#whma

He glanced over his shoulder when he heard your footsteps and gave you a look that felt like it dragged teeth down your spine—slow and biting.

“Well, well,” he muttered, voice still scratchy with sleep. “Thanks for finally gracing me with your presence, Mrs. America.”

You blinked, still groggy. “Good morning to you too.”

He turned back to the pan like he hadn’t just delivered a line meant to sting. “Made you breakfast.”

You stared.

He said it like that was normal.

“I—thanks,” you offered cautiously, stepping further into the kitchen. You were still in your robe, hair half-damp and skin clean and soft and smelling like the expensive soap from the marble tub upstairs. The idea of a bath, and prolonging the journey out into the apartment, had been too tempting. You could feel his eyes drag over you. 

He slid a plate across the counter toward you—eggs, bacon, toast blackened on one side—and didn’t even look at you when he said if. “Eat. You’re too goddamn skinny. No more skippin' meals, not on my watch.”

You choked on a laugh. “I eat.”

“Not enough.” He brought the joint to his lips again, taking a long drag before dropping his hand again. “I like a little meat on my girls.”

“Your girls?” you echoed, lifting an eyebrow as you moved to sit.

“Yeah,” he said plainly. “Ass, tits, thighs—I like somethin’ I can grab on.”

He didn’t apologize. He didn’t explain. He just poured you a cup of coffee—the real kind, thick and black and strong smelling— and slid it across to you like it was a peace offering.

“Just sayin’,” he added after a beat, “I wouldn’t mind seein’ a little softness on those hips. Can't have you eatin' like a little bird once you're knocked up either.”

Your cheeks burned hot. 

“Ben,” you warned, but there was no bite to it. You were smiling.

He leaned against the counter, watching you like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. When you picked up the fork—slowly, a little self-conscious now—he let out a pleased hum.

“There she is,” he said. “That’s my girl. Good appetite, bare feet in my kitchen… fuck, sweetheart. You’re a vision.”

You rolled your eyes, hoping it would tamp down the blush still going strong on your cheeks–it didn’t. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m romantic,” he countered, deadpan. “Old-school.”

“You’re high.”

He laughed then—low and rich and golden, head tipping back slightly. “Also true.”

You smiled. Couldn’t help it. It was all absurd. Surreal. But somehow… oddly sweet.

Ben finished his joint, stubbed it out on a chipped ashtray, then stretched like a cat—arms over his head, abs flexing, pants riding low enough to show the start of that sharp V of muscle.

You looked away too fast and took a sip of coffee.

He caught it. Of course he did.

“Well,” he said casually, his voice a low drawl, “I’m gonna go shower.”

You looked up, a small polite smile already present. “Okay.”

And then, slow and deliberate: 

“Feel free to join me.”

Your eyes widened just slightly. He smiled. Lazy and pleased.

“Or just come sit and keep me company,” he said, voice dipping low. “I don’t mind an audience. You can even keep the robe on if you want. Or don’t. Dealer’s choice.”

You laughed—quiet, startled, but real.

Ben winked, “see? I’m gettin’ there. You’re startin’ to smile when I flirt with you.”

“I’m not—” you started to protest, but you were still smiling.

He grinned, turning toward the hallway with a stretch and a low groan. “I’ll leave the door cracked. Just in case.”

You watched him disappear down the hall, and the heat in your face didn’t fade for a long, long time.

You didn’t follow him. Not then. 

But the warmth stayed in your chest all day. The sound of his voice. The lazy charm of his grin.

You stared at the empty doorway for a full minute, heat crawling up your chest. You picked at your toast.

You weren’t sure what you were feeling.

…Later that night…

The hallway was quiet. That rich, echoing kind of quiet that made everything feel heavier. It was dark, late, which made it feel even more forbidden despite the fact you lived here. You were grown. Married. 

The soft pad of your bare feet against the hardwood barely registered over the rush of your own pulse. You felt warm beneath the silk of your nightgown, skin buzzing like it knew what was waiting behind that door. Your fingers brushed the hem of it once, twice—nervous, uncertain, a little aching.

