Page 11 of Rome
Caleb growled again, the sound vibrating against my flesh. I reached up to grab my boobs, cupping them and rolling my fingertips over my nipples. The skin was so sensitive it almost hurt, and that little bite of pain felt incredible.
“That’s it, play with your tits. You’re so fuckin’ beautiful, Abby.”
I felt tears burning the inside of my eyelids at his words, knowing that he truly saw me that way, but needing the reminder, nonetheless. My damned hormones made me so emotional these days, and I’d been feeling particularly vulnerable about my physical appearance lately.
It hadn’t helped hearing the tail end of a conversation between a couple of the club bunnies joking about some new stripper being “a prettier, skinnier version of Rome’s Ol’ Lady” when I’d stopped by the clubhouse last week to do some work in the office for Bull and Irish. I wasn’t sure who they were talking about. I hadn’t seen her yet, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to, at least not while I was as big as a house.
I’d gone to the ladies’ room for what had felt like the tenth time that morning, and they’d walked in as I’d been struggling to pull up my leggings in one of the stalls. I don’t think they knew I was in there. I had frozen in place, not making a sound as I listened to them talking as they emptied the trash can, so I’d guessed they were in the midst of cleaning the clubhouse, which was one of their non-sexual duties for the club. I’d waited until they left to flush the toilet and exit the stall, quickly washing my hands and hurrying back to Bull’s office before they saw me.
I’d tried to put it out of my mind, but it kept popping back up at the strangest times, like now. I shut down that train of thought and focused on my husband, who was showing me with his words, and his actions, how much he wanted me. Me, as I was right now. Not a prettier, skinnier version of me, but me – baby bump, big butt, sore boobs, swollen ankles, and all.
“I need you.”
“You’ll get me, all eight inches, I promise. Come for me first, Abs.”
“No, now, Caleb. I need you to fuck me now,” I whispered frantically, trying to shift so I could roll over onto all fours. That was just about the only position that was comfortable right now. Even lying on my side with him behind me didn’t work very well these days, because I couldn’t bend my leg and shift it high enough to get the right angle with my belly in the way.
Caleb grunted as he got off his knees and straightened to his full height as he stood at the edge of the bed. He helped me roll over and spread my knees wide as he grasped my hips and pulled them up, so my ass was in the air. He positioned the head of his cock at my entrance and thrust, seating himself in one smooth, hard motion.
“Oh fuuuck,” he groaned, pulling out and plunging in again. I bowed my head down, resting my forearms flat on the mattress on either side of my head in order to give myself leverage to buck back, meeting Caleb thrust for thrust. I felt his balls slapping against my clit every time he pounded into me, and it felt incredible. I angled my head to see over my shoulder, watching as Caleb threw his head back and yelled out his pleasure.
“I’m close, Abby. Come for me, baby girl.” His voice was deep and growly, a particular combination that I only ever heard him use when he was on the edge. I clenched my pussy around his thick cock, bearing down on him as I screamed his name, and he went wild, slamming into me once, twice, three times, before pushing his dick balls-deep inside and grinding his pelvis against my ass.
“I think I need a nap,” I said with a worn-out sigh a few minutes later, brushing aside a few stray pieces of damp hair that were clinging to my dewy cheek. I felt Caleb’s body shake against my back as he silently laughed, and I looked over my shoulder at him.
“It’s not nice to laugh at a pregnant woman, Caleb Morgan. We get cranky, you know,” I told him with mock sternness.
“Oh, I know, baby girl, believe me.” He wasn’t able to contain his laughter when I scowled at him. “Even at your crankiest, you know you’re the love of my life.” He dropped a conciliatory kiss on my cheek before shifting himself and rolling out of bed in one lithe movement. I watched him with envy, longing for the days that I could move around with so little effort. I felt like I needed a crane to hoist my big ass out of bed half the time, and it would only get worse over the next four weeks.
He padded around to my side of the bed, still gloriously naked and covered in a light sheen of sweat. I watched with interest, admiring his six-pack and that mouth-watering “V” that led the way straight to his cock. He stopped next to me and held out both hands expectantly. I placed my hands in his and he heaved me up to a sitting position without so much as the slightest bit of strain, and I swung my legs over the side of the bed. Standing, I made my way into our bathroom, with Caleb on my heels. I went into our separate toilet room, taking care of business as I heard Caleb turning on the shower. By the time I finished, he was already in the shower soaping up. I grabbed a hair tie from the vanity drawer, quickly fastening my hair into a loose bun on top of my head to keep it dry.
I opened the shower door, and Caleb opened one eye and squinted at me as he rinsed the shampoo from his hair and beard. I slipped in around him, turning my back to the spray of the water while I picked up my loofah and squirted some of my body wash on it. The scent of cherry blossoms filled the steamy, tiled stall, and a moment later, I felt his arms wrap around me from behind. He plucked the loofah from my hands and ran it over my skin in feather-light movements designed to drive me crazy.
I moaned and dropped my head back to rest against his chest. He gave a sexy chuckle and pressed his cock – now half-hard again – against my ass. He dropped the loofah and cupped my breasts, gently squeezing the mounds before zeroing in on my nipples. He bent his head and kissed my shoulder as he tweaked the hard peaks, the warm water flowing over my skin adding an extra level of sensation.
“You know we don’t have time to finish this, woman,” he chided me, and I snorted at the playful accusation in his tone.
“Excuse me, but I’m not the one who started this,” I said, with a pointed glance at his hands which were still tugging and rolling my nipples.
“Don’t blame this on me. You’re the one who joined me in the shower, parading your sexy body in front of me. What exactly did you expect me to do?” He glided his fingers lower, and I turned away with a throaty laugh. He was so full of shit, but I loved him for it.
“You’re right, I should have known better, stud. Now, scoot, I need to finish up.” I nudged his hip and motioned him aside, then stepped under the water to rinse the rest of the soap from my body. Caleb stepped out and I watched him through the fogged glass as he dried himself off. By the time I turned the water off and opened the stall door, he was there to help me step out and dry off. Bending over to dry my feet was getting more difficult by the day, so I was grateful for his help.
We quickly dressed, me in my comfy pajamas with a sports bra underneath to give me the support I needed these days, and Caleb in a pair of gray sweatpants that I loved on him, with a faded Guardians T-shirt. We made our way downstairs and into the kitchen, where I was instructed to sit down while he worked on dinner.
“I can at least help,” I protested with an exasperated chuckle, but he quickly shot me down with just one look.
“I’ve got this, Abs. You just sit your sweet ass down and let me take care of you for a change.”
Soon the kitchen was filled with mouth-watering aromas, and before long, he was dishing up two plates of chicken stir-fry and joining me at the kitchen table. Our three-bedroom house, purchased shortly after we got married almost six years ago, had a small, formal dining room that we rarely used. We preferred to eat our meals at the table in our eat-in kitchen, or while sitting on the stools at the large center island.
“Mmm, this is delicious,” I almost moaned after I took the first bite. Food always tasted so much better when you didn’t have to cook it yourself, in my opinion. I didn’t mind cooking – and I was pretty good at it – but it wasn’t a passion of mine. Eating was a passion, however, which made cooking a necessary chore. Caleb had been hopeless in the kitchen when we first got together, but he’d quickly offered to pitch in to help, eventually learning enough to make meals on his own. He really was the perfect husband, well, as perfect as a stubborn, hot-headed, possessive biker could be.
His cell phone rang while we were cleaning up, or rather, while I watchedhimclean the kitchen because I was still under orders to sit and relax. Since he was wrist-deep in the soapy water in the sink, I picked his phone up from the counter and saw that it was Saint.
“Hi Saint,” I answered as Caleb dried his hands on a paper towel. “Hang on just a second and Rome will be right with you.”
“Thanks, Abby,” he answered, and his voice sounded like he was thoroughly pissed off. I covered the phone and whispered, “He doesn’t sound like he’s in a good mood,” as I passed it to Caleb.
