The smell hits me first. Sandalwood. Cedar. Warm skin.
His hands are on my back before I even realize he’s moved closer.
Thick palms. Calloused fingers. Heat that seeps through my thin robe.
He doesn’t ask. He just takes.
I’m supposed to be lying face down. Fully clothed except for the drape over my back. The masseuse studio is quiet. Just the hum of the AC and the soft tap of his boots on the tile.
Then his fingers dig into my trapezius.
I gasp.
He doesn’t stop. He works the knot with slow, deliberate pressure. Thumb pressing. Knuckles rolling. The kind of touch that knows exactly where to hurt and where to heal.
The oil comes next.
He pours it into his palms. Rubs them together. The heat builds. Then his hands slide down my spine.
I flatten myself against the table. Close my eyes. Breathe.
He’s good. Too good.
His thumbs trace the ridges of my vertebrae. Slide down. Over the curve of my lower back. The dip above my ass.
I shift.
He feels it. Of course he does.
His fingers catch. Pause. Then press harder.
A low sound escapes me. Not a groan. Something quieter. Something dangerous.
He knows.
His hands move to my shoulders. Roll the muscle. knead. The oil makes everything slick. Everything slides. Everything burns.
I’m supposed to be professional. I’m supposed to keep my mouth shut. But my body doesn’t listen. It never does with him.
His thumbs find the base of my spine. Press. Hold.
I arch.
He catches my hip. Fingers digging into the soft flesh. Pulling me back against his thigh.
I freeze.
He’s standing right behind me. Chest to back. Breath at my neck. No robe between us now. He slipped it off while I was distracted. While I was drowning in sensation.
His mouth brushes the shell of my ear.
“Breathe, baby.”
Voice low. Rough. Owned.
I do. I try. My lungs shake. My pulse hammers in my throat.
He works the oil down my legs. One at a time. Long strokes. Fingers gliding over my hamstrings. My calves. The backs of my knees.
Every touch is a spark. Every slide is a wire pulled tight.
I’m sweating. My skin is slick. My breath is uneven.
He notices.
He always notices.
His hands drop to my thighs. Press. Squeeze. Then slide higher. Past the hem of my underwear. Past the waistband.
I gasp.
He stills.
I feel his gaze on my back. Heavy. Dark. Possessive.
Then I feel it. The heat. The wetness. The slick drip pooling against the table.
He feels it too.
His fingers stop. Hover. Then drag slowly down the seam of my panties. Through the fabric. Over the dampness.
“Jesus.”
The word is a curse. A prayer. A claim.
I can’t move. Can’t speak. Can’t do anything but shake.
He moves.
In one fluid motion, he leans down. Presses his mouth to my shoulder. Then my neck. Then the curve where my jaw meets my throat.
I turn my head.
He’s there.
His mouth crashes into mine.
Hard. Hungry. Unapologetic.
I kiss him back like my life depends on it. Like I’ve been starving for this. Like I’ve been waiting my whole life for his tongue against mine.
He tastes like coffee and control and something wild.
His hands slide up. Grip my waist. Pull me back against him. My chest presses to his. My hips grind to his.
I’m dripping. Everywhere. All over him.
He groans. Low. Deep. Raw.
“Fuck, Jessa.”
He breaks the kiss. Breath ragged. Eyes dark. Pupils blown.
He looks at me like I’m already his. Like he never let go. Like he never plans to.
Instalove doesn’t exist in the world. Not until him. Until now.
His hands slide lower.
Past my ribs. Over my stomach. Down to my hips.
He pushes.
I fall back.
The table groans under us. I land hard. He follows. Caging me in. One arm bracketing my head. The other hand already between my legs.
No hesitation.
His fingers slip under the waistband of my panties. Push them aside. Part me.
I’m soaking. Dripping. Ready.
He curses again. Thicker. Rougher.
His thumb finds my clit. Rubs. Circles. Presses.
I scream into his shoulder. He doesn’t let me pull away. Holds me down. Fingers working me hard. Fast. Deep.
“Look at me.”
I do.
His eyes are black. Feral. Devoted.
“You’re mine,” he says. Not a question. A fact. A vow.
I nod. I’m already nodding. I’ve been nodding since the first day I saw him. Since the first time he said my name like it mattered.
His fingers push inside. One. Two. Stretching. Filling.
I cry out. Back arch. Hips lift.
He doesn’t let me. Pins me down. Holds me open. Works me until I’m shaking. Until I’m begging. Until I’m broken open for him.
“I’m going to give you a fucking baby,” he growls against my mouth. “You feel that? That’s your future. That’s your home.”
I don’t think. I don’t question. I just take him. Take his fingers. Take his mouth. Take his words like oxygen.
He pulls out. Slides his hand to my neck. Grips. Not hard. Just enough.
Enough to remind me.
He shifts. Hips press against mine. I feel him. Thick. Heavy. Already hard. Already desperate.
He tears his mouth away. Looks down.
His belt’s already undone. His fly’s open. His cock is out. Strained. Veined. Ready.
I stare. Can’t look away.
He grabs my hip. Lifts me. Positions me. Lines himself up.
