Baby Girl

Baby Girl

By Bellamy Baine

Dedicated to Stella Nova.

Happy fucking birthday you beautiful human. Love you.

They'd been doing this dance for four weeks.

When friends were over, he was sweet as pie. When they left, they took all his energy with them. Their relationship collapsed, folding itself into a flat origami lie that was as two-dimensional as his promises. No substance. Delicate. She felt like an idiot to have ever believed him in the first place.

Left to themselves, she existed in her camp, mainly the first floor and their master bedroom -- all the zones in the house that provided her some level of comfort, while he kept to the guest bedrooms and the kitchen. Only when hunger drove him to brave her stony wrath, did he drift into her territory -- a hesitant wraith -- trying his best not to provoke her. But she was provoked. She'd been provoked the whole four weeks he'd been back from his deployment and his tentative demeanor and careful image-management around her friends drove her to heights of outrage she hadn't known she could reach.

Now, she watched him with a fury, hot with indignation, tempered by the beginnings of overwhelming pity for this beautiful, misguided man who had shattered everything they'd had.

And he was beautiful. Golden curls, shadowed with rich teak highlights, drifted over a proud brow. His eyes glittered with mischief, a mood she'd loved not long ago, which would've led to playful wrestling and uninhibited sex on the arms of their couch. Not now. In the present, those glimmers of mischief that effervesced in his narrow amber eyes just prodded the beast of her grief. They made her want to latch onto his wide shoulders and cut him down until he hurt like she did, bled like she did.

He was as fit as ever and that provoked her too. While he'd been gone, he hadn't let her absence sway his commitment to the flesh. Oh no, he'd wanted to maintain the effect he had on women, and not a few men, who simply couldn't resist his towering frame and cut body. No, his arrogance kept him in shape, a taller, lankier version of her favorite superhero character, with all the same intensity and none of the moral fiber. A tyrant Thor from some dark, alternate universe.

She hated it. And she hated that she still noticed all of these things. She hated the memories that they inspired and the shadow of doubt that clung to her thoughts, whispering that she may never find someone as beautiful as this man. Part of her recognized she was being irrational, but the fears that tightened her throat and her fists were so, so hard to resist. A dark void yawned just at the center of them, its undertow creeping along the edges of her insecurities.

Being pregnant in this situation was doing nothing for her self-respect. Her body remembered his. The way his thick fingers gripped her hips, slid along her belly, oozing possessiveness over the swelling curve he'd seeded in her before he left. That left her split down the middle, because her hormones were prodding insistently that she needed an outlet. Soon. All she could think about was food, betrayal, and sex, not necessarily in that order.

Her skin crawled, thirsty for touch. It had been so long for her, shorter for him -- the bastard -- but months and months of painful longing on her end, while her waist thickened. Toys weren't enough. Porn wasn't enough. Restless energy infected her and kept her on edge, snapping at the slightest provocation.

Her friends were trying to cheer her up by being here today, and he was ruining it with his sweetness. It made her seem like the bad guy, made her curt words and stiff body language appear unwarranted. If only they knew. Her mouth tightened and she couldn't say if it was self-consciousness or just more of that endless anger.

She had yet to cross that internal boundary and let him touch her, but today, watching him assess her friends with that hungry, devious gaze, she felt the need to re-evaluate. He was moving outside their post-betrayal script. Making advances on other women, openly and blatantly in front of her, still pregnant with his child. The audacity was, frankly, astonishing. Familiar anger bubbled underneath the surface of her careful expression, as she waved her drunken friends out the door, her vigilant gaze never leaving the hallway, where the glow from his amber eyes gave away his position in the syrupy shadows.

The door clicked shut with a soft "snick."

She leaned her overheated forehead against it, evaluating what she wanted to do. Use him? Abuse him? Make him pay? Rolling her cheek across the surface, she tried to absorb the calm from the cooler temperature. Maybe all three?

She smiled. Yes, please.

---

She waited, as a spider waits, to catch him in the dark.

He'd gone to bed hours ago, right after her friends left. Disappearing into the unspoken dead zone of his half of the house, while she set a trap for him near the kitchen. Right in the same spot where she'd more than likely conceived. The bastard.

