The Weight of Want

The days after we returned home from our babymoon felt different. There was a stillness in the house, but not the kind that meant emptiness—it was anticipation, energy simmering beneath the surface. My body, heavy with new life, moved slower, but Ethan… Ethan moved with more purpose.

He watched me constantly, as though he couldn’t believe I was real. The way his eyes followed my every motion, how his hands always found their way to the swell of my belly, or the curve of my hips, reminded me just how deeply he adored me—even now, especially now. My body was fuller, sensitive, aching in ways I hadn’t expected. And his touch? It met every ache with tenderness edged in need.

We started moving through the house differently. Fewer clothes. More kisses in hallways. The closeness between us wasn’t just physical anymore—it was something deeper, rooted in the life we were building, the child we were growing. And yet, the hunger between us never dulled. If anything, it sharpened.

One night, after dinner, I found him waiting in the bedroom. The room was dimly lit, soft music playing in the background. I was in one of the only dresses that still fit—thin, low-cut, barely holding in my swollen breasts. He stood when I entered, eyes dark, lips parted.

“Take it off,” he said simply.

I did.

He stepped in, hands sliding over my bare skin, lips following close behind. “You’re everything,” he murmured, kissing the top of my breast, then the curve beneath. “Every curve. Every change. I love all of it.”

My nipples were already sensitive, almost painfully so, and the moment his mouth closed over one, I gasped. The first trickle of milk made him pause—but not pull away.

“I’ve missed this,” he said, voice low and rough.

What followed wasn’t gentle, but it was careful in the ways that mattered. He pressed me down onto the bed, hands firm but reverent. My legs wrapped around him instinctively, the stretch of skin across my belly taut, aching, alive. He knew just how to touch me, how to push the edge without pushing past what my body could give.

We moved like that for what felt like hours—slow, hard, desperate and yet perfectly attuned. He gripped my hips tight, grounding me as I arched into him, chasing release again and again. We didn’t need words. Our rhythm was its own language.

Later, as I lay against his chest, his hand traced lazy circles over my belly.

“You’re incredible,” he said, voice raw. “Stronger than anyone I’ve ever known.”

I kissed his jaw, still trembling. “We’re doing this together.”

He nodded, pulling me closer. “And I want to keep doing it. Every step.”

And in that quiet space between pleasure and peace, I felt it—that unbreakable thread between us. Love, yes. But also the kind of need that only grows deeper with time.