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After a few flaps of my wings, I settle her on a nearby lounger covered in furs. When I lay her upon its surface, she spreads her thighs, stretching her arms and arching her back. My female luxuriates as I enter her.

My Reina, my queen. My mate, the mother of my child-to-be.

From my first thrust, she grips tight, crying out. My need grows, tinged with her wonderful news, and my thrusts grow increasingly wild, desperate to sate our hunger.

I angle my hips, ensuring my scales rub her inner spot as she sways, matching my tempo, lengthening my thrusts. Together, we ride the brink—pleasure and pain, chase and release—rising toward climax.

We fly. We soar.

Riding waves of pleasure, we become breathless, lucid in the afterglow. I twitch one last time, and she wiggles her hips, milking the final moment. As I slide out of her, our juices mingle on her thighs, and I brush my lips against her brow, rolling over to my back.

She turns to her side, lazily tracing my chest with her fingertips. No matter how many times we’ve connected our bodies in this way, I never tire of the struggle of sex, the rush of release, the afterglow… I’ve become possessive, hoarding experience until it becomes expertise.

“Is it different?” I ask. “Now that you’ve conceived?”

“I don’t know. I’m still adjusting. It’s unreal. I was prepared for it to never happen.”

“Me too,” I muse.

“Long as our lives may be, you would have been enough.”

“I like that,” I growl, kissing her brow. “You are my everything.”

We hold one another’s gaze, new identities settling like our heaving chests. She smiles; she nods. She’ll be the perfect mother.

“What happens next?” I ask.

“Now, we become something more.”