I slid open the glass door and stepped into the breath of summer—warm, thick, and welcoming. My bare feet left the soft hush of carpet and met the slap of hot concrete. I flinched as the heat bit into my soles and tiptoed across the patio until the grass welcomed me—cool, lush, forgiving. A soft sigh slipped from my lips as the sting melted away.

I glanced down, trying in vain to glimpse my toes. It had been months since I could see them without effort. But I could see plenty else—the soft swell of my breasts, barely held by the thin white milkmaid dress, and the generous curve of my belly beneath them. The source of my pride. My ache. My womanhood.

And lately… my hunger.

The sun was already high, no cloud to soften it, heat shimmering off every surface. Sweat gathered in the hollows of my neck and the valley between my breasts. My sunhat cast a little shade, but it was the breeze that did the real work—fluttering the hem of my dress, teasing it up around my thighs like a secret shared. The air smelled of cut grass and something wilder—sharp and sweet, like pollen on the edge of bloom.

Somewhere nearby, bees droned in lazy circles. The garden pulsed with summer. And I was already aching for more than water or shade.

I wandered toward the edge of the garden bed, surveying what had once been my pride—and now looked like a quiet surrender. Weeds curled where they didn’t belong, bushes reached too far, flowers wilted under the weight of their own need. Poor things. If only my garden were being tended as attentively as I was.

My husband—ever eager, ever gentle—trimmed and cherished my blooming orchid whenever I asked. And lately… I’d been asking often. This craving for attention had taken root inside me, curling and climbing like a second bloom. Always aching. Always full.

I found my gloves tucked nearby, slipped them on, and eased myself carefully to my knees. The ground was warm, the soil loose and fragrant as I worked around the lavender and dahlias. The scent was thick—heady, almost narcotic—and the earth yielded sweetly to my touch. Then I heard it—the familiar creak of a gate beyond the fence.

Not mine. His.

A smile tugged at my lips before I could stop it. Over the top of the wooden fence that split our yards, I caught a flash of tousled brown hair and a broad pair of shoulders. Liam. Sweet boy.

I’d known him and his family for five years. The last time I saw him, he was packing for college—all limbs and awkward charm. But now… he was back. Summer break from his second year, most likely. And from the looks of it, he’d brought more than just textbooks home. Because he always seemed to be outside.

Fixing something. Cleaning something.

Always—without fail—when I was out here. Poor thing tried to be subtle.

He really did. I looked up from the lavender, tilting my chin just enough to peer over the waist high fence—and caught his eyes the moment they found mine. He smiled—soft, sheepish—then quickly dropped his gaze, like the lawnmower in front of him had suddenly become fascinating.

I bit back a laugh. So sweet. So obvious. And today? I was feeling generous.

“Liam, sweetheart,” I called, letting my voice carry—warm, sugared, inviting.

“Uh—yeah—yes, ma’am?” he stammered, already quickening toward the fence, there he was—tall, flushed, hands gripping the top rail like it might steady him.

I let my eyes linger on his fingers—thick, calloused from yard work. I imagined them pressing into my thighs instead. I eased back onto the balls of my feet, belly resting comfortably between my knees, and looked up at him with a smile that knew exactly what it was doing.

“Hey, Mrs. Heart,” he said softly, his voice dipped in boyish awkwardness.

I arched a brow. “What did I tell you about that ‘ma’am’ and ‘Mrs. Heart’ business?” I teased. “I’m a budding mother, not a grandmother. