“Baby, I’m okay,” I tell him, grabbing his hand and kissing his knuckles.
“You sure?” His dark brows pinch into a frown. “The drawing—”
“It took me off guard, and it takes me a while to re-center.” I pull his hand into the neck of my robe, passing his palm over my nipple until it buds beneath his fingers. “But now I want the massage you promised.”
He hesitates, scanning my face and searching my eyes before nodding. He pushes the neckline away, exposing my breasts and shoulders to the cool breeze drifting in through the French doors opening to a private balcony. Our eyes tangle, and beneath the desire filling his stare, a question lingers.
“Grip.” I place his hand on my stomach. “Massage.”
He bends to kiss my stomach, the underside of my breast. “I’ll get the oil.”
Being Grip, he called my massage therapist and asked for tips, things he shouldn’t do or should, to give me a very basic, but safe, prenatal massage at home. I much prefer his over the professional one because I get fucked when it’s over.
I stare up at the ceiling, and that restlessness, the unsettled parts of me, clamor for attention, try to disrupt my desire, but before I can allow myself to be truly distracted, the lights in the bedroom dim and my husband’s hands are on me.
Grip peels the robe open, letting the panels fall to the side beneath me on the bed.
“You want music?” he asks.
“No,” I answer, closing my eyes so my senses are completely overtaken my him, his scent and the warmth of his hands, the sound of him breathing. “Just you.”
Big, oil-slick hands seek out all the knotted places in my shoulders and neck, the rough pads of his fingers so thorough, but tender as he turns me and works at the small of my back. He tends my slightly-puffy feet and ankles, pressing his lips to the arch of my foot and behind my knee as he goes. These little kisses are promises he makes to my body, and every one of them sinks through my skin and caresses my bones. We’ve only been here a few days and it takes a while for me to truly unplug. Traveling with young children and a group this size, there are always a million things to consider. And all my life, I’ve been the consider-er. The one who plans and thinks ahead and fixes when things go wrong. Making sure everyone enjoys themselves can be exhausting. All my life I thought I was preparing to be a high-powered entertainment executive, which I am, but more than anything, I was preparing to be a mother. It’s the most demanding job in the world.
Grip glides over my shoulders and cups my breasts to toy with the nipples, squeezing, kneading. My breath catches, and my legs, of their own accord, fall open. I can’t keep my legs closed around this man, obviously since it seems I’ve spent half our marriage pregnant.
“Stay here?” he asks, his own voice husky. “What do you want next?”
“Whatever . . .” I swallow, lust making my tongue heavy and my mouth dry. “Whatever you want.”
“Oh, you know what I always want.” He rolls his palms over my belly and moves to my hips, paying special attention to the muscles there, strained from the stretch of accommodating our babies. After a few seconds, he moves to my thighs. They’re already open, but he shifts to stand at the foot of the bed and pushes them further apart. I close my eyes, suddenly self-conscious of how radically different my body looks and feels even than previous pregnancies. With the other three, I managed to stay slim and tight. From the back you could never even tell I was pregnant.
Yes, I was one of those.
But it’s my body’s third time doing this, and I’m closer to forty than thirty. And carrying two babies. The twin gene, so persistent in our family, finally found me. I have a few dimples in my thighs and some stubborn stretch marks that seem completely resistant to all the salves and butters that usually make them go away.
He’s quiet standing between my legs so long that I finally open my eyes. His expression above me is rapt and his mouth is slack. Shallow, panting breaths pass over the gorgeous fullness of his lips.
“Grip?” I whisper, not wanting to break the avid desire of his eyes on my body, but needing to say his name.
“I wish you knew what it does to me.” His voice is lust-rough and graveled with emotion. “To see our babies inside you like this and your pussy all wet and pretty.”
My breath catches, and I close my eyes again, tipping my back and arching my neck like he thrust those words inside me. I relish the caress of his spoken love, and grip my inner thighs to spread my legs open as wide as they’ll go, silently beckoning his fingers, his mouth, his cock – whatever he wants to take me with first. In the basest of wa
ys, I signal that he can get it.
The anticipation draws my nerves taut. My heels dig into the mattress. My tight nipples pique in the tropical breeze. My legs gape for him, but he doesn’t move. Even with my eyes closed, I feel the weight of his stare; feel it roving my body like a hungry predator unsure where he wants to start eating. I help him decide, allowing my fingers to stray to the lips of my pussy, swollen and wet, dripping with the want of him.
“If you won’t take it,” I say. “I will.
I push two fingers inside and stroke my clit and moan. It feels incredible, but I know any sensation I arouse will pale next to the touch of my husband’s hands. After a few writhing, panting seconds of pleasuring myself, I feel his fingers tangling with mine between my legs. He doesn’t slip inside, but rolls his hand between the lips and over my clit. My pussy makes wet, slippery sounds of approval.
“You take the top,” he says, pushing my own fingers deeper into my body, his voice husky as he invades my ass with one soaked thumb. “I’ll take the bottom.”
“Fuck,” I gasp. My fingers fly, thrusting to match the aggressive shove and pull of his in the tiny, tight hole below. We make music together between my legs. He’s the conductor, and I follow the lead of his fingers, the command of his touch.
With my free hand, I reach up and roll my nipple. Grip pushes my fingers aside and thrusts three fingers into me.
“Jesus,” I shout. “Grip, cover my face with the pillow. I’m gonna be so loud.”