotten was possible. a craving that wasn’t sharp teeth and crimson thirst, but touch. closeness. something unbearably human.

he takes a step forward.

you don’t move.

“help me…” he breathes, voice cracking as if the words pain him. “i won’t hurt you. just help me feel better. yeah?”

he inches closer, each step careful, almost reverent, until he’s within arm’s reach. and now, this close, you can see it all—his chest heaving, the tension in his shoulders, the way his pants strain from how tightly he’s wound. how unbearably pent up he is.

your eyes flick down. just for a second.

your cheeks flush hot, instant and humiliating, and you curse yourself silently—clenching your jaw as if that alone could rewind the moment. your body had again. as if it hadn’t learned.

he doesn’t let you answer.

he takes another step forward, slow and deliberate, like he’s afraid any hesitation might send him unraveling again.

your empty hand flies up on instinct, palm raised between you like a barrier made of sheer will.

“stop,” you say.

but your voice—god, your voice—comes out too soft, too unsure, trembling on the edges. it betrays you, just like your body does.

he doesn’t stop.

he keeps moving until your hand meets his chest, firm and burning beneath your touch. his skin is hot through the thin fabric, and the moment you make contact, a sound spills from him—deep and broken. a groan laced with something softer, needier. a whine.

his head dips slightly, his breath brushing your skin.

“see?” he murmurs, voice thick, ragged. “see what you’re doin’ to me?”

it takes every ounce of strength to keep your gaze on his, to hold steady beneath the weight of him. but the tension in his body, the ragged rise of his chest, the way he looks at you like you’re both his torment and salvation—it all pulls your eyes downward.

just for a second.

just long enough to see his hand again, pressing against himself, slow and deliberate.

resuming what he had started.

and your breath stutters.

“stop. i don’t know you.”

your voice is firmer this time, but there’s a crack running through it.

a hairline fracture of fear, of confusion, of something far more complicated than either.

his eyes stay locked on yours, wild and pleading.

“remmick,” he breathes.

“what?”

you blink. it comes out before you can process it.

“my name,” he says again, faster this time. “remmick.”

he says it like it means something. like it should unlock something in you.

he pauses, as if waiting for it to take hold, and then looks up—right into your eyes.

“say it. please.”

your hand is still on his chest, trembling now, caught between pushing him away and holding him there. your lips part, hesitating, uncertain. but the sound slips out anyway.

“remmick.”

that’s all it takes.

his body shifts—subtle but unmistakable—as if the word pierced straight through him. he leans forward, just slightly, like he’s being drawn into you by gravity itself. one of his hands lifts, and he presses yours harder against his chest, like he needs to feel it. like he needs proof that you said it. that it’s real.

a soft moan escapes him, low and shivering, the sound pulled from somewhere deep. it curls around you like smoke—dangerous, intimate, and far too close.

a sensation shoots through you—sharp and strange—sparking low in your belly and crawling up your spine like a current. your body shudders, betraying you before you can make sense of it. you suck in a breath through parted lips, and that’s when you catch it.

he’s close.

so close, you can smell him.

not just blood, though that’s there—metallic, sharp, and thick like it clings to him from the inside out. not just dirt either, though earth clings to his clothes, the scent of sweat and soil mingling on his skin. there’s something else. something older. colder. something that reminds you of decay, of things buried and forgotten. it lingers in the air around him like a warning.

your voice trembles as it slips past your lips, low and unsure.

“if…”

you pause, swallowing hard as your thoughts struggle to take shape.

“if i help you… will you let me live?”

your eyes dart away from his, just for a second.

you don’t mean to. but holding his gaze for too long feels like surrendering.

remmick pauses.

it’s slight—barely a beat—but you feel it in your bones.

“i was always plannin’ on keepin’ you,” he murmurs, and something about the way he says it makes your stomach twist. “couldn’t do that if you’re dead.”

his voice has changed. not just the words—his whole way of speaking. the southern drawl softens, thins out, and something else bleeds through. a different cadence. older. maybe even his real voice. it startles you, but you can’t quite place why. it sounds less put-on. more him.

he studies your face—eyes flicking across your features like he’s trying to read a language only he remembers.

then, a slow smile curves his lips. not smug. not cruel.

curious. certain.

“tell me you feel it too.”

you want to say no.

you want to recoil, to push him away, to scream that this is wrong, that none of this makes sense, that nothing about him feels safe.

but your body—traitorous, aching, alive—gives you away.

because as you look at him, at the hunger and confusion tangled in his expression, something warm begins to spread through you again.

you gather the courage to turn from him, your eyes flicking toward the back door—your door. the one that had always meant safety, the one you weren’t sure would feel that way ever again.

“i can’t let you in.”

the words leave your mouth like something sacred. like a boundary you hope he might honor.

his smile deepens, slow and knowing.

“i know, darlin’,” he says, voice like worn velvet. “you’re not stupid.”

the way he says it isn’t mocking. it almost sounds like admiration. like he means it.

you glance back at him, chest tight, and exhale a shaky breath. your hand softens against his chest, settling there beneath the warmth of his palm—no longer resisting. not quite yielding. something in between.