You weren’t even sure what you were doing.

Just… saying goodnight.

That’s what you told yourself. You were doing what any good wife would do, right? 

You paused in the doorway. He’d left it cracked, just like he said he would. Like he’d apparently done every night since you’d gotten here.

Ben was already in bed—shirtless and golden in the low amber light, his body half-shadowed and impossibly still. The glow caught on the ridges of his chest, the broad spread of his shoulders, the rough slope of his jaw. He looked carved—something ancient, massive, unapologetically male—and the sight of him hit you all at once. The reality of him. The way his stomach rose slowly beneath the sheet, the way his arms were folded behind his head like he’d been there a while. Waiting.

It made something hot bloom in your chest, sharp and soft all at once. You weren’t sure if it was desire or nerves or something else entirely—but it was overwhelming. He had his arms property behind his head like he had nowhere better to be—like he’d been waiting there forever, perfectly relaxed, legs stretched wide beneath the thin sheet. He looked half-drunk, maybe a little high, but very, very awake.

Your breath caught.

And when he saw you, something in his face changed. His eyes dragged down your legs, up the hem of that little nightgown—and he smiled. Low. Lazy. Like you’d just proven a point he hadn’t said out loud.

“Well,” he said, voice thick as molasses. “Look who finally came to bed.”

You flushed instantly. “I—I wasn’t—I just came to say goodnight.”

“If this is how you say goodnight,” he said thickly, “I might not survive a real good morning.”

You opened your mouth—maybe to protest, maybe to make a joke—but none came to mind. Your throat felt tight. The warmth of him, the way he looked at you, it all caught you off guard.

You hesitated, then said softly, eyes on the floor, “I… just didn’t want to go another night without saying it to your face.” Your voice cracked a little at the end, like you surprised yourself with the words.

Ben stilled, just for a beat. Like something in him softened. His whole expression shifted—heat giving way to something quieter. He looked at you like you’d just offered him a lifeline.

His hand dragged down his chest, scratching along the v of muscle that disappeared beneath the sheets. “Sweetheart,” he murmured, “I’ll be honest, I’ve been sittin’ in this bed, thinkin’ about you. Palming my cock and tellin’ myself to be patient for three fuckin’ days.”

You blinked.

“Then you come in here all glowin’, smellin’ like flowers, legs out, tits bouncin’ when you walk,” he said, letting his gaze sweep across you like a caress. “like I’m not hard as fuck just from lookin’ at you.”

He sat up, slow and smooth, letting the sheet slide down to his hips. There was nothing hurried in the way he moved—just this heavy, coiled confidence. The kind that said he knew what came next.

And then his voice dropped. “C’mere, baby.”

Something about the way he said it—c’mere—so soft, so sure. Like he wasn’t asking. Like he knew. He looked at you like you were something fragile. Something he’d starve without.

“You been sleepin’ in that guest room like I don’t fuckin’ notice you,” he murmured as you got closer. “Like I ain’t hearin’ your little footsteps when you get up at all hours a’the night. Gave you your space. I let you have it. Wanted y’to, baby.”

You nodded, fidgeting.

His hand reached out—slow, gentle—and hooked around your wrist. He rubbed a thumb against your pulse point, eyes on yours. “But I’ve had just about enough of bein’ polite.”

Your heart thudded.

He stood—all heat and mass and intent—and loomed over you without ever making you feel trapped. Just wanted. Just… his.

Ben leaned in, mouth at your ear, voice so low and warm it made your spine arch.

“I need you in my bed, sweetheart. Need you under me. Need to hear those pretty little sounds I’ve been dreamin’ about since the minute I put that ring on your finger.”

Your lips parted, but you didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

“You don’t gotta do a goddamn thing,” he whispered, cupping the back of your neck. “Just come lie down and let your husband take care’a you”

You whimpered—barely—and he grinned.

