Overflow

From the moment we fucked again—raw, wordless, without protection…no condoms or birth control—we knew we were tempting fate. And neither of us cared. We needed to feel each other, to fill every ache with flesh and fire, to heal through heat. There was no hesitation. No barriers. No holding back.

We were insatiable.

Some mornings, I woke up to his mouth already on me—between my thighs, on my breasts, trailing a slow path of worship as if his body couldn’t stand not touching mine. Some nights, he didn’t even make it through the door without backing me against the wall, his hands tangled in my clothes, his breath hot and rough in my ear as he whispered all the filthy things he’d thought about all day. The house pulsed with heat, with need, with the unmistakable rhythm of two people refusing to let grief win.

Three and a half months later, I felt it again.

That deep, undeniable shift in my body. The flutter of life. The nausea that came in waves. The swell in my breasts that Ethan responded to in his usual way—greedy, adoring—but this time without suspicion. I caught his lingering stares, his obsession with my sensitivity and fullness, but he didn’t connect the dots. Not yet. Not until I told him.

I waited.

Four and a half months in, already showing, I found him in the kitchen one quiet morning, shirtless and tousled, cradling Baby Ethan in his arms. He looked up at me with sleepy eyes and that devastating smile of his.

“I’m pregnant,” I said, simply and softly.

He blinked, like the words had to pass through something thick. Then his gaze dropped to my belly, then my breasts, and then widened with the slow burn of realization.

“You’re... really?” he breathed, voice caught between awe and disbelief. “How the hell didn’t I see it?”

He laughed—shaky, breathless—and put the baby down before crossing the room and dropping to his knees in front of me. His hands spanned my hips, pulling me close, his lips brushing my belly like a silent prayer.

“Again,” he murmured. “We made another one.”

Within a week, he had something planned.

Another babymoon—our third. This time, just a few hours away. A private estate tucked into the hillside, away from the city, surrounded by quiet woods and curated luxury. Baby Ethan was left in the loving arms of our nannies and nurses, and we finally let ourselves disappear again.

The first night, Ethan had me undressed and laid out in front of the fireplace, my body worshipped from head to toe. My already sensitive breasts—growing, leaking more than ever—became his obsession. He licked and sucked until I was trembling, moaning, my thighs slick and my skin burning. He didn’t stop. Not until I begged.

And even then, he only flipped me over.

“You’re already so full,” he growled, slamming his throbbing dick inside me with one brutal, glorious thrust. “But I’m going to fill you more.”

I cried out, back arched, hands clawing at the floor as he took me with all the intensity I had missed. It was urgent, primal – feral - but still full of the love we clung to so tightly.

The next day, he sent me to the spa while he disappeared into town. I came back to fresh flowers, a set of pearl earrings with my birthstone, and a pale pink baby romper draped over the bed.

We didn’t even make it to dinner.

He fucked me on the chaise, the oversized bathtub, against the full-length window where anyone could see if they were close enough. A few neighbors walked by, looking up after hearing us scream. He didn’t care. Neither did I.

Every night, we fed each other fresh fruit. Every morning, he woke me up by wrapping his mouth around my leaking nipples and whispering how perfect I looked. I overproduced milk, and he couldn’t get enough. He'd finish what our baby wouldn't need later. Greedy, hungry, in love.

By the time we returned home, I was glowing. Full. Wrecked. Loved.

And he still wasn’t done with me. My very large dicked husband was going to fuck me hard every day for the rest of our lives.