“okay.”

you barely get the word out before the world shifts.

suddenly, you’re in his arms—lifted with startling ease, pressed tightly against his chest like you belong there. a shocked gasp rips from your throat, your arms instinctively grabbing hold of whatever they can, unsure whether to brace or cling.

his feet move fast, sure, and then the cool slam of the outside world hits you again—your back porch beneath you, the creak of old wood under his boots.

your feet touch down onto the dirty boards, but you barely feel them.

your back hits the wall of your house, and his chest meets yours.

you’re trapped—surrounded by the scent of him, the warmth of him, the tension that radiates off his body in waves. the wall behind you is cool and hard, but his body in front of you burns like fever. he’s close. too close. and yet somehow not close enough for him.

something in him shifts—slow, subtle. like the current inside him changes direction and he doesn’t know how to follow it. you feel it in the way his body stills, then trembles slightly, pressed so tight against you that every breath he takes stutters against your chest.

you can feel him—hard and insistent—pressing into your thigh through the worn fabric of his pants. the weight of it, the heat, the way it pulses with no rhythm but his rising need.

he seems… lost.

remmick’s eyes flicker, wild and unsure, and when you meet them, there’s something desperate there. not hunger like before—but confusion. like his body remembered something his mind didn’t. like he had no idea what to do with this kind of ache.

you search his gaze, trying to find a map inside him. something that tells you what he wants. what he expects. but there’s nothing clear. only the trembling look of a man who doesn’t remember how to feel without violence.

then he lets out a groan—low and helpless—as his hips push forward, grinding against your thigh with a need he doesn’t seem to know how to contain.

your body jerks in surprise.

a sharp breath tears from your lips as the movement drags heat through you, low and dizzying. it coils in your belly, thick and sudden.

you hadn’t meant to respond.

but now that you have, you can’t pretend not to feel it.

“do something, please.”

his voice breaks apart as he speaks, breath coming in fast, shallow bursts. he begs through it—through the way his hips keep chasing the friction, rutting against your thigh like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

you swallow hard, nerves tangled with something warmer, something you don’t want to name. your fingers twitch where they rest, and you shake your head, barely able to speak.

“i–i don’t know what to do,” you confess, voice thin with uncertainty.

and it’s true.

you’d never been with a man like this—never one so far gone, so undone, so completely at the mercy of his own body. and even if you had… you never learned how to give this kind of touch. never learned how to bring pleasure to anyone other than yourself, never thought you’d have to.

but something about the way he presses into you, so frantic and confused, stirs a reluctant kind of empathy in you—mixed with fear, with heat, with a strange pull you can’t understand.

your gaze drops.

his hips are still moving, slow but desperate, grinding into your leg like he needs more and doesn’t know how to ask for it. something about it makes your breath catch.

almost without thinking, your hand moves down—hesitant, shaking—and you press your palm gently against him, through the fabric of his pants.

he freezes.

utterly.

and then a sound tears out of him—a moan, raw and broken, rising from the pit of his throat like it surprised even him.

his body shudders under your touch, rigid with restraint, but trembling like he’s seconds from falling apart. your hand stills where it rests, the heat of him burning through the cloth and into your skin.

your palm presses down harder, instinct guiding your movements more than experience. and that’s when you truly feel him—solid, straining beneath the fabric, the heat of him radiating through your skin like a fever. the bulge stretches wide beneath your touch, filling your entire hand, every inch of him throbbing with need you can’t begin to comprehend.

he lets out a choked breath, and then his hand shoots down—larger, rougher—covering yours. he presses it harder against himself, hips stuttering like he’s chasing something that keeps slipping just out of reach.

“it’s not enough,” he pants, voice cracking as his brows draw together, his face twisted in a mix of agony and need.

you feel your face burn at the words—at the implication of what “enough” might mean. your breath falters, throat tight, but your hand doesn’t move away.

instead, your fingers twitch.

they curl slightly, without thinking, just enough to grip.

the reaction is immediate.

he winces—a shudder running through his body like a jolt of lightning—and his mouth parts with a sound that’s somewhere between pain and pleasure.

“don’t stop.”

his voice is strained—hoarse, almost fragile beneath the weight of his own desire. like stopping would shatter him entirely.

your mind flickers back, unbidden, to the dream from a few nights ago. the one that clung to your skin even after waking. in it, he had been so sure of himself—so commanding, so in control. his hands had known where to touch, his mouth had known what to say, and you had given yourself over without question. there had been no trembling. no hesitation. only heat.

but this—this trembling, panting version of him pressed against you now—this was the opposite.

and yet it didn’t cool the fire in you.

it stoked it.

your heart pounds harder, your face flushing hot as the realization settles deep: he hadn’t felt this in a long time. maybe ever. the touch, the friction, the aching pleasure that left him shaking in your hand—it was unfamiliar to him. and yet he clung to it like it was the only thing keeping him whole.

and you… you were the one giving it to him.

there’s power in that. not the kind that demands or dominates—but the kind that hums quietly under the skin. the kind that says he needs you. not just for blood. not just for survival.

but for this.

and that truth alone makes your breath catch, your thighs press closer, the warmth between them blooming hotter, heavier.

you tighten your grip just slightly—just enough to feel him shudder again.

his breaths come out ragged now—uneven, trembling, like every second that passes without release is too much for him to bear. his hand stays pressed over yours, holding you there, grounding himself in the heat and pressure of your palm.