Carefully, she'd rearranged herself on their couch to appear as if she were sleeping, letting her favorite features catch the light streaming in from their sliding glass doors. Dark crescents from her eyelashes contrasted with the pale freckles on her cheeks, adding shadows and a deceptive vulnerability to her expression. She hoped she looked relaxed, unguarded, and like the girl he'd fallen in love with so long ago. Her hair was still the burnished auburn of her high school years. Her figure was still plush, curvy while still being athletic. The type of "thick" he'd said he preferred when they were young and whispering naughty secrets to one another, while his fingers traced zones they really shouldn't have at the time. Everything was the same except the shapely curve of her belly, highlighted in the moonlight like a plea, like an accusation.

Soft scuffs from his slippers tripped her alarm, inspiring a roll of goosebumps up her arms. Cracking an eye, she surveyed him from her vantage point in the dark.

Without the light, he was a dark tower of a man that felt somehow sinister in the night. This time, pleasant shivers rippled through her. Maybe she liked a little danger. It certainly made her feel less conflicted about her choices, her plans for him.

Letting herself play along with her game, she grumbled a little under her breath and stretched an arm, trying to emphasize that unguarded state of half-sleep that used to provoke midnight couplings before he'd left. Her eyes stayed trained on him while her movement slipped her tank top straps down her arms and revealed the heavy curve of her breasts. Evaluating, weighing his micro-movements.

He was taking the bait.

A little glee slipped into the mess of betrayal she was coasting on as she watched him move closer. She had to tamp it down, before she gave herself away. Stop it, she scolded. Let him come.

He brought the shadows with him.

At first, he seemed to hesitate while he stared at her from the dark of their hallway. But after some internal battle, he let himself drift into the light, drawn to her false advertising. Her heart stuttered at the sight. Long ago, he'd been all her dreams made flesh. That powerful frame, those boyish curls, but most especially the glimmer of naughty malice in his eyes that turned a man who looked like a good guy, into a bad boy. Loki playing Thor.

Once, it had been everything she wanted. Once, just the sight alone would've made her wet and ready. Certainly, her body was waking up as he prowled closer, but he would have to work much harder than that to whet her appetite now.

Her mind was not as willing, her motivations darker than they were in her youth. The flesh hungered for touch, but the mind hungered for pain. His.

She shifted again, letting a disgruntled moan drift out of parted lips, more of her breasts spilling out of her top which was desperately trying to contain what pregnancy had made even more generous. His hands fisted and a look of pain tightened his features. Was that remorse she saw?

No, no way.

The man was soulless. He'd done this to them. This was his fault and she wouldn't let that thought linger to salt the basis of her revenge.

Banishing it, she went for the kill and arched her back, rolling her shoulders to reveal the curve of a pert, pink nipple as her tank top gave up the battle and rolled underneath her straining breasts. She watched him swallow as he sank to the floor in front of her, hands lingering just out of reach on either side of her knees. They pressed into the suede couch and she couldn't help but appreciate the thickness of his fingers, the utter masculinity of his wrists and forearms. They'd been her favorite part of his to admire when they were intimate and she had many memories of turning her head and seeing those forearms on either side of her, as he pounded into her from above.

That thought finally inspired a response. She felt herself swell with desire as her core bloomed with fresh slickness. Finally. She couldn't do this if her body didn't cooperate. Poor guy, he didn't seem to know what to do.

His eyes lingered on her nipples, only breaking to trace the swell of her abdomen where they stuttered, halting on the less familiar curve. His eyebrows lowered, shadowing his expression as he considered the swell of life that he'd disregarded while they played this game of cat and mouse. It was the elephant in the room. Pressure shifted on the couch as he lifted one hand to hover over the edge of her belly, mimicking the curve of his child in a sweet sweep of air that left her aching. He closed his eyes and leaned over her, until she couldn't see his expression through the fan of her lashes. Inside, she was a mess. Did this mean he regretted what he'd done? She choked up, even as other parts of her warmed to his presence.

Don't you cry. Don't you dare cry.

It was too difficult to keep up pretenses, so she let her eyes snap open, skewering him.

