“I don’t see why I can’t just wear leggings and Killian’s jersey.” I slouch through the store, doing my best to look invisible. “I’m pregnant. No one gives a fuck how I look.” Tristian and I stare at one another over a stack of high-end maternity clothes. We’re at a fancy place that has hippie music flowing out of the speakers and flickering candles in soothing scents all over the place.
I think I want to stab something.
Tristian isn’t having it. He raises a hand, beckoning a salesperson from across the store. “Because you’re getting honored for the incredible work you’ve been doing down at the community center, and although I have no problem with you wearing,” his eyebrow quirks up, “or not wearing whatever you want, you’re going to have to dress up.”
I cross my arms, feeling out of sorts among the sleek, designer clothing. For the past month, I’ve been hard pressed to make much more effort than some light makeup and curled hair. Part of that is the fact I’m the size of a planet, but another factor is the end of term. Even with the help of three distinguished alumni, I still struggled my way through finals.
“What can I do for you today?” the saleswoman asks, but even before I turn to peer over my shoulder at her, I realize I recognize the voice. Autumn. The second she notices me, her face pinches into a scowl. “Oh, it’s you.”
Placing my hand on my belly, I turn, fully enjoying the flash of shock in her eyes when they fall to my very pregnant form. “The one and only.” I give her a sharp, barbed smile.
She blinks at my stomach before her gaze jerks up to Tristian. “You’re still…?”
He rests his elbow on the rack, giving her a chilly stare down. “You were the Princess, weren’t you?”
“For, like, a blink,” I clarify. There was a time I might have made a show of rubbing this in her face, but now the thought seems vaguely exhausting. I won. I settled down with my Royals, became Queen of South Side, and now I’m building a family.
Now, I just feel sorry for her.
“I need a dress,” I say, rubbing my whale-like baby bump. “Something I can cram all of this awesomeness into.”
Okay.
Maybe a little face-rubbing.
Tristian tosses me a little smirk, like he knows. “She looks great in green.”
I spin to argue, “I’ll look like a bipedal watermelon!”
“Gold, then.” He fingers something shiny, holding up a finger. “No, you will not look like a foil-covered candy truffle.”
“I’ll just go pull a few options,” Autumn says, talking through her teeth as she smiles. Minutes later, we’re headed to the back, where she hangs various dresses onto a rack. I can’t help but notice all of them are black. She doesn’t miss the question in my eyes, nor the opportunity to throw me a nasty look. “Black is slimming,” she sneers before flouncing away.
“Rude,” Tristian mutters, glaring daggers at her back, but she’s not wrong. It’s going to take a lot more than a hundred yards of black fabric to slim down my figure.
Frowning, I pick through them. The dressing room is lush, with a comfortable seating area and soft lights that attempt to wash away the puffiness and exhaustion. I pick up a dress and look at the tag, my jaw dropping. “Almost six-hundred-dollars for a dress that will only fit me for three more months? Tristian, this is stupid!”
“Sweetheart,” he says, taking the hanger from my grip, “you know money isn’t an object, and you deserve some nice clothes for a special event.”
I know I’m being irrational. The reception for my work at the community center is a big deal, something I worked hard for. I just wish I didn’t look like a beached whale for it. I tried talking Clara, the director, into pushing it back a couple months, but no dice.
“Fine,” I say, grabbing the dress and stepping behind the curtain to the smaller stall. It’s fancy, too, with a soft armchair and carpeted floor. I listen to the other women going in and out of the other stalls as I peel off my clothes, trying to avoid the mirror, but it’s one of those three-sided monstrosities, so it’s impossible not to get a big, ugly view of my massive tits and protruding belly. My hips are bigger, curvier, and there are purplish stretch marks streaking up the sides. Blinking back tears, I struggle into the dress. It’s black—‘slimming’, my ass—with a low-plunging V that barely contains my cleavage. Suddenly, I want to go literally anywhere else. She probably picked these out intentionally to make me feel like a fucking cow.
