Page 26 of Graciously His

“Open your eyes and look at me. Look at your husband.”

“This is wrong,” she whispers, her voice broken. “You’re not my husband.”

“I’ve got paperwork that says otherwise.” And a mouth full of her pleasure that says even more. I lean down and continue. “We’re going to take this last step, Grace, and you’re going to love every second of it.”

She flinches, her eyes fluttering open.

“Are you hurting, love?” I ask.

I want to know if she’ll tell me the truth. Grace lies to herself all the time, but she can’t lie to me.

“No,” she answers.

“Perfect.”

Her eyes snap to mine, brows furrowed prettily.

“That’s right,” I tell her, “you’re my perfect, gracious girl when you tell me the truth. You can pretend again as soon as you’ve admitted what you want.”

She swallows, eyes tearful. “I can’t. It’s wrong.”

“What’s wrong,” I kiss the tip of her nose, “is how long it’s taken us to get here.”

She runs her fingertips over my shoulders and I resist the urge to preen. I flex forward, encouraging her to feel my strength. I’ll use it soon.

“It’s wrong,” her legs shift beneath me, opening, “just yesterday I felt… hollowed out. But now I’m—”

“Now,” I take myself in hand, dragging my cock along the seam of her pussy, “you’re soaked for me.”

She tries to shake her head, but I kiss her still, her gasps filling my mouth. I’m throbbing against the exact place I want to be. Grace pulls back, her lips wetter than her eyes. When her voice comes, it’s clear and assertive despite her dazed expression.

“I’m not on anything. Birth control or… or anything.”

It takes me a moment to understand. Then I want to thrust forward—now. I want to bind this woman to me on paper and in the flesh. I want to make her swell.

“Are you fertile?” The words come out dark and low. “Tell me.”

“F-follicular phase.” It means nothing to me, which she seems to realise. “I’ll ovulate early next week.”

“A shame,” I trail my lips along her cheek, “because I’ll tell you this,” I nip the tender skin beneath her jaw, “I’d love to see you big and round with my baby.”

“You would?”

I grab the nape of her neck, forcing her eyes to meet mine. “Sick or pregnant. Unwell or healthy. I will take care of you forever. But I need you to say the word. Say yes, Grace.”

Her thighs close around me, and I finally hear it: “Yes.”

“That,” I tell her, “is the only word you will ever need in this house.”

She looks like she wants to take it back, but I move fast. Pinning her wrists above her head, I spread her open with my thighs.

“Don’t you dare look away, now.”

She moans, half in fear, half in desire as I press into her. She’s wet but she’s also too tight for this to be good for her. Her body has been unused to sex for upwards of a year and, if I know Grace, she’ll have abstained from taking care of this herself. She mewls in discomfort as I ease myself in. Part of me wants to slam forward regardless of pain. She’s practically virginal, paradoxically pure. I could corrupt her, now and forever.

But I don’t.

I pause, seeing the fear in her eyes. I soften my expression, telling her without words that this—pressing into her pristine warmth—is enough. The right and the wrong entwined together so tightly neither of us will ever untangle them. It’s more than enough.