The nice thing about my husband being a former radio celebrity is we can usually maintain relative anonymity while out in public. That is, until someone at a nearby table hears my husband speak, then all bets are off.
“Excuse me, I couldn’t help overhearing your incredibly sexy voice from where I was sitting, and I just have to say I miss you on the radio so much. When are you coming back? Would you mind posing for a selfie?”
The random bombshell already has her camera poised and ready, and is leaning her torso toward my husband in a way that can only be described as a blatantly rehearsed, not-so-innocent boob graze.
When I first became swept up in this whirlwind romance eight months ago, I might have felt like I was on shaky ground at times. David and I stole our kisses, intimate moments, and private conversations in between calls from corporate media lawyers threatening to sue him over breach of contract. David’s abrupt exit from the airwaves also caused him to be very much in demand for a short time by local media outlets seeking interviews and explanations.
He’s continued to be Doctor Dave in the eyes of everyone in town, but he’s proven to me time and time again he was simply David Hart, M.D. My David.
The ring on my finger and my ever-expanding pregnant belly serve as convenient outward signals to anyone still hoping for a shot at the city’s former most eligible bachelor. At least, most people got the hint. Boob Graze, however…
“That’s very kind of you to say, but I actually do mind. As you can see,” David says, breaking eye contact with our visitor to nod in my direction and give me a tender look that still makes my knees quiver under the table, even at seven months pregnant. “I’m having dinner with my wife.”
The stranger stands upright, looking shocked at having been rebuffed. She can’t help herself from looking me up and down with a withering glance.
I grin at her as I spin a huge ball of pasta onto my fork. “He just doesn’t have time for radio anymore, what with these pregnancy hormones demanding all the various forms of sexual congress multiple times a day. He is quite the soldier. Bless him,” I say.
The woman narrows her eyes in revulsion as I stuff the contents of my fork into my mouth and roll my eyes back in my head in pure pleasure. It’s not acting; I crave pasta and Alfredo sauce like the dickens these days.
When she finally gets the hint and stalks away in a snit, I notice David’s papa bear crawling its way up out of its cave. He doesn’t like the way some of his fans treat me.
Everyone in town is still talking about the virgin who brought down Doctor Dave. David, as I call my husband, gets pretty riled up when the local news paints me as a pariah who destroyed the career of a beloved radio personality.
As for me, I’m oddly satisfied with my notoriety.
One gentle hand on his arm stays the angry beast, and David settles. Our eyes lock and his breathing evens out.
He’s about to ask for to-go boxes for the rest of our dinner, as well as my dessert, so we can get the hell out of Dodge, but I stop him.
“David, it doesn’t bother me what anyone says. I’ve been called quiet, unassuming, reclusive and even boring. So if everyone wants to believe my pussy has the power to destroy, I find it amusing. Maybe even a little bit exhilarating,” I add with a sassy shoulder shimmy.
“This protective streak isn’t going to go away any time soon,” he says. “Sorry, but it’s gonna get even worse when the baby arrives. And now, all I want to do is go home and eat that tiramisu off the town pariah’s tits.”
I pout. “But then what will I eat?”
“I’ve got at least one real big cannoli for that mouth of yours.”
I gasp as warmth pools inside my body and threatens to drench my maternity undies. His commanding dirty talk always works for me. And lately, he only has to provide some mild innuendo for me to be good to go.
“You’re going to make your seven-months-pregnant wife get on her knees? Because I definitely won’t be able to reach the Big D from the passenger seat,” I say with a pout, knowing that he does not mean for me to do either of those things.
My increasingly aroused husband does his best not to exceed the speed limit to get me home. Soon enough, we’re in our cozy king-sized bed, a bed outfitted, of course, with the same bedding we ruined at the linen store display. We barely make it through the door when David sweeps me into his arms as if I haven’t gained thirty-five pounds of baby weight since the first time he’d carried me to bed.
And now as I lie on my side, he expertly spoils me with a lower back massage that sends happy tingles rippling across every inch of my skin. When he moves on to working over the muscles in my ass, I bite back a moan.
He notices this and leans in close to whisper in my ear. “Let it out, baby. I love it when you free yourself.”
I’m so aroused that when his hand parts my thighs from behind to massage my wet folds, my entire body shudders as I moan and squirt my arousal.
“Fuck, baby. You’re soaked. Only one thing to do with all this juice covering my hand.” His wicked whispers in my ear combined with the sound of his hand coating his cock with my sticky essence nearly has me coming immediately.
Something dark and hormonal, primal and bossy rises up inside me. Panting, I order my husband to lie on his back.
He groans softly. “I know what you’re thinking, baby. No way you’re not going first. Not in my bed. I always take care of you.”
I sigh. “But hormones won’t be satisfied. You’re not going to deny your pregnant wife her little snack, are you?
Besides, I need to remind you who that D belongs to.”