“No prep,” he says. “No waiting. You’re ready. You’re wet. You’re mine.”
He pushes in.
I shatter.
It’s too much. Too fast. Too perfect. He stretches me. Fills me. Claims me. All at once.
I scream. He catches it in his mouth. Swallows my sound. Swallows my surrender.
He’s inside me. All the way. Hips flush. Groin pressed to mine. Breasts against his chest. Skin on skin. Heat on heat.
He stills. Let me adjust. Let me feel every inch.
“Breathe,” he murmurs. Thumb stroking my jaw. “I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”
I do. I breathe. I take him. I take all of him.
He pulls back. Slides out. Slams in.
Hard. Deep. Brutal.
I cry out. Fingers dig into his shoulders. Nails rake down his skin. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t stop.
He sets a rhythm. Fast. Fierce. Relentless.
The table shakes. The walls rattle. My chest slaps against his. My legs wrap around his waist. He locks them in place. Holds me up. Holds me open.
“Fuck, you feel like heaven,” he grinds. “Like exactly where I was supposed to be. Like exactly where I’m staying.”
I don’t answer. I can’t. My body’s too busy. My mind’s too full. My pussy’s too wet. Too tight. Too greedy.
He grabs my thighs. Lifts them higher. Angles me.
Changes the depth.
I gasp. Back bows. He holds me down.
“Look at me.”
I do.
His eyes are wrecked. Devoted. Consumed.
“You’re carrying my child,” he says. Voice rough. Raw. Real. “Right now. In my cock. In my hands. In my bed. You’re mine, Jessa. Say it.”
“I’m yours,” I choke out. “Only yours. Always yours.”
He growls. Snaps his hips. Drives deeper.
“Good girl.”
The praise breaks me.
I climax. Hard. Violent. Shaking. Screaming into his mouth.
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow. Keeps pounding. Keeps fucking. Keeps filling me until I’m trembling until I’m sobbing until I’m his.
His pace changes. Slows. Deepens. Each thrust a claim. Each pull a promise.
He’s close. I can feel it. The tension in his thighs. The grip in his hands. The ragged edge in his breath.
“Cum inside,” he orders. “Let me breed you. Let me mark you. Let me keep you.”
I nod. Frantically. Desperately. “Yes. Please. Daddy. Please.”
The word hits him like a trigger.
He curses. Snaps his hips. Drives in to the hilt. Holds.
Heat floods me. Thick. Heavy. Pulsing.
He empties himself inside me. Stroke by stroke. Groan by groan. Claim by claim.
I ride it out. Clench around him. Take it all. Swallow his seed like it’s water like it’s life.
He collapses against me. Breath hot. Heart hammering. Arms wrapping around me. Holding me tight.
I don’t move. Don’t speak. Don’t want to.
His mouth finds my forehead. My temple. My lips.
Kisses me like I’m precious. Like I’m fragile. Like I’m his forever.
“Yeah,” he murmurs against my skin. “Yeah, baby. That’s it. That’s my girl.”
I wrap my arms around his back. Pull him closer. Bury my face in his neck. Breathe him in.
He’s shaking. So am I.
The oil slicks our skin. The table creaks. My panties are ruined. My legs are weak. My pussy is full.
And I’ve never felt more alive.
He pulls out slowly. I miss him instantly. Miss the weight. The heat. The stretch.
He doesn’t let me go. Rolls me onto my side. Pulls me against his chest. Wraps his legs around mine. Holds me like I’m something rare. Something sacred.
His hand slides down. Rests on my stomach.
“Growing,” he whispers. “Already growing.”
I press my hand over his. Nod. “Yes.”
He kisses my shoulder. My neck. My collarbone. Each one a brand. Each one a vow.
“I’m never letting you go,” he says. Voice low. Final. Absolute. “You’re mine. The baby’s mine. You’re both stuck with me.”
I smile. Dazed. Drunk on him. On the fact. On the future.
“I don’t want to go,” I admit. “I never want to leave.”
He chuckles. Low. Warm. Possessive.
“Good. Because I’m not asking. I’m telling. You’re my wife. You’re my queen. You’re my everything.”
I don’t correct him. Don’t question it. I just nod. Press closer. Let his heartbeat steady mine.
His hand stays on my stomach. Rubs slow circles. Reverent. Protective.
I close my eyes. Breathe. Feel him. Feel us. Feel the life settling inside me.
It’s real.
It’s ours.
It’s home.
He shifts. Presses his mouth to my hair. “Rest, baby. I’ve got you. I’ve always had you. I always will.”
I do. I let go. I sink. I trust.
His arm stays locked around me. His hand stays planted on my belly. His breath stays steady against my skin.
Outside, the world keeps turning.
Inside, we’re already whole.
Already complete.
Already a family.
He whispers something. Too soft to catch. Probably a prayer. Probably a promise.
I don’t need to hear it to know it’s true.
I’m his.
He’s mine.
And the baby?
The baby is already loved. Already claimed. Already safe.
I smile in the dark. Press closer. Let his warmth sink in. Let his name settle in my chest.
Daddy.
The word tastes like forever.
And I’m never letting go.