My eyes are still locked with London’s when I feel a distinct shift in the air. Her breath catches, and she shudders as though cold. I know she’s not though; it’s a warm evening, and I remember reading somewhere that pregnant women tend to overheat more than anything. I put my other hand on her stomach to join the first, circling both slowly, sensually caressing the bump that represents our future together.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, I begin moving my hands upward as I continue to circle them. All the while my eyes never leave London’s amber gaze. Inching up her torso, my hands finally make contact with her full and heavy breasts, one of the many small—or in this case, not-so-small—mercies of this pregnancy.

I flatten my palms against her nipples, still circling them slowly. Moments later, they harden to my touch. Need flares brightly in London’s eyes, no doubt mirroring the arousal displayed in my own. I want her so bad I can taste it. She wants me too.

“Arlo.” Her voice falters, and I know what’s coming next.

“No.” I beat her to it, desperate to gain control of the situation before she derails it.

“No what?”

“No, we shouldn’t stop. No, this is not a bad idea. No, we shouldn’t fight what we both want. What we need. Just no.”

I tweak both of her nipples hard, enjoying the sight of her mouth rounding into a surprised O. The look in her eyes tells me that her resolve is waning. Good. I drop my lips to hers, lightly, fleetingly, but enough to make my presence felt and my intentions clear. I rest my forehead on hers then, inhaling deeply, trying to get my desires in check. I was never a saint before, but this woman makes me feel like I’m clinging to humanity while inside me a wild creature lurks, just waiting to break free.

London brings out the beast in me every time I’m near her, and a lot of the time I’m not. Since she’s been back from Sydney, I seem to be hard as stone 24/7, and no amount of jerking off improves the situation. My desire for her exists in my body on a cellular, almost chemical level, and I’m powerless to fight it. I know it’s the same for her, but she has more willpower, or more pure stubbornness than me, and she’s better able to resist her impulses. Not today, though. Today she closes her eyes and nods her response to my question.

Yes. Yes!

I want to be inside her as quickly as possible. Yesterday, if it were an option. I’m tempted to shove her onto the table for a repeat performance, but I also want to take my time and slowly tap the powder keg of my arousal. I take her hand and lead her out of the room, walking her to the elevator and up to my bedroom. My bedroom. I hate that, but it is what it is.

Once inside the tiny space, the sexual charge in the air ratchets up several notches. What is it about us and elevators in general, and this one specifically? I have no idea, but what I do know is that it takes every ounce of my already flimsy control to keep from stripping her naked and fucking her raw against the mirrored wall.

When we reach the bedroom, London hesitates at the threshold as I turn on and dim the light.

“What is it?” I hope to God she’s not having second thoughts. Or should that be ninth or tenth thoughts?

“Nothing. It’s just that the room looks different from the last time I saw it.” Oh. Given that she no longer cleans here and hasn’t been in my bed since just before she took off for Sydney, she’s a little behind the eight ball on that front.

“Yeah,” I say noncommittally, fixating on my shoes.

“What?” Her and her fucking Spidey senses. If photography wasn’t an option when her dance career ended, she could just have easily become a detective. Nothing gets past her. I know she’ll inevitably drag the truth out of me, sooner or later. Might as well go the easy way.

“Nothing. I got a new bed.” There were too many negative memories associated with the other one, but I don’t mention that to her and risk completely killing the vibe. “And I moved things around a little. I just thought I should free up some space for… cribs….” I look everywhere but at her, but I sense realization dawning on her.

“Oh.” She enunciates very slowly, prolonging the agony. I pull her into the room, keen to move the conversation on and to put my dick out of its misery. I lead her over to the bed and sit her on the end of it. I sit too, turning toward her.

“You’re sure?” She nods, suddenly launching herself at me, straddling my lap, and pushing me backward on the bed.

“Arlo, I’ll be honest: this pregnancy is making me horny as fuck. Since the sickness passed, I’ve been obsessed with thinking about what you feel like inside me. I’ve gone through so many batteries for BOB, I should consider taking out shares in a battery company. I also think I might have given myself RSI.”

Oh. She’s full of surprises, my little minx, but at least I now know that BOB is her battery-operated boyfriend, aka vibrator, not some dude she’s been fucking on the side. Besides which, a horny pregnant woman is certainly something to thank the fertility gods for. I can already smell her arousal. Holy shit.

“I want to drive.” She’s on top of me, pulling off her sexily snug white tee. I love the way it hugs her in all the right places. Her boobs look fucking fantastic in it. Well, they did. It has now been discarded on the floor while London frantically fiddles with the front fastener of her bra. She wasn’t lying when she said she was horny; baby’s in a hurry. I like it. No, I love it. As she releases her delectably full tits, I reach up to grab a handful, but she swats me away.