And the depressing thing is, it’s working.
“How does it look?” Tristian asks.
I avert my gaze from the mirror. “Like I swallowed a beach ball.”
His sigh is audible and a moment later, I see his head peeking around the edge of the curtain. He makes a frustrated sound, gesturing to me. “What are you talking about? You look gorgeous.”
“You don’t need to lie,” I insist, blinking back a hot wave of tears. “I’m not blind, Tristian. You fell in love with this young, sexy girl who could get on her knees anytime you snapped your fingers. Now I’d need help to get up and down.” I glance at the foreign woman in the mirror, wondering what happened to the hot college co-ed who brought three Lords to their knees. “I know you don’t think this is sexy. No one could.”
He steps into the room, letting the curtain fall behind him, and slides his hand behind my neck. “You seriously think I’m not into this?”
“I know you’re into the baby,” I say, eyes rolling. God, do I know. With the way he fusses over me so obsessively, sometimes it seems like the only thing I’m good for. “I know you’ll support us. We’re solid,” I say, even through the prick of anxiety in my chest. My mom’s voice still rings in my memory, unbidden and unwelcome.
“A man like that wants a woman who looks good on his arm and better in his bed… He won’t want you if he thinks you’re cheap and all used up…”
“But I know I’m gross, Tristian. My ankles are swollen, and I can’t wear my rings on my fingers. I fall asleep in the middle of the day, and the food… I know my diet repulses you.” A hot tear rolls down my cheek as I wonder what he could possibly see in me anymore. “I wouldn’t blame you if you found some side-piece down at the Hideaway. It would hurt, but I wouldn’t blame you. This is not what you agreed to.” That’s exactly what he should do. Find some sexy woman he doesn’t have to dote over all the time. A woman who isn’t a job. A woman who can ride him without fearing for the integrity of his pelvic bone.
He stares at me for a long moment, the clink and clatter of hangers sounding from the rooms around us. It’s not the right place to make this kind of insecure confession, but that’s who I am right now. A hot fucking mess.
Autumn looked so annoyingly fucking slender.
Tristian’s fingers twist in the hair at the nape of my neck. “Are you done?”
“I’m uh…” The question throws me off, but my lack of answer seems to satisfy him.
“Good.” He directs me to the chair. “Sit.”
“I’ll wrinkle the dress,” I whine, not wanting to pay half a grand for a dress that doesn’t even look good on me.
“Fuck the dress.” He pushes my shoulders, guiding me down, and then he crouches there, fixing me with a long, meaningful look. “I’m not going to discount your feelings here, or lie and say your body hasn’t changed, or that your tits aren’t the size of cantaloupes and don’t taste as sweet.” His hands spread over my belly. “I won’t pretend this little one doesn’t sometimes get in the way when Rath and I want to bury our cocks in you at the same time. But, sweetheart…” He reaches up to stroke the tear from my cheek, eyes blazing. “None of that would ever, ever send me or the guys to someone else. Ever.” His eyes search mine, pinging back and forth. “I don’t need you on your knees, Story. That’s not where a Queen belongs.”
Bracing himself on the arms of the chair, he kisses my jaw first, seeming to savor the little gasp I make in response. Then his lips travel down my neck to my chest. My heart pounds, basking in his attention, the diligent way he sucks and licks my skin. Running my hands through his hair, I force his eyes to mine. “Thank you, for always making me feel wanted.”
“You’re welcome,” he says, lowering to his knees, “but I’m not done yet.”
My eyes dart to the curtain behind him, realizing he’s got me right where he wants me, that cheeky grin spreading as he pulls aside the cups of the dress and my bra. My tits fall out—they were halfway there anyway—and he thumbs my nipple. “God, these are driving me wild. All I think about is kissing them, licking them, fucking them.” His motions follow his words, tongue toying with the hard pebble of my nipple, face buried between them. He’s gentle, and thank god for that, because they’re sensitive as fuck. Knowing Tristian, he’s done his homework, researching how to make a pregnant woman fall apart.