“There she is.”

He kissed your cheek. Just once. Just enough to make your knees soften.

Then he nudged his nose down along your jaw, murmuring, “If you don’t let me take this little nightgown off and see what I’ve been missin’, I might lose my goddamn mind.”

His other hand slid down, fingers grazing the curve of your hip—warm and possessive.

“Come to bed, baby,” he coaxed, guiding you backwards. “Let me get my hands on my wife.”

You swallowed. Nodded. Let him guide you back toward the mattress.

And Ben—he let out a breath like it hurt to wait even another second.

“‘Bout goddamn time,” he murmured, pulling you close. “It’s bedtime, sweetheart. And I’m not lettin’ you outta this bed until I make you mine.”

He laid you back on the mattress like you were made of glass. Like you were something he’d prayed for and never expected to touch.

Ben stood above you for a second, just looking—all muscle and menace and awe, like he couldn’t believe his luck. His jaw twitched like he was holding something back. Words, maybe, or just the need to devour you whole. His eyes dragged over you with a slow, searing hunger, cataloging every inch like he meant to memorize it. Not just lust—possession. Reverence. Like he’d waited a lifetime for this exact moment and couldn’t stop staring just to make sure it was real. heavy-lidded and golden in the lamplight, chest rising slow and hungry like he was trying to take you in with every breath. His hand dragged through his hair, tousling it even more, and he let out a thick, low groan.

And then, slowly, reverently, he climbed onto the bed. His knees bracketed your hips. His arms came down beside your shoulders. His weight sank into the mattress like inevitability.

“I got a wife,” he murmured, more to himself than you. “I got a fuckin’ wife. And she looks like this.”

You flushed. Your hands slid up his arms, unthinking. His skin was hot and tight over muscle, flexing under your fingers.

“I didn’t know if you’d want—” you started, voice small, but he cut you off with a sound just shy of angry.

“Sweetheart,” he growled, lowering to your neck, “if you think I’d let you, my brand spankin’ new wife, come in here, all soft and shy in that fuckin’ slip, legs out, smellin’ like lavender, and not lay you out like dessert? You’ve lost your goddamn mind.”

He kissed your collarbone. Your shoulder. His hands skimmed up your thighs, big palms rough and reverent. He pushed your nightgown up slow—so slow—baring inch after inch like he was peeling open something sacred.

“Oh, baby,” he crooned, voice thick. “Fuckin’ knew it. Knew you’d be sweet all over.”

You gasped as his thumbs brushed the crease where thigh met hip, and he smiled—starving and satisfied.

“You shy now, sweetheart?” he murmured. “Gettin’ quiet on me? That’s alright. I can talk enough for both of us.”

His fingers slid higher, catching the waistband of your panties. He let out a laugh—soft and filthy.

“Fuck. You’re soaked, honey. And I haven’t even touched you proper yet.”

You whimpered, hips shifting—and that was all it took.

“Oh, baby,” he rasped, sliding down your body, kissing your stomach on the way. “You’re gonna let me have a taste, yeah?”

He settled between your legs like he was made for it.

“I gotta know what my wife tastes like,” he muttered, lips dragging over the inside of your thigh. “Gotta feel you fall apart on my tongue. Gonna ruin you for anybody else even thinkin’ about tryin’.”

Your hands flew to his hair, nails digging into his scalp as he pulled your panties down and tossed them aside. “Please, Ben-”

“I’ll be so good to you, baby,” he promised, kissing the seam of your cunt. “Swear to God. I’ll take my fuckin’ time. Gonna make you cum like it’s my fuckin’ job—‘cause it is, isn’t it?”

He looked up, pupils blown, lips parted. 

“I’m your husband. This is what I do.”

Then his mouth was on you.

Hot, wet, deep. His tongue pushed inside you slow and deliberate before he dragged it up and latched onto your clit, sucking like he meant to pull the sound right out of your throat.

“Ben—” you gasped, hips jerking.

