Fire and honey

There was something about the way he looked at me now.

Not just like he wanted me—but like he knew me. Like he understood every crack in my armor, every bruise on my heart, every part of me I had once been afraid to show. And yet, here he was—still looking at me like I was the most beautiful thing he’d ever touched.

Even swollen with pregnancy. Even with my scars.

Especially with my scars.

That night, Anthony was fast asleep in his room, soft music drifting through the baby monitor like a lullaby. I was standing at the bathroom sink, brushing my hair out when Doc came up behind me, bare-chested, warm hands sliding up the sides of my body.

“You keep doing that,” he said, voice a low murmur against my neck, “and I’m going to forget how far along you are.”

I smirked in the mirror. “Why don’t you show me?”

He didn’t ask twice.

He turned me in his arms, eyes flicking down to where my belly curved gently between us. His hands slid up the backs of my thighs, lifting me like I weighed nothing. My breath caught as he set me on the edge of the bathroom counter, lips trailing heat along my collarbone.

“Still okay?” he whispered, as his fingers slid the straps of my nightgown down my arms.

I nodded, eyes already fluttering shut. “More than okay.”

He took his time—unwrapping me like a gift. My breasts were full and sensitive, my belly heavy between us, but none of it made me feel less desirable. He kissed a trail from my throat to the tops of my breasts, one hand holding my face as the other slipped between my thighs.

I gasped, arching into him, legs parting automatically. I was already wet—aching, desperate—and he felt it.

“God, you’re ready for me,” he groaned, sliding a finger through my slick heat.

“Always,” I whispered.

He dropped to his knees in front of me, and I barely had time to breathe before his mouth was on me. Warm, open, devouring. His tongue moved with precision, with hunger, with love—and when he slid two fingers inside me, curling slow and deep, I cried out and bucked against his mouth.

“Don’t stop—Doc, please—”

He didn’t.

He held me there, on the edge, until my thighs were shaking and my hips rolled uncontrollably. When I came, I grabbed his hair, mouth open in a silent scream, every nerve ending lit up like a fuse.

And he still wasn’t done.

“Come to bed,” he said roughly, lifting me again and carrying me to the bedroom.

He laid me down gently, then peeled off his sweats—thick, hard, ready—and crawled over me, kissing his way back up my body like he couldn’t get enough.

“I need to be inside you,” he whispered, guiding himself to my entrance.

“Then be, Doc,” I whispered, pulling him to me. “Please.”

He pushed in slow, groaning as he sank into me, and I felt everything—stretch, fullness, home. My body welcomed him, pulling him deeper until we were completely joined.

We moved in rhythm, slow and sensual, bodies slick with sweat and arousal. His mouth was on my neck, my breasts, my mouth—hands gripping my hips, keeping me open and held and safe.

When I came again, it was softer this time, but no less intense. A ripple that started deep and spread like waves, rolling through me as I clenched around him.

He came right after, moaning my name into my mouth, spilling inside me with shuddering pleasure, his whole body pressed into mine like he was trying to crawl into my soul.

Afterward, he stayed inside me, kissing my eyelids, my nose, the curve of my cheek.

“I love you,” he whispered.

I looked up at him, tears pricking the corners of my eyes. “I know,” I said, voice soft. “I feel it in everything you do.”

He pulled the blankets over us, my head on his chest, his hand stroking my bump.

We didn’t need words then.

Just breath.

Just touch.

Just us.