Homecoming Heat

We arrived home four days later than planned.

The original itinerary said two weeks, but neither of us was ready to leave our bubble of bliss. Not when the ocean breeze still made my sundresses cling to my curves in all the ways that drove Ethan wild. Not when I couldn’t walk past a piece of furniture—or a smooth patch of wall—without his hand sliding around my waist, pulling me back against his hard body, whispering something filthy that sent heat coiling between my legs.

“We can fly back tomorrow,” he murmured one morning, fingers tracing my swollen nipples as we lay tangled in the bedsheets, my body still humming from the night before. “Or the next day. Or never.”

We both laughed, but we did end up staying four more days. Four more nights of rough fucking and feeding each other, of passion so intense I didn’t think my body could take another orgasm—and then it did. Again and again. We used every last corner of that villa. The scent of us was in the walls.

And even with all that pleasure, we never forgot our baby boy waiting for us at home. Each day, the nannies sent us photos and videos—Baby Ethan sleeping in his bassinet, smiling in his sleep, cooing up at the ceiling like he saw stars we couldn’t. We video-called twice a day, and every time I saw his sweet face, a different kind of ache filled me. One of love. Of longing. Of that strange, beautiful tether that motherhood brings.

But the fire between Ethan and me? That didn’t slow for a second.

He kept saying, “This is your last trip before you’re too pregnant again to travel. I’m making the most of you.” And he did. God, did he ever. He fucked me harder each day

We barely wore clothes. I lived in those thin sundresses—now stretched tighter over my growing belly and fuller, sensitive tits. Ethan tore one of them in a fit of lust on our second-to-last night. I never got a chance to put it back on.

When we finally returned home, our skin sun-kissed and our bodies still humming from endless pleasure, the air shifted. There was a peace in the house. Baby Ethan gurgled happily when we walked in, and my heart melted when Ethan scooped him up with a soft, “Hey, little man. Did you miss us?”

I stood there in the doorway for a moment, watching them—my husband and my son. My heart was full. My body sore and very swollen in all the best ways. And when Ethan turned to me, eyes dark with hunger again even as he held our baby, I knew it wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

“Put him down for a nap,” I said softly, a smirk curling my lips. “Then come ruin me all over again.”

He did.

The heat we built in paradise followed us home. Even as we adjusted back to daily life, even as I navigated nausea and second-pregnancy exhaustion, we never stopped craving each other.

This was our rhythm. This was our love story. Beautiful. Unfiltered. Breathless. And just getting started.