The Lie(96)

“God, you’re so f*cking beautiful, Mrs. McGregor,” he says, taking his fingers and lightly tapping it against me. He blows on me – that’s something new – and the ache for him to ram his cock inside me is so acute that I feel like I’m going blind to the world, that there’s only him and me and this primal desire for each other. A desire that takes over everything, even a wedding ceremony.

He keeps blowing, the air causing my nerves to dance, my skin to tighten, and then slowly pushes his thumb in my ass while positioning his cock. I’m so open for him, wet, swollen, greedy and, with a firm hold, he pulls me back onto his shaft.

I gasp as he fills me, my body expanding around him, the angle and the wild lust and the hormones and emotions filling me up with so much want and need and joy, that I must be glowing like the sun inside. With deliberation he eases himself back in and bites my shoulder playfully.

“Mrs. McGregor,” he murmurs again, in my ear, licking down my neck.

Then the bites are harder and he’s holding my waist tighter and with a few hard pumps, he’s packed inside me, deep and tight, and I’m clenching around him.

More, more, more.

My lungs ache for air and my fingers dig into the rug and he’s pounding me, rough, almost brutal and all thought is gone. I’m just chasing my relief, panting, trying to catch up with my heart which is reckless in my chest.

This is good.

This is so f*cking good.

I love, love, love this man.

My husband.

Brigs pistons back and forth, striking deep, like he’s forcing the air out of my lungs. Again and again he slides in, savage, and his grunts are louder, his grip slippery on my hips from sweat. His words are dirty, asking me if I like it, asking me if I want his cock harder, telling me how sweet my cunt feels. His accent grows huskier with pleasure.

I’m on the edge.

I shift and his cock hits the right bundle of nerves.

It’s like a match is struck inside me.

Boom.

I’m exploding, splintering into sharp fragments that burst again and again until I’m liquid starlight and warm silver that slides through my blood.

Brigs comes immediately after me, a guttural roar ripping from his lips, his breathing raspy as he tries to catch his breath. I’m still pulsing around him, trying to bring reality into focus. My vision is soaked with bliss.

“I guess we should go,” he says after a few moments, slowly pulling out.

I love how he feels bare. I guess one good thing about being pregnant is that you don’t have to worry about getting pregnant again.

But f*ck, even though the both of us are worried, because who doesn’t fret about bringing a life into this world, especially in this day and age, I know I’ve never wanted something more. I know Brigs has never wanted this more. It’s beautiful and it’s real and it’s ours.

It’s life.

And it goes on.

Brigs helps me up to my feet and I quickly yank my underwear back on. We both fix each other a bit – I straighten his bow-tie, he adjusts my breasts back in my dress – and then we quickly hit the road.

We’re lucky with traffic today and we get to Hyde Park with a few minutes to spare. The photographer is hanging out halfway to the gardens and once she sees us, starts walking over, snapping as she goes.

Brigs turns in his seat and puts his hand up in the air.

I put my hand in his.

“Are you ready?” he asks me, shaking my hand in the air.

I nod, beaming at him. “Am I ever.”

He places his hand on my stomach. “Are you ready Ramona?”

We both wait for the kick that doesn’t come.

“Not yet,” I tell him. “Give her a few more months.”

We get out of the car and join hands, walking toward the photographer. In the distance, beyond the Round Pound in the Kensington Gardens, we can see Max, Shelly and Winter waiting for us.

Brigs nudges me in the side as the photographer keeps snapping and jerks his head at the Serpentine. “Afterward, how about we have our wedding photos done on the pedalo?”

“No way,” I tell him, laughing. “That’s asking for disaster. Especially with this dress and hair and makeup. We survived the pedal boat once, I won’t survive it again.”

“Oh come on, it’s not like you’re a walking disaster.”

“Hey!” someone yells at us from behind. “Excuse me!”

We both whip around to see a woman coming out of the Kensington Palace. She’s waving at me. “Your dress is tucked up into your knickers!” she yells, pointing at her own ass in demonstration.

Oh my god.

No.

I crane my neck, twisting to look behind me, and I gasp. It’s true. I see Sponge Bob staring right back beneath a bundle of white tulle.

Brigs bursts out laughing and I hear the photographer snapping away with my ass now on view for everyone to see, including Shelly and Max and everyone else in the park.

“Stop laughing and help me!” I yell at Brigs as he tries to yank the dress out of the waistband but he’s doubling over, laughing so hard that he can’t. He nearly falls to the grass, and then I nearly fall trying to yank it all out of my underwear.

Finally I’m covered and I’m smoothing the back of my dress frantically, my cheeks flaming hot. There’s a lot of f*cking people in this park – people who are snickering – and somehow the fact that it was Sponge Bob makes it worse than that time in Rome.