You’re horny. Like, dangerously horny.
Alexia is on the pitch, locked into the Champions League match against Manchester City. She lost the last game, and you know how badly she wants this one. You should be focused too. Supportive. Cheering.
But you're six months pregnant and your entire body is buzzing.
And all you can think about is her.
Not the game. Not the score.
The way her thighs flex when she sprints, thick and powerful. The way her brow furrows when she’s concentrating, that sharp little frown. The way her hands settle on her hips when something doesn’t go her way, fuck.That posture alone sends a direct electric shock to your clit, like a livewire.
You can’t hear the crowd. You barely notice the plays. It’s just her, her, her.
“Oh, that ref is shit. He should’ve called that a foul,” Alba mutters beside you, snapping you out of your haze.
“The ref,” she says, nodding at the pitch.
“Oh. Right. Yeah,” you say, pretending to care. She’s already turned back to the game.
This feeling is consuming you, melting you from the inside out. You feel like you’re going to burst. Your hands are clenched in your lap, trying to behave, but your legs keep pressing together. You're sweating under your dress, soaked through your underwear, every shift in your seat making you want to whimper.
You can't take it anymore.
You grab your phone and open Alexia’s contact, fingers trembling as you type:
— if after 30 minutes of the game you don’t fuck me and give me at least 2 orgasms i will expose you to the internet. i’m not joking. i’m feral.
She won’t read it now, obviously. But when she gets back to the locker room, when she finally checks her phone, you want her to know what she did to you.
— i’m a mess. i’m so wet it’s probably running through my dress and dripping onto the fucking seats. this is 100% your fault.
You stare at the screen, your heart pounding harder than the crowd’s chants.
The stadium erupts. People are screaming, waving flags. Fireworks. Hugs. Applause.
Finale. They’re going to the goddamn finale.
All you want is to be touched.
You turn to Alba. “Let’s go.”
She glances at you, a little surprised. “Already?”
She does, and you wobble a bit, pregnant belly leading the way. You make your way to the VIP lounge and ask for a bottle of water. Your heart is racing like you played 90 minutes.
“You having dinner with us?” you ask Alba casually, your brain screaming please say no please say no please say no—
“I don’t think so, actually. I promised Julia I’d have dinner with her tonight. Been a while.”
“Oh, okay,” you say, masking the desperate joy clawing at your throat. “I just thought—”
“I’m sorry!” she smiles. “We can have dinner later this week.”
You nod, but your mind is elsewhere. All you can think is: Where the fuck is Alexia?
Why is she not here yet? Is she still giving interviews? Talking to people? Laughing with teammates while you’re over here throbbing?
Then, finally, she walks through the doors.
Your entire body clenches. She looks so fucking good. Post-game glow, loose ponytail, jersey stuck to her skin, thighs still tense from running. She’s flushed. Confident. Unreal.
You bite your lip. Hard. Press your thighs together again.
You love her. You hate her. You want to murder her and climb her at the same time.
“Oi, bebé,” she murmurs, kissing your cheek, arms wrapping around you.
You give her a dry peck back, but your eyes are blazing. She hugs Alba next.
“Hey, you coming to dinner?”
“Oh, can’t. Was just waiting for you to show up. I’ve got plans.”
“Okay,” Alexia nods. Alba leaves.
“Dinner out or do you want to order in?” she asks, turning to you with that too-casual tone.
“Order,” you narrow your eyes. She was really about to take you to a restaurant like she didn’t just read those texts? Is she insane?
Then again, she is insane. She's mean. She's hot. She’s yours. So so yours.
“Okay, let’s go,” she says, grabbing your purse and holding out her hand.
You walk with her, past a few teammates. She says her goodbyes. Opens the car door for you. Puts her gear in the trunk. Starts the engine.
She’s humming along to the song on the radio. Calm. Collected.
You look at her. Really look.
What kind of monster leaves their pregnant, needy, drenched wife like this?
The way her fingers grip the wheel. The muscles in her forearms. The little furrow of concentration on her brow.
“What?” she says suddenly, catching your stare.
“You’re so mean,” you mutter, crossing your arms.
“You read the messages. And you chose to ignore me. You ignored your pregnant, unholy, unsatisfied wife”
“I didn’t ignore you,” she smirks. “I just wanted to see when you’d break.”
“When I’d— WHAT KIND OF MONSTER SAYS THAT? I hate you!” you yell, dramatic and breathless.
“Yes I do! I hate you so much!”
She looks at you sideways, eyes dark and smug, and then slowly lets one hand slide off the wheel, straight to your thigh.
Her fingers press into your skin, spreading a little warmth, a little promise.
“You don’t hate me,” she says, low and certain.
And god help you, she’s right.
Her hand stays there hot, firm, steady on your thigh. Not moving. Just existing. Like a warning. Like a fucking claim.
“You don't hate me,” she says again, softer this time, almost teasing, like she already knows you're seconds from falling apart. “You’re just mad I made you wait.”
You twist toward her in your seat, glaring. “I wasn’t mad. I was dying. There’s a difference. You left me like that for ninety minutes. In public.”
“In a stadium,” she corrects, her thumb now rubbing slow, maddening circles over your skin. “While my team fought for the Champions League.”
She laughs, actually laughs, and you nearly claw at her. “You think this is funny?”
“Adorable?” you nearly shriek. “I threatened you. I explicitly said two orgasms and you acted like I said two cappuccinos,”
“I saw that,” she says, grinning wider. “And the one after. The part about your dress. And the seats.”
“And?” you snap, voice shaky.
She hums, dragging the tip of her fingernail up and down your thigh now. You shiver. “And I guess we’ll see if you were exaggerating.”
You make a noise that’s somewhere between a groan and a growl. Your hands are fisted in your lap again, trying not to beg her in traffic.
The city blurs outside the window, but all you see is her profile, focused, gorgeous, unfazed. Your whole body is throbbing and she’s just…driving. Calmly. Like you’re not about to crawl into her lap.
You glance down at her hand on your leg. Her thumb is drifting closer to the inside of your thigh now. Dangerous territory. Too close. You spread your legs slightly without thinking.
She doesn’t say anything. Just flicks her eyes toward you with a slow smirk.
You clench your fists tighter.
“You’re a menace,” you mutter.
She chuckles again, completely in control, and your pulse is in your ears. She's wearing that smug, satisfied post-match look, jersey still sticking to her skin, and all you can think about is how much you need her on you, in you, now now now.
“Alexia,” you whisper, desperate.
She exhales through her nose, leans forward to turn down the music, then returns her hand to your thighs, this time higher, much higher.
“Shhh, bebé. Almost home.”
Your hips twitch toward her.
“No, not shhh. I’m going to die,” you say breathlessly. “You’re going to have to explain to the paramedics that you edged your pregnant wife into a cardiac event.”
She grins. “I’ll just say it was hormones.”
You whimper. Actually whimper.
“You’re so dramatic,” she says, but her voice is lower now, quieter, slipping into that tone you know means trouble.
Then she turns onto your street.
You’re seconds away from sobbing, from tearing the fabric of your dress apart, from climbing her while the engine’s still on. She parks the car and the moment it clicks into place, you undo your seatbelt and twist to her.
She hasn’t even opened her door yet.
You lean toward her, breath warm, hands shaking.
“I swear to God,” you whisper, “if you make me wait one more second,”
But she’s already moving. Turning to you. Hand slipping behind your neck and pulling you in for a deep, hot kiss. It hits you like fireneedy, claiming, hungry. Her tongue sweeps over yours and her fingers dig into your skin and just like that, you’re gone.
Your moan gets swallowed in her mouth.
She reaches down, pulls the lever, and shoves the driver’s seat all the way back.
“Come here,” she says, low.
“You heard me. Come here.”
You scramble over the center console, breathless, messy, belly in the way, everything awkward and unhinged. But she helps you, strong arms around you, guiding you to straddle her lap. Her hands slide under your thighs, lifting you so you’re not too heavy, easing you down until you're sitting right against her.
The moment you're seated, your soaked center pressed against the firm muscle of her thigh, your arms around her neck, she kisses you.
Open-mouthed and fucking relentless.
You moan into her, rocking instinctively, already rolling your hips against her. Her hands slip up under your dress, grabbing the back of your thighs, your ass, your hips, tugging you closer until you're gasping into her mouth.
“Ale, fuck, I’m gonna explode”
She pulls back just enough to look at you, lips wet, eyes glassy.
Her hand slides between your legs. Straight under your underwear.
And when she feels how wet you are?
“Sit up,” she orders, and you barely register what she’s doing before she slides her fingers inside: slow, deep, no warning.
Her other hand grips your hip, grounding you, holding you in place.
“You gonna ride me like you threatened to?” she breathes into your neck. “Or do I have to make you beg for it?”
You’re already moving. Hips grinding down, your belly tight against her chest, your thighs trembling with the effort.
“God, yes, yes, please, Alexia”
“You’re so desperate,” she whispers. “So messy. You wanted to come in my car so bad? Do it.”
Her fingers are already soaked, dripping, knuckles buried in your cunt as you grind against her like you’ve forgotten how to breathe. She’s letting you do the work, just watching, controlling the rhythm with the slow flex of her hand.
“You’re so fucking perfect like this,” she mutters, voice low, forehead pressed to yours. “Dripping all over me. Can you feel how wet you are?“
Your jaw drops. You moan, raw, desperate and she doesn't give you space to recover.
Her fingers curl inside you, deep and mean, rubbing against that swollen, electric spot that sends sparks flying up your spine. Her palm drags hard over your clit. Again and again and again.
Your back arches, your belly tight and shaking, and then your cunt clenches down so hard on her fingers it hurts. You don’t just moan, you wail, the sound tearing from your throat like a sob. Your head tips back, body locking, thighs trembling uncontrollably.
She’s right there, whispering filth into your skin.
“That's it. Give it to me, bebé. Let me feel it. Let me feel all of it.”
You try to breathe, but your lungs won’t work. Your whole body is twitching, seized by the orgasm, soaking her wrist, her palm, the fucking seat. You’re gushing, crying, shaking in her lap like your body’s been possessed.
She holds you there through it gripping your ass with one hand, still inside you with the other, riding it out until you're limp and clinging to her.
When you finally collapse forward, she’s panting against your ear, voice rough with praise.
“Good girl,” she whispers. “You came so hard for me. Fuck.”
Your whole body buzzes. You’re not sure if you’re still crying or just breathless, but her jersey is wet with sweat, and your thighs are shaking.
“That’s one,” she says, slowly pulling her fingers out, wet, slick, obscene. She lifts them to her mouth and licks them clean while you just stare, wrecked and speechless.
Then, with a grin that’s all teeth:
“You still owe me another.”
“And I haven’t even ripped your fucking dress yet.”