“take ’em off.”

your voice is steadier this time. firmer.

and it surprises even you.

not because of the words, but because of the confidence. the realization blooming slowly but surely in your chest—that you hold him. literally. completely. his need is cradled in your hand, and his body responds like it’s never known this kind of touch before.

remmick glances down, eyes locking onto the way both of y’all’s hands are still cupping him. and something flickers across his face—raw, unfiltered desire.

he doesn’t speak. doesn’t hesitate.

he scrambles, fingers fumbling at his belt, unbuckling in rushed, uneven motions like he’s afraid you’ll change your mind if he takes too long. the sound of metal scraping against metal, the zip of fabric—it’s frantic, loud in the quiet space between you.

you watch the way his hands move—desperate and clumsy—and when you glance up, your breath catches.

drool.

thick, glistening, slowly spilling from the corner of his mouth. it stretches into a line, gleaming in the light, trailing from his parted lips as if his body is unraveling faster than he can control it. his jaw hangs slack with need, his eyes half-lidded and glazed.

then his pants fall open, and your hand moves without thought—slipping beneath the waistband of his underwear to grasp him fully.

he gasps—loud and shuddering—and his hips buck the slightest inch forward, as if chasing the warmth of your palm. in that same instant, the line of drool falls, landing wet and hot on your wrist, sliding down over your skin like a mark.

the feeling of his drool sliding warm over your wrist sends a jolt through your body—strange, electric, exciting in a way you can’t fully explain. your thighs press together instinctively, the heat between them building with every breath he takes.

he’s heavy in your hand.

hot. stiff. pulsing with need.

his body leans forward, barely held up by the tension in his muscles. his head tips back, exposing the column of his throat, jaw slack as he pants through parted lips. he’s a mess in your hand—completely undone, breathless and sweating, helpless to anything but the touch you’re giving him.

but your strokes falter.

he’s slick with sweat, and it’s more of a struggle than you expected. your hand catches slightly with each movement, and you glance back up at his mouth, remembering the way that thick drool had spilled from his lips.

you pull your hand from his pants.

at the loss of contact, he stutters—broken and breathless.

“why?”

your face flushes, warmth rising all the way to your ears at what you’re about to ask.

“spit in my hand.”

his eyebrows pull together—not from refusal, but from the sharp spike of desire and confusion. his mouth parts slowly, and then he obeys, cheeks hollowing as he draws the drool forward.

his tongue slips out, mouth wide and willing, and thick strings of spit fall heavily into your waiting palm.

you watch it.

watch how it glistens, how it coats your skin, warm and obscene and intimate.

your hand stills for a beat as you take in the weight of the moment—how close he is, how his body is giving you what you need to bring him pleasure.

then, slowly, you lower your hand again.

your fingers wrap around him, slick now, and the difference is instant. your strokes glide smoother, faster, and his body reacts with shudders and gasps. his hips twitch and his head falls forward, forehead nearly brushing yours.

a ragged moan rips from him, and his hand slams against the wall beside your head, bracing himself—because now he’s truly falling apart.

“s–shit!”

it rips from his throat, a sharp groan laced with more than just surprise. there’s something else in it—something raw, starved. hunger, yes, but not just for release. for you. for more of your touch, your attention, your hand wrapped around him like it was meant to be there.

you move with growing confidence now, dragging your hand up his length until you can tug him fully out of his pants.

he winces as the cool air brushes over his flushed skin, a tremor running through him at the sudden contrast. the heat of his body meets the cold of the world, and he shivers—but doesn’t stop you. not even close.

you see him fully now.

hard and flushed, the tip red and glistening, a thick vein running the length of him like a path carved straight to your hand. pre-cum beads at the head, already smeared down his shaft from where your palm had moved over him before, mixing now with the slick sheen of drool still coating your fingers.

your fist wraps around him again, deliberate and slow, and the combined wetness allows you to stroke him with ease. the sound is soft, wet, and rhythmic—his breaths syncing to the motion like he can’t help it.

his body bows slightly, every muscle tensing, like he’s trying not to collapse from the overwhelming pleasure you’re building in him.

he tenses beneath your hand, muscles locking as your strokes grow faster, more assured. his body is trembling now—not from fear, but from how close he is to falling apart completely.

another thick line of drool slips from the corner of his mouth, trailing slowly down his chin. you watch it for a moment, caught in the daze of his unraveling, until your eyes lift—drawn instinctively to his face.

and then you gasp.

his eyes are open.

not fully, but enough.

cast downward, glazed over with pleasure. but just enough to catch it.

a glint. a glow.

red.

dark, pulsing, unnatural—like embers caught in the low light. your breath hitches in your throat as you stare at it, transfixed, and then—almost like he knows—he slams them shut, a sharp whine escaping him.

“aah… wait,” he pants, his voice trembling. “something’s happening…”

you know exactly what.

you feel it in the way he twitches in your hand, in the pulsing warmth building at your palm, in the desperation threaded into every sound that falls from him.

so you don’t stop.

you go faster. tighter. focused.

his hips jerk forward, chasing the friction like he can’t help it, and a strangled moan breaks from his throat. his whole body hunches over you, trembling, until his forehead comes to rest against your shoulder, breath hot and ragged against your skin.

“please,” he gasps—voice small now, breathless—as his head turns just slightly, his mouth nearly brushing your neck.

you smell it.

blood.

copper-sweet and heavy on his breath.

then a deep, guttural sound tears up from his chest—a growl soaked in something ancient, primal—but it breaks halfway through, collapsing into something softer. weaker. almost… pathetic.

and then he tenses, hard.

his whole body locking, shaking in your grasp as he finally lets go—spilling into your hand and across the front of your nightgown in hot, thick pulses.

there’s a moment of silence.

thick, heavy.

the only sound is his breathing—hot and uneven—ghosting over your neck, brushing the skin there with every exhale like he’s still tethered to you by need alone.

your hand remains around him, even as he begins to soften, your fingers still slick and warm. only once he’s completely spent do you slowly pull your hand away in one long, fluid drag. the motion makes him flinch, a gasp slipping through his lips at the sudden overstimulation. his hips twitch, but he doesn’t speak.

he stays still, suspended in the hush between you, before his head tilts up. there’s something open in his expression—tender, maybe. something you’re not ready for. his lips move closer, and you know before it happens what he’s trying to do.

he wants to kiss you.

your head turns, just slightly. your eyes soften, but the word comes quiet.

firm.