"What are you doing, Lucas?" She whispered silkily.

He startled, sitting back onto his heels, eyes wide. She watched him struggle to shut down his expression, lashes blinking away fine particles of moisture. Goddamn it.

Clearing his throat, he said, "Ah, would you let me off the hook if I told you I was making sure you weren't having a nightmare?" Trying for light-hearted, so typical of him.

"Would you comfort me if I was?" she retorted. Damn, the anger was seeping into her tone and he would shut down soon if she didn't temper her responses. Easy girl.

Indecision and careful hope, carved stark lines in his face and highlighted the tension he carried in his shoulders, "Maybe?" He tried, those amber orbs absorbing the shift in her expression, glimmering with something she didn't want to acknowledge. Wouldn't.

One breath, two, and she was ready. Her eyes closed briefly. When she opened them, she let desire radiate, reminding him with another shift in posture that her breasts were still bare, that she hadn't done anything to cover them.

"Then come here," she invited.

He surprised her. Instead of leaning forward and taking advantage of her invitation, he veered backward, frank speculation on his face. Eyebrows arched in surprise. "You're serious? Who are you and what have you done with my Kara?"

Frustration was not what she was expecting to feel in this moment and a little panic rose to disrupt her confidence. This was not going the way she envisioned. She wanted him to desire her, be hurt by her, not to lead the pace of this encounter. Fuck. "Your Kara died in Afghanistan, you tool. This is her ghost speaking," she whispered back spitefully, "You killed her when you stuck your dick in another woman." There. She'd said it.

The air froze. His eyes blazed at her.

"Oh?" He returned, anger frothing in the molten gold of his narrow gaze. "Is that what this is about, baby girl?" A wicked canine flashed at her as his lips parted in a fuck-you grin. "And who told you that? Spencer? Carter? I know I didn't tell you such bull shit."

Uncertainty tried to shake her and she fought it off, leaning forward into his space. She wouldn't let him dominate this conversation, not when they were finally naming what this distance was about. The last four torturous weeks were a reflection of his fucking cowardice. Bastard, bastard, bastard.

"Why? Who it was doesn't matter -- you think I wouldn't find out?" His eyes shifted, blinking slowly. "Is that a 'yes', you fucking coward?" Her voice cracked. Guts squirming with sudden anxiety, she stiffened her posture. Don't let him do this to you.

"I think you're too convinced to hear anything I say," he whispered back, tone soft. Cajoling. She knew that tone and it broke through her defenses more rapidly than anything else could've, flaying her. Tears spilled over and she started to hiccup.

"I'm not listening to you tonight. We're here because I decided this. Not you." She paused to try and slow her panting, still aroused by his nearness. "You disloyal fuck! Come here and make it up to me."

Barely a breath later and he was over her, pressing down with delicious weight. "Yes, ma'am," he murmured into her ear.

She struggled. This wasn't what she wanted either. Hands pushed at his shoulders and, when he didn't budge, gripped a handful of his curls and yanked his head back until she could equalize their positions, scooting backwards. "I said make it up to me, not fuck me. We aren't doing this for you," surprise shifted the look in his eyes, before his features smoothed out and that mischievous gleam took over.

"Command me, mistress," he intoned mockingly, adding an eye roll for effect. And she let a part of herself that she'd never shown him before, guide her. One hand gripped him harder and the other slapped him full across the face. Stunned amber tangled with her much lighter blue. Hah. Gotcha.

"Get on your knees, you fuck." Her legs rose between them, adding pressure on his shoulders to create space, to push him away and reinforce the power differential that had existed the past few weeks. He looked shell-shocked, while she used her body to manhandle him into position. Like he didn't know the woman underneath him. Surprise, bitch.

Between her thighs, those big hands rose, drawing tentative circles on her exposed skin. Uneasy, unsure, like his expression, which she could read as clearly as she could her own body's response. Soothingly, he smoothed his palms down her thighs, her knees, her calves, and back up again, adding pressure as he went. Sweet sensations unfurled beneath the pads of his fingers, sensations that were oh-too-familiar. Welcome and not welcome in the same breath.

