Baltimore Bound: The Sergeant and the Strip Queen Chapter 9
Honeymoon haze fades into everyday life, but the newlyweds find themselves craving more than just each other—a family of their own. Conversations turn intimate as you and Wayne explore the idea of making babies: the fears from your past, the excitement of a future together, the raw desire to create something pure in a tainted city. What starts as whispered pillow talk escalates into passionate nights dedicated to trying, bodies and hearts aligned in pursuit of a new beginning. But Baltimore’s shadows loom, reminding you both that bringing life into this world means fighting harder to protect it. Commitment deepens, and so does the love, as you take the first steps toward parenthood.
• Explicit sexual content: detailed consensual sex scenes focused on conception (breeding kink elements, passionate/intense).
• Emotional discussions: family planning, references to past trauma/childhood neglect, fears of parenthood in a high-risk environment.
• Possessive/protective romance, morally gray themes (corruption, danger).
• Strong language, mature/adult situations.
• Fictional; inspired by We Own This City—no real events.
The honeymoon wasn’t some tropical escape—Baltimore didn’t give you that luxury. Instead, it was five days holed up in a quiet cabin up in the Maryland hills: no phones, no badges, no club drama. Just you and Wayne, tangled in sheets, cooking bad breakfasts, talking about everything and nothing. You came back married, ringed, and changed—deeper somehow. Like the vows had sealed cracks you didn’t know were there.
Back in the apartment above Velvet Shadows, life resumed its rhythm. Club nights thumping below, Wayne’s shifts pulling him into the streets, stolen mornings where he’d wake you with coffee and kisses. But something new lingered in the quiet moments: a pull, a question unspoken until one rainy afternoon when you were both off.
You were curled on the couch, his head in your lap, your fingers combing through his hair. The TV droned some old cop show—ironic, but neither of you changed it.
“Been thinking,” he said suddenly. Voice low, eyes on the screen but mind elsewhere.
“About kids.” He turned his head, looked up at you. “Us. Having ’em.”
Your hand stilled. Heart skipped. You’d felt it too—the ache when Tanya’s kids hugged you at the wedding, the way Wayne’s face softened around them. But saying it out loud? That was territory you’d avoided.
“You want that?” you asked carefully.
He sat up, faced you fully. Took your hands in his. “Yeah. I do. Not right away if you’re not ready. But… yeah. Seeing you with Marcus and the princess? You’d be an amazing mom. And I want that with you. A family we build. Something good in all this mess.”
Tears pricked—unexpected. You blinked them back. “I want it too. But I’m scared, Wayne. My past… what if I fuck it up? What if I’m like her? Or what if the city—your job, my club—puts them in danger?”
He cupped your face. “You’re nothing like her. You fight for what’s yours. And we’ll protect ’em. Together. We don’t do this half-assed. We make sure they’re safe. Loved.”
You leaned in, kissed him soft. “Okay. Let’s try.”
The shift was immediate. That night, dinner forgotten on the stove, he backed you against the kitchen counter. Hands urgent, mouth hungry. “Gonna make you a mom,” he murmured against your neck. “Gonna fill you up.”
Heat flooded you. You’d always been intense—passionate, rough around the edges—but this? This was primal. Purposeful.
He lifted you onto the counter, dress hiked up, panties tugged aside. No foreplay needed—you were ready, slick from the words alone. He pushed in slow, eyes locked on yours. “You want my baby?”
“Yes,” you gasped, legs wrapping around him. “Yes, Wayne.”
He thrust deep, deliberate. Not rushing. Each stroke a promise. You clung to him, nails in his back, moaning his name as he drove you higher. When you came—clenching around him—he followed, burying himself as deep as he could, groaning low as he spilled inside.
After, he didn’t pull out right away. Just held you there, forehead against yours, breathing ragged. “First try,” he whispered with a grin.
You laughed—breathless, hopeful. “We’ll see.”
The trying became a ritual. Mornings before his shift: slow and sleepy, him behind you in bed, hand on your belly as he rocked into you. “Gonna put a baby right here,” he’d say, voice rough with sleep and want.