“no.”

it’s barely louder than a breath, but it lands like a weight between you.

his eyes close slowly, and he leans his forehead back against your shoulder—not angry. just… quiet.

your legs are still pressed together, thighs tense, breath held. your nightgown clings damp against your stomach, the fabric sticking to your skin where he’d spilled across it. the reality of it hums through you, the scent, the heat, the knowledge that you let it happen. that you made it happen.

then you feel it.

his nose against your neck.

the slow inhale.

he’s smelling you.

your body stiffens.

for a second, terror scrapes at your spine. you think—maybe he lied. maybe this is the moment. maybe he’s going to sink his teeth into your throat and finish what started a few days ago. your heart races.

but he doesn’t bite.

instead, he pulls back slightly, brows furrowed, nostrils flaring as he sniffs the air—curious. drawn.

you follow his gaze.

he leans in again, closer this time, his softening length pressing faintly against your stomach, dragging heat across your skin through the nightgown. and then, his voice—low and hoarse—scratches its way up.

“what’s that smell?”

your stomach tightens.

you hear it—that hunger tucked just beneath the question. not for blood this time. something else. something that makes your skin tingle with anticipation and shame.

his hands move slowly, tracing the shape of your waist, until they settle at your hips—gripping them gently, but firmly enough that you feel the intent behind it.

your brow creases in confusion… until his eyes drop.

you follow the look.

and then it hits you.

you know exactly what he’s asking about.

because while you were focused on him—while your hand moved over him, while you whispered his name and watched him fall apart—the warmth between your thighs had bloomed into something undeniable. your panties are soaked. clingy. shamefully damp against your skin.

your face burns hot as the realization settles.

he smells you.

remmick’s eyes slowly rise to meet yours, and what you see there sends a ripple through your chest—hunger, thick and molten, pulsing just beneath the surface. another line of drool spills from the corner of his mouth, thicker this time, stretching as he breathes through it.

his hand moves—slow, sure—and drags down, curling behind your thigh. then, without warning, he lifts. your leg rises with the motion, guided by his strength, and your breath catches.

a gasp slips from your lips as your hands press instinctively against his chest, trying to ground yourself, maybe even push him back—but your limbs are shaking.

“what are you doing?” you stammer, voice barely stable as you feel his hand slide higher. it skids up your thigh, rough fingertips brushing hot skin, slipping under your nightgown like they’ve done it a hundred times before.

“you’re leaking,” he says, simply.

like it’s an observation. a fact.

like it’s not the most shameful, intimate thing he could’ve said aloud.

drool slips over his chin, unbothered by the mess he’s making, by the mess you’re in.

your body burns. flushed and twitching beneath his touch, thighs trembling around the hand that now glides so easily against your damp skin. his fingers drag through the heat gathered between your legs, and your hips jolt, a quiet sound caught in the back of your throat.

his mouth hovers just beside your cheek now, voice ragged and breath thick.

“let me taste ya,” he says.

almost pleads.

and there’s something so raw, so utterly stripped of pride in the way he says it—like he’s not asking just to take, but because he needs it. like the ache inside him will never fade unless you let him have this one thing.

you turn your head slightly, breath hitching as you meet his eyes—his mouth still hovering beside your cheek, so close you can feel the heat of his breath skating across your skin.

“i…” you begin, voice quiet and uncertain, “i ain’t never had that done before.”

he lets out a groan—deep, throaty, almost pained.

it vibrates against you like a confession.

“let me do it,” he murmurs, eyes dark and pleading. “please. show me where you like to be licked.”

the words make your heart stutter, but before you can even respond, you feel it—his fingers pressing firmly against your clothed heat, dragging slow and deliberate along the soaked fabric.

“remmick—!”

your voice breaks, sharp and startled, rising without your permission.

your face floods with shame, your body trembling at the sound that just tore from your throat. but desire drowns it out, thick and surging—because the pressure feels too good to ignore, and his touch is reverent, not cruel.

he pulls his head back, just enough to look you in the eyes.

and he waits.

there’s no smirk, no demand. just remmick, gaze burning into you with raw need, silently asking for something he doesn’t know how to take without permission.

you stare at him for a long, aching second—heart racing, chest heaving—before you nod.

slow.

shy.

but real.

that’s all he needs.

he sinks lower, descending to his knees with a hunger in his movements, yet careful—like you’re something sacred. both his hands slide along your legs, settling at the backs of your thighs, his thumbs rubbing gently into your skin as he looks up at you from below.

his face is flushed, his hair damp with sweat and clinging to his forehead, his lips parted and still shiny from where drool had spilled earlier.

“tell me what to do,” he groans, voice rough with restraint, with admiration.

his mouth is inches away.

but he won’t move until you tell him how.

your body is burning now.

inside and out.

the sound of his voice asking to be guided—tell me what to do—echoes through you, wrapping around your spine and sending a shiver up your back. no one’s ever asked that of you before. not like that. not with that kind of hunger barely held back by restraint.

when you glance down at him again, you find his eyes already on you. waiting. not impatient. not demanding. eager. wide, dark, full of wanting—but still waiting. like you’re the only one who can give him permission to breathe.