She grunted, not trying to be graceful, cute, or sexy the way she had in the past. This was hers, tonight. "You never ate me out enough, you selfish prick." Her hand curved in malicious claws underneath his chin, digging into the muscles at the corners of his jaw. "Open wide," she commanded.

Her other hand pulled the crotch of her boy shorts to the side and let him see the glistening folds he'd neglected for so long. "Look what you did," she accused, angry and full of desire that she resented. He swallowed, resisting the pressure of her fingers keeping his mouth open. She sensed opposition.

"Kara," he tried, "what has..." She didn't let him finish. Angrily, she gripped the back of his neck and pulled that lying face down into her aching center. "Mmph!"

Lips touched the edge of her opening and she groaned. It had been too long. He struggled against her hold, testing, and she shoved him back where she wanted him. Still struggling, she rocked her fingers into the back of his neck and dug in until she knew it hurt. Movement slowed and he finally stilled, saying something that was lost under the curve of her swollen belly, but felt delicious as little vibrations against her greedy pussy.

"Shut up," she ordered, leaning back, "Eat me out like a good boy."

The moment he relaxed under her hold, she knew victory. It swept through her like a flash fire, setting nerves ablaze as his lips started to move against her. Barely there pressure on her pussy was enough to add a new wave of slick moisture to the mess he was making with his mouth. She shuddered, overcome. Penetrative sex didn't always do it for her, but the feel of lips and tongue and sometimes teeth -- oh yeah -- that felt like sin.

She hadn't lied earlier. He hadn't eaten her out enough in the years they'd been together and she didn't know why, because he was fucking good at it. Those wicked lips kissed down one side of her pussy, exploring neglected folds so hungry for his touch, making a detour to worship the crease between her thigh and her mound. Fingers kneaded into her thighs, restless, before trailing further down. Cupping the globes of her ass, he lifted her up to better sip from her lips, burying that golden head between her thighs.

She couldn't see him over her pregnant belly, but she could feel him. It was bittersweet bliss and stung worse than his attempted denial earlier. There he was, worshipping at the place he'd desecrated, then discarded when a little temptation came his way overseas. Don't forget what he did. Pulling away slightly, she tried to maintain control over the sensations blooming in her core.

But it didn't make a difference as that mouth kissed her the way she wouldn't let him kiss her other lips. Devouring. Demanding. "Christ, you're good at this," she whimpered into the still room, as he sucked and licked and spread her wide underneath him.

She felt that grin against her tender center, right before teeth scraped along the edge of her parted folds. Gasping, her breath stalled for a moment, before she let the sting wrench a cry from her that sounded like shock, but felt like deep-seated pleasure. "Fuck," she wailed, feeling the beginning of tightening pressure that told her she was getting close. It ached -- that unexpected clench in the place that she'd only ever let him have, never someone else. He'd discarded it with his short-sighted choices and she wanted him to know it, but later. Not now.

Struggling upwards, she bent to see him. Curls obscured his expression, but those gleaming amber eyes rolled up to tangle with hers as he circled his tongue in a figure eight over her clit, lingering as he observed her erratic breathing. Then he winked. Winked!

As her arms gave out on her and she sank back into the couch, agony and pleasure blending into a stormy mass that tightened her inner channel like a fist. She crossed them over her eyes, feeling tears leak down her cheeks in salty tributaries that infiltrated her mouth as she gasped and moaned. So close. Almost there, the bastard.

Maybe he sensed it, because he got rougher. Abandoning his game of licking in teasing patterns, he went straight for the swollen center of her pleasure. Teeth locked around her clit and he sucked, hard, like he meant business. She almost shot off the couch. It hurt, but with that sexy sweet edge of pain that always seemed so welcome in the moment. Her inner channel mimicked his technique, fluttering in rhythmic waves in time to his varying pressure. Frustration ate at her. She needed more.

"If you don't get me off soon, you fuck, I'm selling the house and leaving you for Carter," she stated through gritted teeth.

He paused and she could almost taste his disbelief. Under her crossed arms, she smiled. When something larger, cooler, pressed against her opening, she let out a cry. It entered her slowly. In a little, enough that she could feel the fullness her body craved, and then out again, teasing. What was he using? It didn't feel like fingers...