He groaned like it hurt to go slow. Like your voice was enough to wreck him completely.

You whimpered again, overwhelmed, and he licked you harder—tongue flattening, swirling, filthy and adoring.

“Shit, baby,” he murmured against you. “You taste like fuckin’ heaven.”

You were panting now, fingers still buried in his hair, hips starting to roll—grinding up into his mouth like you couldn’t help it. Your thighs trembled around his head. The silk of your nightgown clung to your skin, damp with sweat and bunched around your ribs.

Ben moaned like it pained him. His hands gripped your thighs tighter, broad palms rough and steady, anchoring you in place like he felt you slipping. But one hand broke away, dragging up—slow and sure—fingertips grazing the inside of your thigh, then sliding under your nightgown, pressing flat to your belly.

He groaned when he found it—warm and soft beneath his palm.

You gasped—sharp, breathless—and his mouth went sloppier after that. More frantic. More needy. His tongue licked deep, slow strokes up through your folds, groaning like he was trying to get drunk off your taste.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “That’s it. Hold on, baby. Let me have it.”

Your whole body arched. His mouth moved with you, relentless. His tongue circled your clit, then sucked it between his lips—firm, focused, obscene. You choked out his name.

“Ben—!”

He groaned—hard—his voice breaking against you like gravel. His fingers flexed against your thighs, keeping you spread.

“That’s right,” he growled. “Say it again. Wanna hear my name comin’ outta your mouth while I’ve got my tongue buried in your fuckin’ cunt.”

You whined, overwhelmed. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Your body was stretched tight, trembling on the edge. “Ben, I—I can’t—”

He lifted his head just enough to speak, voice rough and utterly gone.

“You can,” he rasped. “You will. Gonna cum for me, baby. Right on my fuckin’ face. You hear me?”

His hand returned to your belly, firm and grounding. Holding you down like he could keep you tethered to the earth.

“I’m gonna do this every fuckin’ night if you let me,” he said, voice like a vow. “Put you to bed with my mouth on you. Remind you what it means to be mine.”

You sobbed—helpless. You were already there, seconds away. Already unraveling.

“Fuck, look at you,” he breathed. “All shaky, tears in your eyes, drippin’ down my chin. You’re gonna soak me, aren’t you? Gonna cum like the sweet little housewife they promised me.”

Your hips bucked. You nodded—wild and frantic. “Please—”

“Oh, baby,” he whispered, licking his lips like he was high on your taste. “Don’t beg. You don’t have’ta beg me for nothin’.”

Then his mouth was back on you, unrelenting. Tongue swirling, lips wrapped around your clit, groaning every time you cried out. The pressure built sharp and hot, your legs trembling so hard it felt like your bones would break—

And then you were cumming.

Hard.

Your cry broke the air, sharp and wet. Your hips jerked once, twice—then you were shaking, thighs locked around his shoulders, gasping for air as he licked you through every quake. Your fingers slipped from his hair, grabbing at the sheets, his arms, anything.

Ben didn’t stop. Not until your thighs twitched and your body went limp, melting into the mattress in a boneless sprawl.

Only then did he finally pull back.

And fuck, he looked wrecked.

His face was glistening with you. His beard was soaked. His lips were red, his jaw tense, his chest rising hard like he’d been holding his breath the whole time.

He stared down at you like he couldn’t believe what he’d done.

“Holy fuck,” he breathed, voice ragged and full of reverence. “You’ve got a perfect fuckin’ pussy for eatin’, honey.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. 

Your thighs were trembling. You couldn’t move—you didn’t want to. You wanted to stay right there, boneless and wide open, and let him look at you like that forever.

Ben crawled up over you, huge and burning, and settled between your legs like he meant to live there. His cock pressed against your inner thigh, thick and straining under the soft fabric of his pajama pants. You whimpered when you felt it.

“Shit, sweetheart,” he groaned. “Don’t do that. Don’t make that sound. You do that again, I’m not gonna be a fuckin’ gentleman.”