“use your fingers,” you say softly.

your voice wavers, shaky at the edges, but it doesn’t matter.

he hears you.

he obeys.

you catch the way the corners of his lips twitch upward—just for a moment—before one of his hands slides up, lifting your thigh gently and settling it over his shoulder. the stretch of it opens you, exposes you, and you gasp as the new position presses your nightgown higher.

then, his other hand moves—slowly, reverently—until his fingers are back at your panties. they’re soaked now, clinging to you, and you can feel every brush of his knuckles against the sensitive skin there.

his eyes flick up to yours again—checking. asking.

and then he slips a finger past the damp fabric, the tip curling just inside you.

your breath stutters in your chest, a sound catching in your throat that you didn’t mean to let out. he watches you. his gaze never leaves your face.

and then—

with a sudden tug, he rips your panties clean.

the sound is loud, sharp in the silence—the tear of fabric quick and final—and the cold air hits you immediately.

your body tenses, thighs quivering around him as the sudden exposure leaves you breathless. every nerve is awake now, burning, aware of the way his hands hold you open, how the cool air contrasts against the heat pooling between your legs.

you’re bare to him.

and he’s still kneeling.

still looking at you like you’re holy.

you let out a soft pant, your breath catching as you feel his finger slowly trail up the inside of your thigh. his touch is warm—rough in texture, but gentle in pressure—and your skin tingles beneath it. his movements are slow, careful, like he’s learning your body inch by inch.

he stops just at your entrance.

he doesn’t go further right away.

he lingers there—testing. waiting. seeing how you react to the nearness, the quiet promise of what comes next.

then, without warning, he slides a finger in.

his middle finger—long, thick—and the stretch of it makes your walls flutter around him.

a low moan tumbles from your lips, your head tipping back slightly as your muscles clench. it’s more than just the intrusion—it’s the heat of him, the weight of that single finger inside you, the way it already fills more than you expected.

your hand reaches down, gripping the hem of your nightgown tightly, bunching the fabric against your stomach as if anchoring yourself to the moment.

he draws his finger back out—slowly, deliberately—and then pushes it back in with a soft, wet sound that makes your cheeks burn. your body clenches around him again at the sensation, and the lewdness of it, the intimacy of being this bare and open, sends another wave of warmth washing over your skin.

he breathes in through his nose, like he’s memorizing the scent of your arousal, and you can feel him growing more confident in the way his finger curls just slightly on the next thrust.

the thrusts of his finger continue—steady, slow at first, then building into a rhythm that leaves your legs weak. each movement sinks in with purpose, the tip curling ever so slightly, brushing against a place inside you that makes your hips twitch.

your walls clench around him, instinctive and aching.

“you’re so warm,” he pants, voice husky with awe, like he’s never felt anything like this before.

you glance down—eyes glazed, breath uneven—and see his free hand working at himself again. his fingers wrap around his cock, now slowly thickening with each stroke. the sight makes your stomach flutter, your lips parting as another moan slips from your mouth, uncontained and needy.

your mind is fogged with sensation—his hand inside you, his hand on himself, both moving in tandem like some unholy harmony of want. your body is no longer your own. it belongs to the rhythm, the heat, the burn of it all.

then you feel it.

another finger at your entrance.

his ring finger this time—thicker than the first. he eases it in beside the other, stretching you slowly.

you wince. not from pain exactly, but from the sudden fullness.

you’d touched yourself before, sure. but your fingers had never felt like this.

his are longer. rougher. firmer.

they reach deeper.

your walls stretch to accommodate him, muscles fluttering as both fingers begin to pump in and out of you. slick sounds fill the air—soft, obscene—and every time he curls them just right, you whimper.

meanwhile, his other hand strokes himself in slow, languid motions, the pad of his thumb brushing over the tip. he groans aloud, the sound low and wrecked, spilling from his throat like it’s being pulled out of him.

and all of it—his fingers inside you, his pleasure building in front of you—pulls you deeper under.

he starts to move closer.

you can feel it in the way his breath warms your skin, see it in the way his shoulders shift, the subtle rise of his body as he inches toward you like gravity’s pulling him into place.

a low growl rumbles in his throat as he presses his face in, and when the bridge of his nose brushes against that sensitive bud, you tense—hard. a full-body shudder rolls through you, your breath catching sharp in your chest.

then suddenly—his fingers leave you.

you gasp at the loss, clenching around nothing, your body pulsing with the need to be filled again, to feel something.

“let me eat you, baby,” he pleads, voice raw, mouth just a breath away.

his words hit you deep—both filthy and tender, desperate and reverent.

you hesitate.

not from fear.

but from the overwhelming weight of it. the way your body is already responding without needing to be told.

then, you nod.

he doesn’t look up.

but he must feel it—through the way your thigh tenses over his shoulder, through the way your hips shift just the slightest bit forward, offering yourself.

he takes that as his answer.

his mouth descends, and you feel it—his tongue drawing a slow, deliberate line between your folds, tasting you for the first time. your back arches off the wall, sharp and sudden, your thigh slipping, and he readjusts it with one hand, holding you steady with a strength that borders on possessive.

then he licks again.

this time deeper, firmer—and a moan tears from his mouth. the sound vibrates directly into you, and your head falls back with a strangled cry.

