Chapter 171 Baby

Chapter 171 Baby
Cecilia

Time became meaningless—there was only the feeling of him moving inside me, the sound of our bodies coming together, the way my arousal made everything slick and easy despite his size.

I felt the first orgasm building low in my belly, a coiling tension that grew tighter with each thrust. My body was already responding, inner walls beginning to flutter around him in warning.

"That's it," Arthur encouraged, his hand sliding between us to find my clit. The added stimulation was almost too much, making me writhe beneath him. "Come for me, baby. Let me feel it."

The orgasm hit like a freight train, slamming into me with enough force to make me scream his name. My body clenched around him rhythmically, waves of pleasure crashing over me so intensely that I saw stars behind my closed eyelids.

But Arthur didn't stop—didn't even slow down. If anything, his movements became more determined, more purposeful, as if my orgasm had only spurred him on.

"Too much," I managed weakly, my oversensitized body protesting even as it continued to respond. My hands pushed ineffectually at his chest, feeling the way his muscles flexed and moved with each thrust. "Arthur, please, it's too—"

"One more," he growled, and his fingers found my clit again, circling with exactly the right pressure. "Give me one more, baby. I know you can."

I tried to protest, tried to tell him I couldn't possibly come again so soon, but my body had other ideas. The tension was already building again, impossibly fast, my inner walls gripping him with renewed desperation.

The second orgasm was somehow even more intense than the first, making my entire body convulse beneath him. I felt something give way inside me, felt a rush of wetness that was different from before—more forceful, more complete—and distantly realized I'd just squirted for the first time in my life.

"Fuck," Arthur groaned, his rhythm faltering for just a moment as he felt the evidence of my release coating him, dripping down onto the sheets. "That's so fucking hot. You're so perfect."

But he still didn't stop. His hands gripped my hips, angling them up slightly, and suddenly he was hitting even deeper, reaching places that made me gasp and writhe.

"Can't," I sobbed, my body wound so tight I thought I might break. "Arthur, I can't—"

"Yes, you can," he insisted, his voice rough with his own approaching release. "One more time, Ceci. Come with me."

I lost count after that—lost track of how many times he brought me over that edge, how many times my body shattered and reformed around him.

His body was magnificent above me—all hard muscle and controlled power, every movement calculated to drive me insane. I found myself mesmerized by the flex of his arms, the way his abs contracted with each thrust, the sheer masculine beauty of him.

He was so thick, stretching me almost to my limit, and so long that I felt completely filled, completely owned. Every thrust sent shockwaves through my entire body, hitting spots that made me see white.

"Look at you," he murmured, his eyes roaming over my face, my body. "Look at how well you take me. Like you were made for this—made for my cock."

The crude words sent another spike of arousal through me, and I felt myself clenching around him involuntarily. He groaned at the sensation, his movements becoming slightly less controlled.

"Arthur," I gasped, my hands clutching at his back, feeling the play of muscles beneath sweat-slicked skin. "Please—"

"I know," he said, and his hand found my clit again, circling with devastating precision. "Come with me, baby. Let me feel you."

This time when the orgasm hit, it took him with it. I felt his rhythm stutter, felt him bury himself as deep as he could possibly go, and then he was pulsing inside me, flooding me with his release.

"Cecilia," he breathed against my ear, his voice wrecked and raw. "Ceci, baby—" His hips gave one final, desperate thrust, pressing impossibly deeper. "Have my baby. Let me put a baby in you."

Through my exhausted, alcohol-soaked haze, I felt a flutter of something—love, maybe, or just the overwhelming intimacy of the moment. My hand came up to stroke his cheek weakly.

"Mm... not married yet," I murmured, my words slurring together. "No babies until then."

The last thing I felt before darkness claimed me completely was Arthur's arms wrapping around me, pulling me close against his chest as consciousness slipped away.



Consciousness returned slowly, dragging me up from the depths of alcohol-induced sleep with all the gentleness of a sledgehammer to the skull.

My mouth tasted like something had died in it, and when I tried to swallow, my throat protested with a dry, scratchy burn.

Never drinking again, I thought miserably, pressing my face into the pillow. Never, ever, ever again.

The pillow smelled like Arthur. But right now, all it did was trigger a cascade of memories that made my face burn with mortification.

The nightclub. The dancers. The champagne. So much champagne.

And then—oh God, and then—

I squeezed my eyes shut tighter, as if that could somehow block out the memories flooding back with crystal clarity.

He's going to be so angry, I thought, my stomach churning with anxiety that had nothing to do with the alcohol. He's going to—

Wait.

More memories surfaced, these ones even more mortifying than the last.

I'd mistaken him for a dancer. Had actually, genuinely thought my own fiancé was some random male stripper and had tried to—

My face burned impossibly hotter as I remembered trying to hire him, offering to pay him with Arthur's money, checking his "merchandise" like he was something I could purchase.

And then—oh God, and then—

The bed. His body above mine. The way he'd touched me, moved inside me, made me come so many times I'd lost count. The things I'd said, the way I'd responded, the complete and utter loss of control.

"Have my baby. Let me put a baby in you."

I made a sound that was somewhere between a whimper and a groan, burying my face deeper into the pillow as if I could somehow suffocate the memories.

What had I been thinking?

You weren't thinking, a more rational part of my brain supplied unhelpfully.

I forced myself to take a breath, to assess my situation beyond the crushing embarrassment and the hangover from hell.

I was alone in bed.

And I was wearing one of Arthur's t-shirts, the soft cotton hanging to my mid-thighs, which meant he'd cleaned me up and dressed me at some point after I'd passed out.

The thought made something warm bloom in my chest despite the mortification.

My phone sat on the nightstand, plugged into its charger, and I reached for it automatically before my brain caught up with what I was doing.

Do you really want to face whatever messages are waiting for you? that rational voice asked. Do you really want to know what Arthur thinks about last night?

No. Absolutely not. I wanted to stay in this bed forever, hiding under the covers until the embarrassment faded—which, based on how I was currently feeling, would be sometime around never.

But I couldn't hide forever. And besides, I needed to check on Alice, make sure she'd gotten home safely, confirm that we'd both survived our ill-advised day of rebellion.

I unlocked my phone with trembling fingers, squinting at the bright screen that made my headache spike viciously.