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“Oh my God,” she sobs. “Oh my God, Rowan, the chair…”
“I know.”
“You built a sex chair.”
“I built a rocking chair. You’re the one turning it into a sex chair.”
She laughs and moans at the same time, and her pussy squeezes around me so hard my whole body locks up.
I keep rocking. One hand on her lower back, holding her steady. One hand on her belly, holding on to both of them.
“Look at you,” I tell her. “Riding me with my baby in your belly. Taking every inch. Your tits are so heavy, Hattie. Your pussy’s so swollen. Your whole body’s getting ready for what I put in it.”
“Rowan…”
“And when this one comes out,” I growl, “I’m going to put another one in you. And another one. Until this whole cottage is full of little wooden babies.”
She comes so hard she screams.
Right there in the chair, clamping down on me, rocking, shaking, sobbing my name. And I go right over the edge with her, pushing my knot into her and pouring into her, filling her up even though there’s no room left to fill, my hand spread wide on her belly the whole time.
The chair rocks back. Slow.
Then forward.
Then it settles and goes still.
She’s slumped against my chest, breathing hard, locked on my knot. Sweaty and soft and glowing in the firelight. I wrap both arms around her and hold her.
And the chair doesn’t make a single sound.
After a long time, she lifts her head and looks at the arm of the chair. Then at the legs. Then at me.
“It held,” she says.
“I told you.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “So you can build furniture that holds. You’ve just been choosing to break my beds.”
“I build better chairs than beds.”
“Rowan.”
“I’m a tree, Hattie. I’ve always been better at sitting than lying down.”
She laughs so hard my knot almost pops out of her.
Then she puts her head back down on my chest, and I rock us slowly in front of the fire until she falls asleep. Her heartbeat against my chest.
And under my hand, something too small to feel yet.
Thirteen
Chapter Thirteen: Hattie
The baby kicks for the first time in December, right in the middle of the first snow.
I’m in the rocking chair by the fire, wrapped in Grandma’s quilt, eating a pickle with honey on it, because I’m still doing that. Rowan’s on the floor with his back against my legs, carving another bee.
