you’re already clinging to him. that’s the first thing you notice when your mind slips back into your body — how tightly your arms are around his shoulders, how your fingers are hooked under the fabric of his shirt like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you stop holding on. and he’s above you, warm, heavy, inside you in slow, devastating strokes that make your breath break every time he pushes in.
the room is quiet. too quiet. just the soft gasp you make when he shifts his weight, just his breath against your cheek, rough and uneven like he’s trying to hold himself together for both of you.
his wedding band brushes your waist again. you feel it every time. you feel everything.
“look at me,” he whispers, and it isn’t a command this time — it’s something softer, something almost fragile. you open your eyes because you can’t not, because his voice pulls you upright from inside your own chest.
he’s already looking at you.
and god, he looks wrecked. not just from sex — from you. from the way you touch him, from the way your mouth falls open when he thrusts deep, from the way you say his name like it means something. his pupils are blown, cheeks flushed, hair sticking to his forehead, and he’s watching you like you’re the only thing in the room worth breathing for.
“you feel so good,” he murmurs, forehead dropping to yours, hips rocking slow and perfect, like he’s savoring every inch of you. “i swear… i swear you’re gonna kill me.”
your lips brush his, just barely, and he kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t keep touching you — warm n tender in a way that contradicts everything he tries to pretend he is. he cups your face with one big hand, thumb tracing your cheek like he’s memorizing you under his palm.
you’re shaking. he feels it.
“baby…” he whispers, and it’s the way he says it low, almost reverent — that pulls the truth out of you.
“jason,” you breathe, nails dragging down his back, “i want your baby.”
he stills. completely. like your words hit some hidden place in him that’s never been touched. his eyes open — slow, stunned — and he searches your face like he needs to see if you’re serious before he lets himself believe it.
you are. he sees it. something in his expression cracks open.
“sweetheart,” he whispers, voice shaking, “don’t… don’t say that unless you mean it. not now.”
you lift your hips into his — tiny, desperate — and that’s all it takes. his control slips like water through his fingers. his mouth drops open in a groan he can’t swallow down, and he pulls you tighter beneath him, chest pressed to yours, like he’s trying to fuse your bodies together.
“fuck,” he mutters against your mouth, “you want that? you want my baby for real?”
“yes,” you breathe, the word trembling out of you, “i want it — want you — please…”
he kisses you again, but it’s different now — deeper, hungrier, full of something you don’t have a name for. his hand slides down your stomach, slow, reverent, settling low where your bodies meet, where he’s stretching you open with every slow thrust.
his voice is barely a whisper. “i could give you one,” he says, breath trembling, “god, you don’t even know what that does to me.”
you tighten around him — involuntary — and he gasps, hips jerking like he’s losing control. his forehead presses to your cheek, lips brushing your ear.
“you’re gonna make me cum,” he rasps. “say it again. tell me you want it.”
you do. you tell him.
you feel him fall apart because of it.
he grabs your thigh, pulling you open under him as he thrusts deeper, faster but not rough — desperate, loving, overwhelmed. his voice breaks, his rhythm falters, and he buries his face in your neck like he can’t handle looking at you while he unravels.
“take it—” he groans, “take all of it—fuck—i want—i want you pregnant with my kid—”
and you feel it — the moment he gives in, the moment he pushes in deep and stays there, shuddering, trembling, filling you with everything he’s been holding back, everything he couldn’t say until now.
his arms wrap around you, pulling you against his chest, holding you through every pulse of it. he doesn’t let go. he doesn’t even try.
when he finally lifts his head, his lips brush yours — soft, slow, intimate.
“you’re mine,” he whispers, voice wrecked, tender in a way that steals whatever breath you had left. “and if you want my baby… sweetheart, i’ll give you anything.”
