More Than Enough

Working for Matthew added a new layer to our already entangled lives. I had only just started taking on more responsibilities within his company—a deliberate move on my part. Despite his wealth and his insistence that I didn’t need to work, I wanted to. I needed to. And somehow, navigating professional life with the man who made my body sing didn’t blur lines—it deepened them.

Mornings started with coffee and quiet kisses. Days passed in meetings, shared looks, and subtle touches that burned hotter than fire. Nights, however, belonged to us. We left the world behind the moment the front door shut. Our bodies reacquainted themselves over and over, as if they hadn’t just melted together hours before. We touched like we were starving. Loved like we’d been apart for years. And most nights, we didn’t sleep until the first light of morning.

It was after one of those particularly intense nights, in the soft haze of him filling my unprotected pussy, that the thought had crossed my mind: something was different. But I didn’t say anything. Not yet.

The confirmation came later—my body told me first. The swelling of my breasts again, the fluttering in my lower abdomen, that tingling sense of knowing. I hadn’t gone back on birth control—not since the twins—and we’d never exactly been careful. I just didn’t expect it to happen so soon.

But it did.

I waited, maybe too long, to tell him. And in that delay, the moment found us instead.

It wasn’t planned—the way he gripped my hair in that private office of his, the way I knelt, not just in submission but in worship, my mouth wrapped around his thick dick. The moment pulsed with heat, but it was laced with something deeper. Love. Ownership. Devotion. And just when he thought he was in control, I paused, looked up at him, and whispered, “You did it again.”

His brow furrowed, breath ragged, and he stared down at me, confused and aroused all at once. He climaxed and released down my throat.

“I’m pregnant, Matthew,” I said after swallowing his release.

Everything about him stilled. Then, like thunder breaking through still air, he pulled me to my feet, pressed his forehead against mine, and kissed me. Not just with his mouth, but with his whole body. It was deep, full of disbelief, gratitude, lust, and pride.

“You’re serious?” he asked, voice raw.

I nodded, overwhelmed by how tightly he held me—how tenderly.

His hands found my belly, barely showing, and he dropped to his knees this time. Worship shifted. He whispered things I’ll never forget—promises, praises, and prayers spoken into my skin.

That night, we didn’t make it home until late, but we made love again, slower this time, with reverence. The kind of passion that binds souls, not just bodies.

And so, while the twins napped under the care of their doting nanny, and our home hummed with the soft sounds of domestic bliss, we stayed wrapped in each other again—celebrating this new life growing between us, not just with joy, but with fire.