Nights after the club closed: you on top, riding him hard, chasing release while he gripped your hips. “Take it all, baby. Every drop.”
It wasn’t just sex. It was healing. Claiming. Every time he filled you, it felt like erasing pieces of the past—replacing neglect with intention, abandonment with creation.
But doubts crept in. A month passed. No positive test. You sat on the bathroom floor one morning, staring at the single line, tears hot on your cheeks.
Wayne found you there. Knelt down, pulled you into his arms. “Hey. It’s okay. We keep trying. Or we see a doc if it takes time. No pressure.”
You buried your face in his neck. “What if I can’t? What if Newark broke something in me?”
He tilted your chin up. “Nothing’s broken in you. You’re perfect. And if we can’t… we adopt. Or we spoil Tanya’s kids rotten. But we’re a family either way. You and me—that’s enough.”
His words steadied you. That night, you tried again—not out of desperation, but love. He laid you out on the bed, worshipped every inch: kisses down your spine, tongue between your thighs until you were shaking, begging. When he finally slid in, it was tender. Deep. “I love you,” he whispered with each thrust. “No matter what.”
You came whispering his name, and he followed, holding you close as he pulsed inside.
Two weeks later, the test turned positive.
You waited until he got home—heart pounding, hands shaking as you held the stick behind your back. He walked in tired, bruised from a rough shift, but his face lit when he saw you.
“What’s that smile for?” he asked, pulling you close.
You held up the test. “We did it.”
His eyes widened. He stared at the two lines, then at you. “You’re…?”
“Pregnant.” Tears spilled. Happy ones.
He crushed you to him—careful, gentle. “Fuck. Baby. We’re having a baby.”
Laughter bubbled up. “Yeah. We are.”
He dropped to his knees right there in the living room. Lifted your shirt, pressed kisses to your still-flat belly. “Hey in there. It’s Dad. Can’t wait to meet you.”
You carded fingers through his hair, watching him—your husband, soon-to-be father—talk to the life you’d made.
Tanya screamed when you told her. Hugged you tight. “Auntie duties incoming. Oh, and I’m throwing the shower. No arguments.”
The club girls celebrated too—champagne (non-alcoholic for you), stories of their own kids or pregnancies. Velvet Shadows felt warmer, like the family extended.
But Baltimore didn’t change. Wayne’s task force whispers grew louder—feds circling closer. He came home one night tense, sat you down.
“We gotta be careful,” he said. “I’m pulling back on the dirt. Focusing on clean work. For you. For the baby.”
You nodded. “And I’m hiring more security. Scaling back my hours. We protect this.”
Months blurred: morning sickness you powered through, Wayne rubbing your back at 3 a.m.; ultrasounds where you both cried hearing the heartbeat; nesting in the apartment, turning a corner into a nursery with crib and tiny clothes.
Your belly grew—round, full. Wayne couldn’t keep his hands off it. Or you. Sex shifted: slower, gentler, but no less intense. Him behind you, hand splayed over the bump as he moved careful. “So beautiful,” he’d groan. “Carrying our kid. Mine.”
You’d come whispering promises—about the life you’d give them, the parents you’d be.
At seven months, during a quiet dinner, he looked at you across the table. “Boy or girl?”
You smiled. “Doesn’t matter. As long as they’re ours.”
He reached for your hand. “They will be. Strong like you. Stubborn like me.”
The city kept its claws out—threats from old dealers, Wayne’s unit under scrutiny. But you faced it together. Doctor visits, birthing classes, late-night talks about names (Ava for a girl, after no one, just something new; Marcus Jr. if a boy, but nah, something fresh—Jax).
As your due date neared, Wayne took leave. Stayed close. “Not missing a second,” he said.
And in the quiet before the storm of parenthood, you lay in bed one night, his head on your belly, feeling kicks.
“We made this,” you whispered.
“Yeah.” His voice thick. “Best thing we ever did.”
The Newark queen and the Baltimore sergeant—parents now.
Making babies wasn’t just the act.
The future you both deserved.
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