Price finds out you’re pregnant and becomes the world’s most doting husband.
Spoils you rotten from minute one. You want pickles and ice cream at two in the morning? He’s already lacing his boots, grumbling fondly about how you’re gonna be the death of him while he kisses your forehead. Stay put, love. Daddy’s got it. Three am milkshake run? No problem. He’s pulling up to the twenty four hour drive thru in his truck, voice low and warm on the phone the whole way back so you don’t feel alone for a second.
Feet hurting? He’s got you propped up on the couch with a pillow under your knees, those big calloused hands working slow circles into your arches until you’re practically purring. When his thumbs start cramping after the third night in a row, he books you the fancy prenatal massage place downtown without being asked.
He’s there for every single appointment. Sitting in the waiting room like a proud fucking peacock, flipping through baby magazines with that little furrowed brow of concentration, asking the nurse questions that make her smile because most dads don’t bother. He’s read every book. Watched every cliché movie. Stocked the nursery. He knows about the Braxton Hicks, the swollen ankles, the weird cravings.
He’s prepared for everything.
He’s not expecting how fucking horny you are all the time.
Christ, the way your body changes does something to him. He’s hard half the day just looking at you- that soft swell of your belly stretching your shirts tight, the way your tits have gotten fuller, the little waddle you do when you’re tired. You catch him staring and he doesn’t even try to hide it.
And listen- John Price is more than willing to dick you down good and proper. He’s got the stamina of a man who’s seen some shit, but he’s not a spry young buck anymore. Two rounds, maybe three on a really good night, before his back starts protesting and his knees remind him he’s closer to fifty than he’d like to admit.
He’ll fuck you slow and deep, hands reverent on your belly, whispering filthy praise the whole time- that’s it, love, take it just like that, look at you, all swollen and needy for me- until you’re shaking apart around him. But then you’re still whining, still squirming, still slick and desperate, and he’s tapping out with a wrecked groan, cock spent and softening while you’re left frustrated and teary-eyed.
You sniffle into the pillow. Trying so hard not to cry because you know he’s giving you everything he’s got, but the hormones have you keyed up like a live wire and nothing feels like enough. And god, doesn’t he feel like the biggest jackass on the planet. He can’t keep up. He’s lying there afterward, one arm curled protectively around your belly, the other scratching through his beard while he stares at the ceiling like it owes him answers.
He’s definitely scratching his head at a solution.
Right up until Nikolai comes to visit.
The big Russian shows up with that lazy smirk already in place. You light up the second he steps through the door, literally melt into those massive arms when they open for you. Nikolai chuckles low, enveloping you completely, and you bury your face in his chest and let out this soft, needy little sound.
All the pieces slot together so perfectly he almost laughs out loud. He’s not jealous- fuck no. If anything, he’s relieved. Because Nikolai’s got that endless stamina, that rough patience, that filthy mouth that could probably talk you through three orgasms before Price even catches his breath. And the way you’re already clinging to him, hips shifting just a little like you can’t help it?
John Price is already picturing it. Already hard again just from the thought.
Time to have a little chat with his old friend.
