The plastic stick sits on the bathroom counter. Two pink lines. Bold. Unmistakable.
I stare at it. Breath stops. Blood roars in my ears.
My hands tremble. I press my palm to my stomach. Flat. Still. But something is already growing. Already taking root.
Six weeks.
I drop to my knees. Press my forehead to my thighs. A sob catches in my throat. Not fear. Relief. Overwhelming. Consuming.
I need to tell him.
I need Daddy.
I throw on jeans. A loose tank. No makeup. No hesitation. The clinic closes at six. I have forty minutes.
I don’t care about the ride. Don’t care about the rain. I just need the studio. Need the door. Need him.
The bell jingles when I push through.
He’s at the back station. Sleeves rolled. Ink-stained knuckles. Tattoo machine humming. The air smells like antiseptic, green soap, and old sex.
He looks up.
Drops the needle.
His eyes lock onto mine. Dark. Immediate. Predatory.
He doesn’t speak. Just walks. Fast. Heavy boots against concrete.
He stops an inch away. Takes in my face. My hands. My posture. His jaw tightens.
*"Talk,"* he orders. Voice low. Rough.
I reach for his hand. Press his palm to my stomach.
*"I’m pregnant."*
Silence.
His breath hitches. The room shrinks. The hum of the machine fades.
He lifts me. One arm under my knees. The other around my back. Carries me like I’m weightless. Like I’m sacred.
The office door clicks shut. Locks.
He sets me on the desk. Steps between my legs. Hands slide under my shirt. Fingers trace my ribs. Dip low. Rest over my belly.
*"How long?"* he asks. Voice gravel. Dangerous.
*"Six weeks."*
He groans. Buries his face in my neck. Teeth scrape my collarbone. A mark. A brand. He’s already hard. Already claiming.
*"My cock. My cum. My baby."* He says it like a law. Like a vow.
I wrap my legs around his waist. Pull him closer. *"Yes, Daddy."*
He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t tease. Tears my jeans down. Shoves my panties aside. Fingers slide through my soaked pussy. I’m already dripping. Already trembling.
*"You’re carrying my son,"* he growls. Thrusts two fingers inside. Deep. Relentless. Stretching me. Filling me.
I cry out. Arch. Grab his shoulders. His knuckles press into my hips. He’s huge. Unforgiving. Perfect.
He pulls out. Lines himself up. Cock pushes through my entrance. Thick. Hot. I take him in one smooth stroke. He’s buried to the hilt. Groans like a wounded animal.
*"Fuck. You’re so tight. So wet. For me. Only me."* He pounds into me. Hard. Fast. Each thrust a promise. A claim. A breeding.
I feel him swell. Heat pools low in my belly. He’s pumping cum deep. So deep. Filling me. Marking me from the inside out.
*"Take it. All of it. You’re growing my heir. You’re mine."*
He flips me. Pins me against the desk. Drives in again. Harder. Deeper. Each thrust bottoming out. Hitting that sweet spot. Wringing my moans.
I come screaming his name. He follows. Cocks deep. Cum flooding my pussy. Hot. Heavy. Ours.
He stays buried. Breathing ragged. Pressing kisses to my hair. My neck. My stomach.
*"The ink,"* he murmurs. Thumb tracing my hip bone. *"You came for a tattoo. I’m giving you a brand."*
I look down at his hand. The heart. My name inside. The one he showed me on our first day. The one I’ve been staring at ever since.
*"Over it,"* I whisper. *"Tattoo over it."*
His eyes lift. Dark. Swollen with possessive fire. He nods once. Final.
*"Yes, Daddy."*
He cleans me. Wipes away the mess. Dresses me slow. Like I’m glass. Like I’m gold.
Then he moves to the station.
Prepares the surface. Wipes it down. Shaves a small patch above my hip bone. Clean. Precise. The buzz of the needle fills the room. Sharp. Hot. Enduring.
He straps my stomach. Doesn’t cover the bump. Lets it show. Lets it be seen.
*"Breathe, little one,"* he says. Voice never leaves that low, possessive register. *"This is permanent. Just like my claim. Just like the life growing inside you."*
The needle bites. I hiss. I don’t pull away. I lean into it. Into him.
He doesn’t stop. Just leans in. Presses his lips to my shoulder. Whispers against my skin.
*"You walked in for ink. You're leaving with my baby."*
I cry. Happy tears. He kisses them away. Keeps tattooing.
The heart takes shape. Perfect. Matching. Ours.
He wipes away the excess. Rubs the fresh ink. It throbs. Matches the one in his palm. A twin. A seal.
*"Now we’re sealed,"* he says. Thumb tracing the new flesh. *"No more running. No more doubt. You’re carrying my child. Wearing my mark. Sleeping in my bed. Every night until the day you deliver my heir."*
I look at his hand. Then at my stomach. Then at him.
The man who looked at me across a crowded room and decided I was his. The man who fucked me like he was trying to leave a permanent mark. The man who’s already planning our nursery.
*"Daddy,"* I whisper.
He catches my chin. Forces me to look at him. Those dark eyes hold mine. No escape. No desire for one.
*"I’ve got you,"* he says. *"Always. The kid’s coming. The ink’s drying. You’re stuck with me. We’re done negotiating. This is your life now. My blood. My name. My legacy."*
He stands. Pulls me against his chest. One hand on my neck. The other resting low on my stomach. Right where our son kicks.
I melt. Finally. Completely.
The instalove that hit me on day one isn’t fading. It’s rooting. Deep. Permanent.
He carries me to the office couch. Strips off his shirt. Pulls me on top of him. His cock is already thickening. Already hard.
*"Again,"* he orders. *"I’m not done filling you. Not until I know he’s secure."*
I grind down. Feel him push inside. Full. Claimed. Perfect.
*"Yes, Daddy."*
He flips me. Pins me. Drives deep. Each thrust a vow. A promise. A breeding.
I come screaming his name. He follows. Cocks deep. Cum flooding my pussy. Hot. Heavy. Ours.
He stays buried. Breathing hard. Pressing kisses to my hair. My neck. My stomach.
*"Permanent,"* he murmurs against my skin. *"You, me, the baby. The ink. The claim. The fucking life. All of it. No way out. No takebacks."*
I wrap my arms around him. Pull him closer. The tattoo burns. The baby kicks. His heart beats under my palm.
I’m home. Finally. Completely. His.
And I’m never letting go.