“you’re so sweet,” he breathes.

then he presses a soft, almost reverent kiss to your entrance—like a promise—before his tongue pushes inside of you.

you cry out, the stretch of it unfamiliar and overwhelming, but so, so good. his tongue thrusts harshly, rhythm building fast, and every movement sends you spiraling, moan after moan clawing out of your throat as your body writhes against the wall.

your hand flies down instinctively, fingers diving into his hair, clutching at the thick strands. you don’t even realize how hard you’re holding on until you feel him groan again, deeper this time.

and then—his mouth rises, lips closing around that bud.

he sucks.

you break.

completely overwhelmed, shaking with the intensity of it, clenching around nothing but air and the feeling of him devouring you.

your head flies back, colliding with the wall behind you with a dull thud, but you hardly feel it. the pleasure ripping through you overshadows everything else. your free hand reaches up, grasping at your hair, tugging gently—desperate for anything to ground yourself as his mouth continues to assault your core with relentless devotion.

“remmick…”

his name falls from your lips in a moan, soft and broken, like a prayer caught halfway through a plea.

he doesn’t stop.

his tongue licks, flicks, drags through your folds, then closes around your clit again, sucking it into the heat of his mouth with rhythm that borders on sinful. the sounds he makes—low, guttural moans and hungry grunts—vibrate directly into you, sending fresh waves of sensation surging through your thighs, your belly, your spine.

he’s pumping himself with the same desperation, his hand moving fast and slick over his length, the sounds of it mixing with the wet noise of his mouth working between your legs. and every time he moans into you, you feel it—feel it everywhere.

then he shifts.

the hand that had been resting firm on your thigh over his shoulder suddenly moves. it slides down—strong and sure—until his fingers press into the flesh of your inner thigh, right beside your entrance. and then he pulls—gently but firmly, opening you wider for him.

a soft gasp slips from your mouth at the stretch, the exposure. you feel so bare, so utterly open. his tongue immediately returns, working deeper now that you’re spread wider for him, and it feels devastating—like you might come apart entirely just from the way he holds you open and tastes you like he’s starving.

your eyes squeeze shut as a stuttering moan tears its way out of your throat—uncontrolled, raw. your fingers twist tighter in his hair, clutching at the only thing tethering you to the earth as his mouth continues to work you open and undone.

and then—

something shifts.

a feeling. strange. unfamiliar.

it starts low in your belly—tight, electric, and rising fast. it coils, curls, builds like pressure behind a dam, and you don’t know what it is, only that it’s coming hard and fast and you don’t know how to stop it.

your breath hitches.

panic flutters in your chest.

your eyes snap open, wide with the sudden fear of losing control, and your body tenses as if to brace for impact.

and then—

it hits.

a violent, blinding explosion rocks through your body.

your mouth opens, but no sound comes at first—just the air being pulled from your lungs as your release rips through you.

your eyes roll back, vision swimming, and your legs nearly buckle beneath the weight of it. your thighs twitch, body quivering uncontrollably as your climax washes over you like a crashing wave you were never prepared for.

but remmick doesn’t let you fall.

his hands grip you steady, firm and reverent, holding you together even as you come apart in his mouth. he moans into you, greedy and satisfied, lapping up every drop of your release like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted—like it’s the only thing that’s ever mattered.

you tremble above him, caught in the aftershocks, completely undone.

when he finally pulls back, his cheeks and chin are drenched—slick with you, shining in the low light. his mouth parts slightly as he breathes, dazed and wild, and you can still feel the ghost of his tongue between your thighs. you’re still catching your breath when he moves again—this time, pulling you gently down with him.

your back meets the wood floor of your porch with a soft thud, the cool surface a harsh contrast to the heat blooming in your skin. before you can process it fully, he’s leaning over you, body caging yours in, his cock already hard again, flushed and leaking at the tip. the sight of him above you, thick and heavy, makes your breath stutter.

you barely have time to react before you feel him—his tip brushing against your entrance, slicking over sensitive skin, nudging.

you snap out of it instantly.

your hands press to his chest.

“w-wait! stop!”

his body stills.

he freezes above you, panting, chest heaving as he stares down at you. the desperation in his eyes is immediate—sharp and pleading—but he doesn’t move. instead, you feel his fingers tighten around the bunched fabric of your nightgown, clinging to it like an anchor.

your mind is racing.

he wanted to go this far.

he was going to go this far.

and you—god, your face burns even hotter as the thought settles—you’d never done this before.

not with anyone.

not like this.

and the fear coils tight in your belly.

“i won’t hurt you.”

his voice comes soft.

echoing what he said earlier.

but it lands differently now—closer to a promise.

you look up at him, searching.

his hand on your hip is strong, grounding, and though he grips you tight, there’s no force in it. only restraint.

you search his eyes for anything that might read as a lie, some shadow of cruelty or indifference—but there’s nothing. only tension. only waiting.

so you nod.

his gaze softens, and the hand holding your gown lowers, moving between your bodies. he grips himself, lining up carefully, guiding the head of his cock back to your entrance.

you inhale, slow and deep, trying to ready yourself.

then—he meets your eyes.

and begins to push in.

your jaw clenches hard as the stretch begins. the pressure is immediate, unfamiliar, so much. he’s thick—thicker than anything you’ve ever felt before—and your walls struggle to accommodate him.

“s-slowly…” you manage to stutter, breath caught in your throat.

he nods, sweat beading at his brow, his own face twisted with the effort of going slow—of not losing himself completely in the heat and tightness of you. your walls clench around him, instinctively, and he groans low in his chest.

inch by inch, he presses deeper, until—

you feel a pinch. sharp.

not enough to cry out, but enough to make you tense again.

your hand flies down, gripping the wrist on your hip.