He lowered his body, crowding you in, bracing himself on his elbows so his weight kissed every inch of your skin. The heat of him was everywhere. His hand came up to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing over your kiss-bruised lips.

“You let me have that pretty little pussy like I earned it,” he whispered, filthy and fond. “Like you wanted it. You did, didn’t you?”

You nodded, breathless.

His eyes flashed. He grinned—lazy, dangerous.

“That’s my good girl,” he murmured. “God, you were so fuckin’ soft on my tongue. I could’ve stayed there all night. Could’ve made you cum again and again until you were cryin’ and shakin’ all over for me.”

You whimpered again. Your hips shifted up, helpless, trying to chase friction.

Ben moaned—a deep, gravelly sound that rattled in his chest—and pushed down against you in return, grinding his cock against the soaked heat of your core, only his pants separating him from sliding in.

“You feel that?” he hissed. “That’s what you do to me. I’m leakin’ for you, baby. My fuckin’ balls hurt. You got me so worked up I’m seein’ stars.”

Your hand reached for him—shaky, needy—and found the hard line of him through the fabric. You gave one small squeeze.

He growled—an animal sound—and caught your wrist fast, pinning it to the mattress above your head.

“No,” he said firmly. “Not tonight. You touch me again, and I swear to fuckin’ God, I’ll pin you down and fuck you like we’re tryin’ to break the bed.”

He dropped his forehead to yours. His voice shook.

“You don’t get it, baby. I’ve been imaginin’ this. Every night. Lyin’ in that bed, jerkin’ off like a fuckin’ teenager, thinkin’ about what it’d be like the first time I fuck you.” 

He swallowed hard, like he hated himself for putting a stop to it. “And it’s not this. It’s not rushed. It’s not messy. And it sure as hell isn’t me losin’ it the second I get between your thighs.

“Ben,” you breathed, dazed and trembling.

He kissed your neck—open-mouthed and hot, dragging his tongue up to your jaw.

“I wanna fuck you so bad it’s makin’ me stupid,” he murmured, mouth brushing the corner of your lips, “but when i do, I’m gonna take my time. Need to do it right.” 

He leaned back just enough to look at you—really look at you, all flushed and wrecked, mouth swollen, chest heaving.

“I’m not just gonna slide in and call it done. No, sweetheart. I’m gonna show you what I’ve been thinkin’ about. Night after night. Fistin’ my cock to the thought of you.”

His hand curled over your waist—firm and slow—and dragged down, tracing the shape of your body like he owned it.

“First thing I’m gonna do?” His breath hit your ear, hot enough to burn. “Get you on your knees. Right in front of me. Let you see what you do to me up close. Let you wrap those pretty little hands around it. Let you kiss it. Lick it. Get it wet.”

You whimpered, and his hips rolled against yours—slow and unhurried—but you could feel the thick press of his cock through his pants, heavy and hot and twitching with need.

“Let me see your mouth stretch around it,” he rasped. “Let me feel that tongue, soft and wet, gettin’ it ready. Wanna watch you choke on it a little, baby. Just a little. Hear you gag when it hits the back of your throat.”

His voice dropped even lower, like it cost him something to keep it gentle.

“Not ‘cause I need it. Just ‘cause I wanna see what it looks like. You, on your knees, makin’ a mess for me.”

His mouth brushed yours again, light and almost reverent.

“And then,” he said, pulling back enough to look you in the eyes, “I’m gonna lay you down. Just like this. On your back. In our bed.”

He cupped the side of your face, thumbing your cheek like you were fragile.

“I’m not gonna rush it. Not gonna throw you over and fuck you ‘til you cry—not the first time.”

He was hovering above you, mouth brushing your cheek, his weight braced in his arms so you could feel the heat of him without being crushed. His hips pressed down, slow and heavy, grinding just enough to remind you how hard he still was—how close.

“I’m not just gonna tear into you like I haven’t been dreamin’ about it for weeks. No. You’re gonna be right here, drippin’ onto the sheets, legs spread, all soft and open for me.”

