Page 43 of Vance

It’s a strange sensation, being stretched and full without him being inside me. It’s a placeholder, a reminder of his possession.

“There,” he murmurs, leaning down to press a soft kiss against my inner thigh. “Now you’ll stay full of me. All day.”

The morning light filtering through the window catches the powerful contours of his body as he stands, a magnificent display of power. Every muscle is sharply defined, from the broad expanse of his chest to the rigid lines of his abdomen, all glistening with a fine sheen of sweat from his exertion. His expression softens as he looks at me, his hand coming to rest against my cheek. The gesture is tender, but there’s no mistaking the possessive certainty in his eyes. I’m his—and he has no intention of letting me forget it.

And I no longer know if I actually want him to.

“Shower,” he insists, holding out his hand. “Let me help you get ready.”

I slip my hand into his and accept his help as him pulls me to my feet. My legs are unsteady, every muscle in my body aching and deliciously exhausted from the past twenty-four hours of being thoroughly bred. He guides me to the en suite, his still-hard length bobbing against his stomach with every step. When we reach into the shower, he starts the shower and adjusts the temperature.

“Come.” He steps into the glass enclosure and pulls me in behind him.

The hot water cascades over my shoulders, and I let out a delighted groan as the heat sinks into my sore muscles. After positioning me under the spray, Vance tilts my head back to wet my hair, his fingers massaging my scalp with uncharacteristic tenderness. He works shampoo through my locks, his fingers digging just hard enough to cause a moan to spill over my lips.

When the last of the suds are rinsed from my hair, he takes his time cleaning me. The soapy washcloth runs over every inch of my skin. Vance washes my back, shoulders, the curve of my ass, and the backs of my legs. Before rising to his feet, he kisses the faint remnants of a handprint on my ass, whispering apologies and praise in each measure.

His arms snake around me as he washes me thoroughly, soaping up my breasts and my stomach. He pauses, splaying his large hand across my abdomen. “Still flat.” He speaks just loudly enough to be heard over the water falling around us. “But not for long. Soon, everyone will see what I’ve done to you.” There isn’t an ounce of uncertainty in his tone.

Sliding his hand lower, it glides over my hip before brushing across my tender pussy with a gentleness that makes me shiver. “I can’t wait to watch you grow,” he continues, his voice dropping to a reverent whisper while he gingerly cleans me. “To see my child stretching your skin, binding you to me in a way that you’ll never be able to deny. You’ll be so fucking beautiful, sweetheart. Glowing. Round. And completely claimed.”

A month ago, his words would have terrified me. Some small, rational part of my brain is still scared. The image he paints—carrying his child, becoming irrevocably tied to him, and bearing his heir to solidify this marriage—should make me recoil. Yet, part of me—a part that probably needs a lot of fucking therapy—wants to know what it would feel like to give him exactly what he’s asking for. I ache at the thought.

I press back against him before I can stop myself, and his breath catches, as though my surrender—even this tiny, piece of it—is enough to undo him. He groans, dropping his forehead to my shoulder as his cock stirs against my lower back. “Don’t tempt me,” he warns. “Your sister will be here soon. But after? I cleared my schedule the moment I realized where you were in your cycle.”

I spin around in shock. “You’re tracking my cycle?”

His eyes meet mine, completely unapologetic. “Of course.”

A shiver runs through me. “Why?”

“Because I know what I want, sweetheart.” His hand brushes over my stomach. “Men like me don’t leave outcomes this important to chance. Why gamble when I can stack the odds in my favor?”

Knowing he’s been paying such close attention to my body unsettles me in a way I can’t explain. It’s invasive, possessive, and frighteningly intimate. Yet beneath that discomfort is the undeniable knowledge that I’ve become the object of his obsession, and some small, treacherous part of me craves being desired so completely.

He finishes washing me quickly, his restraint visibly fraying. Once he’s rinsed away the last traces of soap, he shuts off the water and wraps me in a warm, fluffy towel. He insists on drying me himself, his movements careful and thorough, thorough to the point of fixation. He gently works the tangles from my hair before smoothing lotion over my skin. Content with his grooming, he helps me into a long, casual T-shirt dress that falls soft and loose over my thighs.

By the time the doorman calls to announce Kiki’s arrival, I’ve gone from the trembling, thoroughly undone woman in Vance’s bed to one who appears to be composed. My hair is still damp but pulled into a bun, my skin is warm and glowing, and beneath the fresh clothes, my body still hums with the lingering aftermath of his attention.

“She’s on her way up,” Vance calls from the kitchen as I sweep on mascara before heading to the foyer.

“Soph!” Kiki bursts out of the elevator, coffee cup in hand and energy radiating off her in waves, throwing her arms around me. I cling to her, relishing in the brief, bittersweet familiarity of my old life.

She smells like vanilla and whatever fruity shampoo she’s been using. She’s dressed exactly like the college student she is—an oversized Crestwood sweatshirt swallowing her frame, faded jeans, and sneakers, her hair twisted into a messy bun with a few strands falling around her face.

She looks so normal. So free. And for a brief moment, my chest aches with something dangerously close to envy.

Pulling back, she gives me an exaggerated once-over. “You look amazing! Marriage definitely agrees with you!”

“Thanks, Kiki.” I force a smile, stepping aside to let her in. “Since when do you get up before ten on a Saturday?”

Kiki laughs, stepping into the penthouse. “Since Vance said you guys would make me breakfast. And anything is worth not getting stuck with soggy cafeteria eggs.”

“That good⁠—?”

“Wow,” she exhales, her eyes widening as she interrupts me. “Morning, Vance.”

I follow her gaze to find Vance walking from the kitchen. He’s shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of gray sweatpants that hang indecently low on his hips. Morning light spills across the hard planes of his chest and abdomen, emphasizing every muscle beneath his skin. The sharp V of his hips disappears beneath the low-slung waistband, the gray fabric doing little to disguise the impressive bulge swaying beneath it. His hair is still damp, and there’s something profoundly unfair about the way he looks, standing there, as though appearing half-naked in front of my little sister is the most natural thing in the world.