“wait!”

he halts immediately, eyes flying up to yours.

“almost there…” he moans, voice strained. “i’m almost there.”

his hand tightens, holding himself still—waiting for you to give him more.

and when you finally nod—heart hammering—he moves again.

he pulls out slowly, carefully, then pushes back in with more urgency this time. the stretch returns, but this time the pain dulls quickly, fading into something else. something thicker. warmer.

his hand plants beside your head, fingers splaying against the wooden floor for balance, and he pushes the rest of the way in until he bottoms out inside you.

you both still.

your bodies tangled, your breath ragged, your skin burning where it touches his. and for a long, pulsing moment—there’s nothing else.

just the sound of panting.

just the feel of him inside you.

just the overwhelming, terrifying intimacy of being this connected

slowly, but surely, he pulls out—just an inch, just enough to make you feel the loss—before pushing back in with a deep, guttural groan. the sound of it vibrates through your chest, and your own moan answers his as your hand flies up, gripping the wrist of the hand planted beside your head.

your grip is so tight your knuckles turn white.

“aah… yea…” he stutters out, breath shaking as his hips roll forward again, his thrusts slow but deliberate, each one more assured than the last.

the drag of his cock inside you leaves your body stuttering—your breath catching in broken gasps, your thighs trembling with every deep, slow stroke. he’s thick. so thick. every movement stretches you wide, your walls struggling to take him and clenching around him with a mind of their own.

he groans—mouth falling open in something pathetic, raw, aching—and the sound shoots straight through you. the hand on your hip tightens, guiding your body with each thrust, steadying you, grounding himself in your warmth.

your walls flutter around him, and he sees stars behind his eyes.

every time you clench, it’s like heaven and hell collide inside him.

your back begins to slide against the porch beneath you, the wood warm and rough, dragging lightly at your nightgown as his thrusts gain rhythm. the pace builds—not fast, but firm, deeper. every push rocks your body just enough to knock the breath from your lungs.

the sound of skin meeting skin fills the air now—wet, rhythmic, desperate.

his grunts are low in his chest, slipping out between clenched teeth.

your eyes open slowly, jaw slack, mouth parting as choked moans tumble past your lips.

and then—

you see it.

his mouth hangs open, panting, and in the haze of your half-lidded gaze, something catches the light. not just teeth. fangs.

sharp. monstrous.

inhuman.

you let out a sharp gasp as his hands suddenly move—grasping the backs of your thighs with a strength that steals your breath. he drags you toward him with ease, your slick skin sliding across the wooden porch until your thighs rest on his, legs spread and trembling as he settles into the new angle.

once you’re in place, his hands return to your hips—strong, possessive—and without pause, he begins pounding into you again.

but now, it’s different.

his rhythm grows more erratic, more primal. he groans through gritted teeth, fangs fully bared now, glistening with spit as his mouth hangs open in pleasure-drunk awe.

he finds that spot inside you again—

and again.

and again.

each thrust is a strike of lightning behind your eyes, drawing stars out of thin air, making your body convulse in helpless rhythm beneath him. you try to say his name, to moan it into the thick air between you—but all that escapes is garbled, slurred noise. syllables tangled in pleasure too strong to form words.

you don’t notice it at first—

the way his fingers change.

the grip on your waist grows tighter, rougher.

his nails stretch, curling longer, sharper, claws forming in real time as his body reacts to you. to this. to everything he’s holding back.

he groans through clenched fangs, jaw twitching with restraint. it takes everything in him not to pierce your skin. not to lose himself to what he is.

your hands reach down, fumbling for the hem of your nightgown, wanting it off, wanting to feel the air, feel him. remmick sees the motion, and something feral flashes in his eyes as he helps you—tearing the gown up and over your head.

it now lays beneath your upper back, your spine pressing into the fabric as your body arches.

the cold air hits your bare skin and a shiver runs through you. your breasts bounce with each thrust, each impact sending them upward and down in hypnotic rhythm.

remmick lets out a guttural sound—desperate and overwhelmed all at once—as drool escapes the corner of his mouth and spills messily across your stomach. you gasp at the sudden warmth of it, the contrast between cold air and wet heat making you twitch.

then his hand moves again.

he lowers it between your legs, and suddenly he’s rubbing your bud—rough and unrelenting. the pad of his thumb swirls over it in frantic circles, careful not to scratch you, using just enough pressure to send another bolt of pleasure through your spine.

you cry out, louder this time, your back arching as your body tenses up around him.

his other hand rises, large and trembling, and cups one of your breasts, kneading it with a kind of reverence that’s quickly undone by the bite of his claws. one scratches just slightly—a soft sting blooming across your skin—and instead of pulling back, you moan louder.

the pain only sharpens the pleasure.

and remmick…

he watches you fall apart like he’s witnessing something sacred.

and he’s the one dragging every sound, every shiver, every tremble out of you.

you’re losing yourself.

your vision blurs at the edges, body flushed and trembling, unable to hold on to anything solid—except him. your hand reaches blindly, desperate to touch, to anchor yourself in something, someone. your fingers find it—the chain. that gold chain around his neck, damp with sweat and heat.

you loop your fingers through it, gripping tight.

the moment you do, his body responds—his thrusts picking up speed, harder now, deeper. his hips crash against yours with ferocity, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing across the porch. each thrust sends his balls slapping against your ass, adding to the filthy rhythm of it all.

