Page 71 of Pregnant By the Playboy

I cling to him as he walks toward my bedroom, continuing to move me up and down on his cock. He sets me down on my bed, on my back, never breaking his pace. When he swipes a lock of sweaty hair back from my forehead and smiles at me, I feel like I’m about to shatter.

“Vince,” I murmur, burrowing my head against his shoulder.

“I know,” he says. “I know.”

He slams into me again. He’s so powerful. So perfect. I feel like I’m about to combust...and then he touches my clit, and I do. I sob and shake and cry out and hold onto him with everything I’ve got until he finds his own release.

He pulls out of me and disposes of the condom, and I almost sob again at the loss.

When he returns to the bedroom, I wrap my arms around him, not wanting him to go anywhere. “I hope that wasn’t enough for you.”

“Nowhere near enough,” he assures me. “We’re just getting started. Do you regret insisting we go out for dinner first?”

“A little, but it was probably for the best. I would have gotten hungry at some point.”

“And sent me down to Cheese & Me for matcha double fromage cheesecake?”

“Fortunately, I have some in the freezer.”

“Well, that’s a relief. Didn’t want to bribe any teenagers again.”

“How horrible that must have been for you.”

“You know,” he says, “we do have a bit of a problem.”

“And what would that be?”

“You’re still wearing clothes.”

“Oh. So I am.”

They’re not on properly anymore, but I am indeed wearing clothes. I let Vince pull my dress over my head, followed by my bra. Next, he takes off my panties. When he was inside me, he merely pushed them to the side.

I wore nice ones today. Even though I told myself I wouldn’t have sex with him...well, I couldn’t help thinking about it.

Once my clothes are off, I get to work on his. It’s been a while since he’s been gloriously naked in bed with me, and damn, it’s nice.

But what if...

No. We’re just having sex because we’re both in desperate need of sex. Why should we deny ourselves? We’re good in bed together and he treats me well.

He rests his hand on my stomach, and it feels possessive.

“What should we call the baby before they’re born?” he asks. “Lime?”

“Lime? Why?”

“Because that’s how big they were at the first ultrasound.”

“Would we call them something different each week as they grow? Like, they’re now about the size of an orange, so...”

He chuckles.

“I just call them Baby,” I say. “Nice and simple.”

“Okay, I can do that.” Vince rests his cheek on my stomach. “Hi, Baby. I’m your father, and I’m so excited to meet you.”

Oh, God. The stupid hormones are making me teary-eyed.