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I look past his arm anyway.
Two pink lines. Two pink lines. And the digital one, in little black letters, like it’s reading me my rights.
Pregnant.
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
He looks up at me.
His eyes are burning. Like something in him just caught fire and won’t go out.
“Mine,” he says.
It comes out low and rough, all teeth.
“Mine. Mine. Mine.”
* * *
He doesn’t carry me to the bed.
He doesn’t even let me off the counter. He yanks his sweats down right there, and I’m butt-naked on cold marble with pregnancy tests rattling next to my hip, and he grabs my thighs and drags me to the edge. And I’m laughing. I don’t know why I’m laughing. I’m laughing and saying oh my God, oh my God over and over like a broken Furby, and he’s not saying nothing at all. He’s just breathing hard through his nose, with his hand on my belly and his eyes on my face.
This man is about to fuck me on a bathroom counter next to eleven pregnancy tests and a pack of Twizzlers.
And I’m soaking.
The marble’s freezing under my ass. My back hits the mirror. He drags the head of his cock through me, slow, and I didn’t even know I was wet till I hear it. Lord. I’m dripping on that counter.
He presses the tip right there against me. Just holding it. I can feel the blunt, hot weight of him pressing on my opening, and my pussy’s clenching on nothing, trying to pull him in, and he still don’t push. He just holds it there with his hand on my stomach, watching me, till I’m shaking.
“Sasha,” I beg. “Please.”
He pushes in.
I’m swollen. I’m sensitive in a way I never been before, like every nerve I got just woke up at once, and when he stretches me open it’s like the first time all over again. Thick and hot and slow. I feel every inch drag inside me. The burn. The fullness. The pressure building up and up under my belly button, right where his hand is. I grab his shoulders and dig my nails in and throw my head back against the mirror and moan so loud the housekeeper downstairs drops something.
He bottoms out. He holds there.
He’s buried all the way inside me. And his hand’s on my stomach. And somewhere under his hand, there’s a baby. His baby.
In me.
That thought goes straight to my pussy. I clench on him so hard he grunts.
Then he moves.
He doesn’t go fast. He goes deep. Slow, hard, grinding strokes that push me back into the mirror every time, his hips rolling against my clit, dragging almost all the way out and pressing back in, deeper, so deep I feel him in my stomach. My heels are digging into the backs of his thighs. My titties are bouncing. The tests are rattling on the counter. The marble’s not cold no more. I’m sweating.
“You’re mine,” he says, right against my mouth. “You hear me? You and that baby. Mine.”
“Sasha…”
“You’re not getting away from me now. Not on a bus. Not in a trunk. Not in a fucking funnel cake line.” He grinds in deeper and I cry out. “You’re marrying me Saturday. And I’m keeping you in this house. And I’m gonna watch you get big, Dylan. I’m gonna watch this belly get big and round with my kid, and I’m gonna fuck you every day of it.”
My pussy’s fluttering around him. I can’t breathe. I can’t think.
“And when it’s out,” he says, low and rough, “I’m putting another one in you.”
