Page 70 of Pregnant By the Playboy

“It’s your fault.”

“Mine?” He has the nerve to sound affronted.

“For looking so goddamn sexy! For knocking me up and making me feel so horny!”

“I do apologize.”

I stop walking and turn to face him, hands on my hips. “How are you so composed right now? I thought you were horny, too.”

“I am. It’s taking every ounce of willpower in my body—and I’m not accustomed to using my willpower—to stop myself from pushing you up against that brick wall and having my way with you.” He points to the side of a building. “Your tits look magnificent in that dress, as I’m sure you’re aware. But I think it would be best to wait until we get back to your condo, and besides, it’s fun to watch you squirm and get pissed at me.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t. Because when we get to your bedroom, I’m going to make you feel really, really good.” He presses a kiss to the side of my neck. “I’m going to slide my fingers into your pussy...”

God, I can’t stand this anymore. I drag him toward the car, and ten minutes later, we’re pulling up to my building. After he helps me out, he pushes me against the car door and sticks his tongue down my throat. I moan.

“Shall we take this upstairs?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say. “I want you.”

And I think I can have you without it meaning anything.

As soon as we stumble, sober, into the entryway of my unit, we’re on each other again. Mouths clashing, hands roaming. He hitches up the bottom of my dress and slides his hand beneath my underwear.

“I wore a dress today for easier access,” I tell him.

“Excellent forethought.”

“I’m annoyed you can still use words like ‘forethought’ right now.”

“It’s just the way I am, I have a superior intel—ohhh.”

I smile. Finally, I feel like I have the power. My hand is down his pants, wrapped around his cock. Although to be honest, it’s kind of difficult to think when I’m touching him so intimately and anticipating how it’ll feel to have that inside me.

His fingers are good, don’t get me wrong. He slides one inside me, and I tip my head back. He takes advantage of that and presses kisses to the underside of my jaw.

In return, I begin stroking my hand up and down.

“Better than doing it yourself?” I ask.

“A zillion times better.”

“Great use of scientific terms.”

“Thank you. I do my best.”

He pushes aside the short sleeves of my dress and shoves down my bra to reveal my breasts. They pebble in the cool air and in expectation of his touch.

He sets his mouth to one nipple as he pulls out a condom from his pocket, and I almost weep in relief. It’s a good thing he tears open the condom package—my hands are shaking so much, I’m not sure I’d be able to do it.

He lifts me up and brings me down, impaling me on his cock.

I groan.

He groans.

This is what we both wanted for so long. All through dinner...and for much longer than that. I need this, this sense of fullness that seems to complete me. I’m finally getting relief from something other than my toys.