Two weeks after we returned from our honeymoon, I went back to work.
Matthew didn’t understand it at first—not fully. Not when he
had more than enough to provide for us ten times over. But I looked him in the
eye one morning, kissed his jaw as he held my hips close, and said, “I need
this. For me.”
He watched me carefully, then nodded with that quiet
understanding he always carried. “Then you’ll do it,” he said simply. “And I’ll
support you every step of the way.”
He still spoiled me, of course. Flowers on my desk, notes
tucked in my lunch bag. He’d pick me up just to press me against the driver’s
seat and kiss me until my mind was spinning. And when we got home, there were
nights he barely made it to the bedroom before peeling off my clothes and
stretching me over the nearest surface.
It didn’t matter how tired we were. We made time. For each
other. For passion. For fire.
There were nights we socialized—fundraisers, family dinners,
rooftop parties—but even then, he’d lean over at the table, brush my thigh
beneath the fabric of my dress, and murmur, “I’m going to ruin you when we get
home.”
He always did.
Three months after our wedding, the signs were impossible to
ignore.
I’d been exhausted, nauseous, my body aching in ways I
couldn’t quite explain. But it was my breasts—fuller, heavier, sensitive to the
point of madness—that finally gave it away. They’d grown massively,
spilling out of even my roomiest bras. My tops didn’t fit. Every step made me
acutely aware of their weight, of the way they swelled against fabric.
And the dress I’d chosen for Matthew’s company dinner? It
barely contained me. The neckline plunged, and the black satin clung greedily
to every new curve. I stared at myself in the mirror, dazed. “There’s no hiding
this.”
But I wore it anyway. Matthew had picked it out weeks
ago—said it would drive him wild.
When I stepped into the restaurant, heads turned. But all I
saw was him.
He stood near the bar, drink in hand, chatting with two
board members. His jaw dropped when he saw me. His gaze swept down, locking
instantly on my chest—where the dress was visibly struggling to hold me
in.
By the time I reached him, he was barely breathing. He
leaned down, lips grazing my ear. “Sweetheart…” His hand found my lower back,
fingers trembling slightly. “You’re glowing. And your beautiful tits —Jesus. They’re
huge. They weren’t this big a week ago.”
I gave a breathless laugh. “Noticed that, did you?”
He pulled back, his expression tightening with realization.
“Wait. Are you…?”
I met his gaze. “I am.”
He touched my lower belly, then looked down at my swollen
chest, back to my eyes. “You’re pregnant.”
I nodded, heart hammering. “It wasn’t planned... but I
stopped the pills.”
A slow, stunned smile curved his mouth, and then he kissed
me right there in front of everyone—soft at first, then deeper, hungrier, as if
something inside him had snapped open.
That night, he undressed me reverently.
“God,” he breathed, his fingers skimming the underside of my
breasts, “they’re so full... so heavy. All for me.” He kissed them like they
were sacred. He worshipped every new inch of me.
And when he stretched me, it felt like the first time
again—tight, overwhelming, consuming. I arched beneath him, gasping, trembling,
my body already more sensitive than before.
He moved slowly, deeply, like he couldn’t get enough. Our
moans filled the room, desperate and low.
“I’m loving being inside you,” he groaned against my mouth.
He stayed buried in me long after he came in me, just holding
me, breathing me in.
“You’re going to be the most beautiful mother,” he
whispered. “You already are.”
We spent the next few days barely leaving the bed.
I stopped taking my birth control on purpose. I wanted to be
the mother of his children.
And every time he touched me, kissed me, filled me—he made
sure I knew I was his. All of me. Forever.
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