“l–look at you…” he pants, voice breathless and broken, eyes wild as he stares down at where you’re joined. “so beautiful… and speared on me…”

your head falls back, jaw slack as he slams into you again—rough, desperate. his thumb is still on your bud, circling fast and tight, and the pressure spirals out of control.

you feel it.

again.

rising.

but this time, you don’t panic.

you welcome it.

your walls flutter, then clamp down hard around him, squeezing his cock in perfect rhythm with your unraveling. your moans tear from your throat, raw and choked, as your body convulses beneath him.

remmick chokes on a moan of his own, hips stuttering as you clench around him. but he doesn’t stop. not for a second.

he pounds through it—thrusting through your orgasm, keeping the rhythm alive, drawing it out until you can’t tell where the high ends and the overstimulation begins.

the sounds are obscene.

each time he pulls out, it’s wet and loud, a slick drag that makes your stomach tighten—and then he slams back in, deeper, filling you again with a moan.

your walls twitch, overly sensitive now, and a sharp little wave of discomfort flares in the middle of the lingering heat. it stings, but not enough to stop. not when he keeps going like that. not when your body can’t decide if it wants to push him away or pull him deeper.

your grip on his chain tightens.

remmick moans—loud and broken—as the gold links dig into his neck, and still, he doesn’t stop.

his hips drive into yours with punishing need, his chest brushing yours with every thrust, and you realize—

he’s not just trying to fuck you.

he’s trying to stay inside you.

to live there.

to lose himself in the place where you melt around him.

and it’s becoming too much.

your body is trembling, wrung out and burning, nerves raw from how he keeps moving inside you—deep, relentless, nonstop. the sensitivity spikes, each thrust dragging along your pulsing walls like fire and silk, sending you over the edge and right back again before you’ve even caught your breath.

your mouth opens in a soundless moan, your legs twitching, body locked in that unbearable space between pleasure and pain.

remmick groans above you—deep, rough sounds torn straight from his chest. they rumble through his body and into yours, and you feel the way he’s struggling. holding back. holding in.

his fangs flash as his lips part again, saliva stringing between them as he pants like an animal. he’s trying—truly trying—not to sink them back into your neck. not to bite down and mark you like instinct is screaming at him to do.

you see it in the way his head tilts, the way his mouth hovers near your throat before he jerks back again, forcing himself to focus.

your hands are full now—

one clutching his gold chain so tightly the links dig into your fingers,

the other gripping his wrist, fingernails pressed to his skin, grounding yourself as your body thrashes beneath his.

you whine, high-pitched and breathless, overwhelmed as your thighs threaten to close, but his grip on your hips is unyielding.

his eyes glow—deep, dark red—and when he looks down at you, it’s through that glowing haze of instinct and want and near-unraveling. his jaw clenches hard, fangs bared as he fights the shift overtaking him.

then he tenses.

you feel it—

in the way his rhythm falters,

in the way his thrusts grow sloppy, uncontrolled, missing that sweet spot as his hips jerk with no pattern.

he’s close.

he hunches forward, his whole body curling in on itself, and a loud, broken groan tears from his chest as he spills inside you—hot and thick, pulsing with each wave of release.

you moan, long and soft, as you feel him flood you—coating your walls in warmth as his hips keep moving, fucking his orgasm into you.

he pounds through it, chest heaving, sweat dripping onto your skin. the mixture of you both—slick and steady—drips down from where he stretches you open, forming a glistening ring around the base of him each time he pulls back.

“remmick—!”

his name bursts from your lips, sharp and breathless, as your thighs snap tight around his waist, trying to anchor yourself to him—to anything.

your entire body trembles beneath him, and you feel like you might fall apart again, even though there’s nothing left in you but the aftershocks.

“i k-know, baby…” he groans, voice low and shaking, still thrusting inside you. his movements are uncoordinated now, sloppy and feverish, driven more by need than rhythm. his hips jerk like he’s chasing the last of it, like he doesn’t want to let go of the feeling of being inside you.

your eyes squeeze shut, and your fingers finally release their grip on his chain, the gold slipping from between your knuckles.

you trade it for flesh.

your now-free hand reaches up to grab his other wrist, mirroring your other hand—holding him completely. your body, your breath, your trembling form says stay.

his breathing stutters again, another broken groan ripping through him as he thrusts deep—hard—like something inside him is unraveling one last time.

at this point, you feel it—

the steady leak of your shared pleasure slipping out of you, warm and wet, trailing down your thighs and pooling on the floorboards beneath you. the sounds between you are slick and endless—every movement, every shift punctuated by the lewd, messy wetness of it all.

then he pulls back—just slightly—to look.

his eyes drop to where his cock still moves in and out of you, glazed with the evidence of everything you gave him. you feel his stare deepen, and you swear he’s ascending—his lips parted, eyes wide, breath stolen by the sight of you stretched around him, milking every last wave of his orgasm.

his hips slow.

slow again.

until they still.

his chest rises and falls, frantic and wild, then slower, steadier—as he begins to return to himself.

he looks up.

eyes searching yours.

his mouth opens, like he wants to say something. like he needs to.

but nothing comes out.

instead, he leans down.

his lips hover just above yours, breath brushing your mouth, waiting—asking. not like before, when you turned your face away. this time, he lingers.

and this time, you don’t pull back.

you tilt your chin just slightly, and your lips meet his in a kiss.

slow. warm. breathless.

not demanding. not frantic.

just real.