“Oh god,” I moan softly, hips rising on the chair. I try to stifle the sound, hyper-aware of the women in the dressing room around me. “We can’t do this here,” I hiss, even though I arch into his mouth.
He looks up at me, lips shiny from sucking on my breast. “You know that’s not true. I can and will do this anywhere.” His hands push up the hem of the dress, smooth palms dragging up my thighs. He holds my eyes as he spreads me open, but then lowers them to get a good look at my center. “Black lace,” he mutters, licking his lips.
I think about arguing as he slides them down my thighs. Really, I do. We’re in a public place. Anyone could hear us. Hell, anyone could see us. There’s nothing but a curtain shielding me from the other shoppers.
But it’s just so hard when he’s looking up at me with that obnoxiously cocky expression, leaning in to lick a hot, wet path up my pussy. I gasp, but try to shove my fist into my mouth to stifle it. Tristian can do things with his tongue that should frankly be illegal—not that it would stop him. This is made all the more obvious by his complete tenacity, hooking my legs over his shoulders as he settles in. I think I do a pretty good job of hiding my moans and too-loud breaths, but then he makes this sound—this low, deep rumble that I can feel all the way to the tips of my toes, and I just can’t help it.
I whimper, “Tristian,” and all the movement in the adjacent stall conspicuously ceases. I bite down hard on my lip to stave off another outburst, but this is Tristian between my legs. He’s not having any of that.
His fingers join in on the action, two thick digits thrusting into my pussy as his tongue makes fast work of my clit. I pant like a dog, hands swinging out to find something—anything—to anchor me. I fist one into his hair while the palm of the other slides noisily against the mirror.
I shatter apart into jagged pieces against his tongue, convulsing around his fingers as a small, tortured cry escapes my mouth. My thighs tremble around his ears, and past the curtain, footsteps falter, but I just can’t bring myself to feel any shame, so caught up in the explosion of it all.
I barely register Tristian jolting to his feet, fingers quick and nimble as they undo his belt buckle. The sound must be unmistakable—the jangle of metal on metal, the zip of his pants being undone, the low, rough sound he makes as he frees his cock.
I’m too exhausted and strained to do much more than lick out with my tongue, slicking the way for his sure fist. He reaches down to cup my chin, tugging my face up so his eyes can lock with mine. “Almost three years now,” he says, voice ragged as he strokes his cock. “I never broke my promise, Story. Not once.” Thumbing my mouth open, he thrusts forward, rubbing the head of his cock on my bottom lip. “I only ever come when I can give it to you.”
With that, his cock surges, warm cum shooting onto my tongue. I scoot forward to make sure I catch it—all of it—pleased by the spark of satisfaction in his eyes as he feeds it to me. It’s messy and raw, just the way we like it, and when some of it dribbles out the corner of my mouth, he uses the head of his cock to catch it, pushing it back inside.
The look Autumn gives us when we step out of the dressing room can only be described as outraged. I don’t intentionally make a show of rubbing the corners of my mouth, checking for any remnants of his cum, but her eyes zero in on the motion, anyway. There was a time that might have embarrassed me, made my face glow hot with the words I’ve heard thrown at me from her and her ilk.
Whore. Trash. Slut.
But the roundness of my belly and the way he’s looking at me are evidence enough that I’m more than just a fucktoy now.
“We’ll take this one,” Tristian says, lifting my hand high in the air to give me a little spin. I indulge him, laughing, because I’m remembering how fun it is to dance with him.
“You were right,” I tell her, batting my lashes obnoxiously. “It is quite slimming. Thank you for all your help.”
We leave five minutes later, hand in hand. The dress might not have been worth six-hundred-dollars, but making Autumn witness me living the life she so desperately craved?
That was worth every cent.