His hand trailed down your side, reverent. Possessive. Like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch.

“I’m gonna kiss you while I do it,” he murmured, dragging his mouth along your jaw, “real slow. Gonna hold your hips still while I slide in, inch by fuckin’ inch, watch your face the whole time, just to see how it hits you.”

He let his palm drag across your belly again, low and firm, the heat of it seeping into your skin like a brand.

“I’m gonna fill you so slow, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Stretch this pussy out around me ‘til you’re takin’ all of it. And when I bottom out, when I’m buried so deep you feel me in your throat? I’m stayin’ there.”

You gasped, helpless.

He pressed his hips forward again—just enough for you to feel the weight of his cock against your soaked core, thick and ready and restrained.

“And when I cum?” His voice dropped to a growl. “I’m not finishin’ on your tits or your ass or your tongue. I’m not makin’ a mess.”

His hand slid lower. Flattened over your belly, just above your mound. He moaned, deep in his chest. “Right here,” he murmured. “Gonna make you soft, baby. Knock you up so good they’ll see it in your fuckin’ eyes.”

You whimpered. Your legs shifted, opening a little wider without even meaning to. The way he said it, soft and sure, like a promise, made your whole body ache. You wanted it. God, you wanted it.

“Yeah,” he breathed, watching you like he was watching the sun rise. “You’re gonna let me. Gonna take it. Gonna wrap those pretty legs around my waist and hold me there while I fuck it in.”

His other hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your lips.

“I wanna see your face when it happens,” he murmured. “When I knock you up. Wanna watch you fall apart under me while I make you mine for real. Gonna love on you through every fuckin’ second while I fill this pretty little pussy up ‘til there’s nothin’ left to give. Gonna watch it take.”

You moaned, half-choked, already shaking.

“You’re gonna beg me to stay inside, aren’t you?”

He pressed his hips forward again, just enough to make you gasp.

“Gonna cry when I pull out, even though you’re already stuffed so full it’s runnin’ down your thighs.”

You made a desperate, needy sound in your throat, and Ben kissed it away—dragging his mouth over your jaw, your cheek, your temple.

“I’m gonna tell you how perfect you are the whole time, too,” he whispered. “Gonna fuck you slow, deep, let you feel every drop I give you. Let you moan into my mouth while I give you a fuckin’ family.”

He kissed your belly then—open-mouthed and wet. Reverent.

“This is where our baby’s gonna grow,” he whispered, lips pressed low against your skin. “Right here. Gonna keep you full all the fuckin’ time. Let everybody see who you belong to.”

Then he looked up at you, eyes dark and full of fire.

“They made you my wife,” he said, voice like thunder under silk. “But I’m gonna make you a mother.”

He kissed your lips again, deep and slow, then pulled the covers over you both without leaving your body. He gathered you close, your thigh over his, your chest against his chest, your breath tangled up in his.

“No more sleepin’ in that guest room,” he said roughly. “You sleep here. With me. In our bed. Every night.”

He nuzzled your temple, voice lower now—almost tender.

“I ain’t spendin’ another night reachin’ for you and findin’ cold fuckin’ sheets.”

You couldn’t speak. You just nodded, overwhelmed. His arms tightened around you.

“Fuckin’ knew it the second I saw you,” he whispered against your temple. “You were meant to be mine.”

And then softer, right against your ear—so low it was barely a breath: “And the next time you get in our bed, sweetheart? The nightgown hits the floor first.”

He kissed you deep after that—tongue sweeping, filthy and reverent, like he was sealing a vow—and you knew, with every fiber of your being, that he meant every single word.

A/N I’d love to hear some ideas or things you’d want to see! I truly had so much anxiety while writing this and getting ready to post since pt. 1 garnered such a following so hope I lived up to that! And if I don’t just dooooon’t tell me. It went through so many evolutions to get here and I’d love to here your thoughts or things you might like to see with this series

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