Chapter 249: Chapter 249 – Meera’s Delicious Body

His fingers inside her — the pace of them changing with the hips, the synchronized rhythm of both working together, the thumb outside matching the inner pressure.

Her hips were off the mattress.

Both of them. The full, involuntary lift of her pelvis rising to meet his hand while her throat was working and her legs were pulling against the sheet restraints and the milk was still running and her belly was swaying with the movement.

“’Her pussy,’” he said, to Vikram, with the tone of a man offering a professional observation, “’is soaked. Has been, for—’”

He checked nothing.

“’—several hours.’”

’’’

’PAH.’

The sound of his hips hitting her face — the lower register of it, the heavier, the less-contained version of the rhythm finding a new gear. Not faster. Harder. The same speed with the weight behind it now, the deliberate quality replaced by the committed quality.

“’GKKKH—!! HHkk—!! NNGkh—!!’”

Her legs went wild.

Both of them, thrashing at the sheet restraints, the bound ankles pulling hard, her knees bent and kicking at nothing, the involuntary, full-body convulsion of a woman whose throat was being used at a depth and weight that the body was processing as an event.

’PAH.’

“’GKkh—!! Hkkk—!!’”

The saliva had stopped being a thread. It was a stream now. The upside-down, gravity-assisted, continuous pour of it from her lips toward the floor, interrupted only by the movement of his cock going back in, catching on her lower lip, the dripping quality of it in the moonlight.

Her tears — still going the wrong way. Still climbing her face toward the floor because she was inverted, pooling at her hairline, running into her hair.

“’Crying,’” he said.

Not to her. Not to Vikram.

Just — noting it. The observation of a man noting weather.

“’She cries every time something feels too good.’” A beat. “’She’s been doing that all night.’”

’PAH.’

“’HHGkkhh—!! NNKkh—!! GGkkhh—!!’”

Her boobs swung with the impact. The heavy, milk-damp, full swing of them — each PAH sending them in the forward-and-back arc of flesh that had weight to it, the nipples stiff and still leaking, the milk catching air and scattering in tiny white droplets across her ribs with each swing.

“’Leaking,’” he said, watching them. “’Like a cow.’”

His left hand found the right one.

Mid-swing. He caught it mid-arc — the warm, full, heavy weight of it in his palm — and ’squeezed.’

“’GGKKHH—!! HHkkk—!!’”

The milk spurted. Not trickled. The compressed-and-released quality of a full breast forcibly emptied — the thin white jet of it, catching moonlight, arcing away from her body and hitting his forearm and running down.

Her throat clenched around him.

The violent, reflex clench of it — both her throat walls seizing around his cock simultaneously from the inside in the specific, involuntary way of a body that had just received a strong enough stimulus from somewhere else to override every other system.

His hips stilled.

Not stopping. Just — receiving the grip. The way someone pauses to appreciate something.

“’Mm,’” he said.

His fingers, inside her, curled.

“’MMKKHH—!!’”

’’’

Vikram watched.

His hands were sealed together.

His mouth was sealed shut.

He watched from the edge of his hospital bed with the IV line still in his arm and his post-surgical body arguing with everything he was asking it to do and losing the argument, and he watched his pregnant wife get—

His brain would not complete the sentence.

It kept offering different endings and he kept rejecting them because the correct ending did not exist in any vocabulary he had and the incorrect endings were worse.

He watched.

The milk running.

The upside-down tears in her hair.

The boobs swinging with every PAH.

The shape of a throat bulging outward from the inside.

He thought of the parking lot. Her in the car. Her hand on the back of that head. Two hours ago. Two hours and a highway and a surgery and now this room.

He thought: ’how long.’

He thought: ’she said his name like she’d been saying it for years.’

He thought: ’she told him she was pregnant and she let him—’

He thought: ’she’s crying.’

She was crying.

The tears going the wrong way up her face because she was inverted. But they were there. They had been there. The wet, involuntary overflow of something that was too full. He could see her face between Raven’s thighs — the partial, framed view of it between those walls of muscle — and her face was wet and her eyes were wherever rolled-back eyes go when the body has stopped consulting them.

She didn’t know he was here.

He could see that.

Raven knew. Raven had planned this. Raven was looking at him between sentences with the flat, factual quality of someone checking a meter reading.

But Meera—

’Meera doesn’t know her husband is watching her.’

The specific quality of that fact — the way it sat in his chest — was different from everything else. He could survive being betrayed. He could survive the humiliation. He could survive the curtain and the shadows and the sounds of her voice saying a man’s name in the dark.

He could not survive the fact that she was crying.

And didn’t know he could see it.

’’’

“’Your belly,’” Raven said.

He had slowed again. The pendulum quality returning — the deep, grinding, unhurried pace of someone in no rush. His palm flat on the round swell. Feeling the warmth inside push back.

“’Five months.’”

A beat.

“’And you let a man you’ve known for days do this to you.’”

He watched her face between his thighs.

Her throat working around him. Her brow furrowed in the involuntary, non-verbal expression of a body processing maximum input without enough brain left to manage the expression.

“’HMKK—’”

The broken, muffled sound that had started as a protest and arrived as something else entirely.

“’Your husband built you a life,’” he said. Quiet. Steady. The voice of a man laying out an argument to a woman who was in no position to debate it. “’Good job. Stable income. He was there, every day, making himself useful.’”

’PAH.’

“’GKkhh—!! HHkk—!!’”

“’And you are here,’” he continued, “’with his child in your belly, crying because my cock is too deep in your throat.’”

His thumb on the outside of her circled once.

Her hips — the immediate, violent lift of them. Her whole lower body chasing the thumb. The sound from her throat not a sound but a vibration, a full-body shudder that transmitted through her throat walls directly against him.

“’He was not enough,’” Raven said.

Not to her.

To the room.

“’He was never enough. You knew it. Your body knew it before you did.’”

’PAH. PAH.’

“’GGKKhh—!! Hkk—!! NNgkkhh—!!’”

The boobs were swinging in full arc now. The heavy, wet, continuous swing of them, the milk catching air and flying in the moonlight with each impact. One breast, the right, hit her own arm — the weight of it making a sound against her own skin, a small, flat, warm impact that left a thin streak of milk on her bicep.

Her legs were both rigid now. The kicked-out, locked-straight quality of legs that had stopped flaying and gone rigid in the full-body tension of someone approaching a threshold.

“’Your pussy,’” he said, and his fingers pressed harder, “’is about to do something.’”

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