“Didn’t I say I’m driving?” She did. “So keep your hands to yourself unless told otherwise, buddy.”

I nod, in shock. Fuck, I love this woman.

“Help me.” She motions to her super-stretchy maternity skirt. With the bump, the easiest way to help is to pull the tube of jersey fabric up over her head, which I do at breakneck speed. I’m delighted to see that even in her pregnancy, she’s still wearing beautifully dainty panties. Jake had mentioned something about his wife Kris wearing utility underwear during her pregnancies, some kind of granny panties made out of trampoline elastic or some shit.

Luckily that’s clearly not London’s thing. They really are nothing much more than two tiny and delicate scraps of lace held together with hair-thin elastic. I look at them, then at her. We have the same dilemma we did with the skirt, except there’s no way of getting panties off over her head. She looks at me and nods. Not needing to be told twice, I grab a handful of the whisper-thin material—how can such a minuscule sliver of fabric hold so much promise?—and yank with all my might. Seconds later, I’m holding my prize.

London grins and mouths her thanks while I bring the mess of lace and elastic to my face, close my eyes, and inhale deeply. Heaven.

“Arlo!”

“What? They smell of your pussy, and wanting, and promise, and delayed gratification. I want to bottle this smell and take it with me everywhere I go.”

She snorts out a short bark of laughter.

“You don’t need to bottle it. You have the real thing right here, primed and ready to roll.” She swirls her hips and grinds herself against my dick, which is still awkwardly entombed in my pants.

“Baby, I gotta get rid of these pants right now. I’m gonna need you to lift up a little.”

She does as I ask, and in turn, I lift my hips from the bed and push the pants downward toward my upper thighs, bending one knee at a time to pull them off.

“I so badly want to sit on your dick, but before that, I want you to suck on my boobs as though they’re the ripest peaches you ever ate.”

She doesn’t need to tell me twice. As she leans over me, pressing my hands down into the mattress with hers and availing me of the tits in question, I open my mouth, sucking on first one and then the other. If London’s moans are anything to go by, I’m hitting the spot.

“Christ, this feels better than I fantasized.” With those words, she rears backward, withdrawing her breast from my mouth with a noisy but satisfying pop, and reaches down to grab my cock. I live for this feeling. My rock-hard dick in her hand, or better still, inside her, is everything. She squeezes gently before moving the beaded tip to her entrance. Shit. Shit. Shit.

She lowers herself onto me excruciatingly slowly. I love having her in the driver seat, but sweet Jesus, I’m going out of my fucking mind. It’s no secret that I’ve been around the block sexually, and then some. I’ve done things that would make most people’s toes curl, but it has to be said that before London, hot pregnant-lady sex wasn’t one of them. Not knowingly anyway. I guess pregnancy sex isn’t a thing in your life until it’s a thing. Right now, it’s 100 percent a thing, and I can’t think of anything I want more than this. I raise my hips slightly, experimentally. Bad move. She pulls upward and stills.

“Uh-uh, Mr. Jones, I’m in charge for once, remember?” For once. Ha! London is in total control of this roller coaster of a relationship we’re riding. All day. Every day.

I lower my hips and she continues her painfully slow descent down my shaft. When she reaches the hilt, I’m almost cross-eyed with the pleasure and pain of it, and London cries out in agony.

“What? Tog? Did I hurt you or the babies?” I bring my hands to her hips urgently and begin lifting her off me, but she swats me away again, lowering herself slowly back down and clamping her eyes shut. She stays like that for a few long moments, while I look on in concern, before she speaks.

“No, no. Everything’s fine. Better than fine, actually. It’s just that with all the hormones, and the way everything has shifted inside, you hitting me there once is enough to make me come. I just needed a moment to pull myself back.”

Thank fuck everything’s okay.

She starts moving in earnest then, and even without the hormones and stuff she’s dealing with, I’m dangerously close to coming in seconds also. As London rides me, setting the pace and depth of each stroke, I feel myself edging closer toward the blackness that signifies the start of an orgasm. I hope London is there with me, because right now my climax is a runaway train over which I have zero control. As my balls tighten, I yell out, “I’m coming, baby,” at the same time as London lets out a piercing, guttural cry of agony and ecstasy.

When we’re done, we collapse in a tangled heap of sweaty limbs and baby bump. I curl around her. Spooning has never been my thing, but with her, I want everything I’ve never wanted and more. Her warmth against my chest and my hands against her stomach feel like coming home. Not for the first time tonight, my mind fades to black.