Golden Hours, Fevered Nights

After quitting my job, I felt the weight lift from my shoulders almost immediately. There was something freeing about it—about knowing that I could simply breathe and focus on what mattered: Matthew, our babies, and the love blooming even bigger than my growing belly. We sent out the pregnancy announcements a week before we left, elegant little cards with soft gold embossing and a black-and-white photo of us—his hand cupping my belly, both of us laughing with our foreheads touching.

Then we disappeared.

Our babymoon was a quiet, slow burn of romance and indulgence that stretched over two and a half months, tucked away in coastal villas, countryside estates, and a handful of private, sun-drenched resorts scattered across Europe and the Mediterranean. Every day was pleasure—starting with long, slow mornings wrapped around each other, the scent of sea salt and sunblock mixing with the heat of our skin.

Matthew never got enough of touching me. My belly continued to round with life, and my breasts—already impossibly full—seemed to swell more with each passing week. He adored every inch of me. Every night, he explored me like he was memorizing a map. His hands would linger over my curves, kneading gently, reverently, then not-so-gently when the heat took over. My nipples were hypersensitive now, and he teased them constantly—his mouth, his thumbs, the soft flick of his tongue until I squirmed, moaned, and begged for more.

There were nights he’d stretch me slowly, teasingly, his eyes locked on mine, watching every reaction as his hips pressed deeper. And there were other nights he didn’t wait—nights when I was already dripping with need, when his hands would lift my thighs, and he'd drive into me with a deep, hungry growl, one hand cupping the back of my neck while the other stroked over my swollen breasts until I was shaking beneath him. I loved the nights that he mounted me and rode me hard.

He kissed me like he needed it to survive. Possessive. Deep. Sometimes slow and reverent. Other times hot, filthy, ravenous. And I never once told him to stop. I didn’t want to.

We made love in oversized tubs, on balconies overlooking vineyards, against cool tile walls after long swims. Under sheer mosquito nets with nothing but the moon as witness. I’d ride him with his hands planted firmly on my hips, my belly swaying between us, his breath breaking as I clenched around him. His voice would roughen as he praised me, told me how beautiful I looked with my belly so full, how perfect I felt, how much he craved me—always.

The twins moved more and more as we traveled, and Matthew would talk to them every night against my skin, kissing my stomach, whispering promises he swore he’d keep. I loved him more in those moments than I ever thought possible.

We let the world spin without us for those months. No deadlines, no alarms—just the hush of waves and our laughter, the warmth of the sun, the taste of fruit and salt on our lips, and the knowledge that we were building something sacred.