Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 110600 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 553(@200wpm)___ 442(@250wpm)___ 369(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110600 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 553(@200wpm)___ 442(@250wpm)___ 369(@300wpm)
Her fingers curl on the mattress and she makes choked sounds, rocking her hips back. I tap her ass in a light slap. “Greedy girl.”
“More,” she demands. “More, Nassakth.”
I give her more. I feed my cock into her tight sheath with excruciating slowness, until her body claims my entire length and I seat myself to the hilt. She moans and wriggles under me, and I grip my mate’s hips and begin to pound into her.
Nothing feels better than being deep inside Kim, listening to her cries as I claim her.
I would give up a thousand houses for this, I realize. A thousand Praxii Minors, a thousand gladiator titles, ten thousand of the wealthiest, most revered positions amongst my people. I would give up being the head of every house, because the way Kim says my name as she comes, her cunt clenching so tight around my cock that it forces me to come, too…
That is everything.
Epilogue
KIM
“How are you feeling? Can I get you anything?” Nassakth hovers over the couch, watching me with a concerned expression. “Do you want more bread? Crackers?”
I press the wet cloth to my brow, laying down across the cushions, waiting for my stomach to settle. “I’m fine. Just tell me when the doctor gets here, okay?” I close my eyes, trying to relax. If I relax, the nausea is less overwhelming. It comes and goes throughout the day and I haven’t yet figured out what will settle my stomach. It’s been a process. I should have known it wouldn’t be the world’s smoothest pregnancy, given that it’s taken six months and a boatload of fertility “encouragement” from the doctor. I’ve had so many injections and supplements and even a DNA tweak, all to encourage my body to accept a praxiian pregnancy.
It’s paid off, finally, and both Nassakth and I couldn’t be happier.
Well, I couldn’t be happier. Poor Nassakth is a wreck. The big guy spends less time working out and more time hovering over me, giving me foot massages or handing me drinks. He makes the meals, holds my hair back when I puke, and absolutely refuses to let me train on self-defense any longer. His mate is fragile, he says stubbornly, and needs to be pampered.
I mean, I’m not hating the pampering and the foot rubs. I just feel a little bad that Nassakth is so amped up over things. I have months and months to be pregnant, and the guy has absolutely lost his chill. It’s cute, but I also worry he’s going to stress himself out.
“I’m fine,” I tell him for at least the fourth time in the last few minutes. “It’s just a little sickness. Human women get it all the time when they’re pregnant.”
“I do not care.” He perches on the edge of the couch—or tries to, except he’s such a big, bulky presence that he’s shoving me over to the side—and brushes his hand over my cheek. “Those are other human women. This is different because you are my mate.”
He sounds so offended that I can’t help but smile. “You’re very sweet.”
“I do not like this,” Nassakth grumbles. “Your face is the same color mine is after I eat your cooking.”
I push his hand away, trying not to giggle. “Did I say you were sweet? Obviously I must be sick.” It’s been months and I swear Nassakth is the pickiest eater ever. He hates all human foods unless it’s just a slab of meat fresh off the animal. As a result, I’m happy to let him do all the cooking, and he’s also happy to do it because the man loves his food.
His smile is a little easier at my teasing, but I can tell he’s still on edge. He needs something to do to occupy him.
You’d think a guy had never knocked up his wife before. It was cute at first, but now I just worry about him. I know some of it comes from his years in slavery—he’s afraid of being too happy out of fear that it’ll all disappear. But he has to realize I’m not going anywhere…especially not with my stomach lurching like it does.
So I give him busywork to take his mind off of things until the physician gets here. “Could you get me a few crackers after all? The triangular ones, not the circles. And my datapad?”
He kisses my nose and leaps to his feet. No sooner does he return with the objects than the perimeter alarm chirps. “Air-sled incoming,” it says in a cheerful voice. “Visitor is…” It continues on, warbling and honking merrily in an attempt at the doctor’s name. It’s a word I can’t pronounce…the doctor is a race called the Mazu who have two chambers in their heads for making sounds as well as vocal chords. It means he can speak passable English but there’s absolutely no way I can repeat his name. I call him Doctor Roo, since “Roo” is the closest I can get to the first sound in his name. He’s nice, though, for an alien that looks a lot like a big, fat, walking aardvark with a domed skull.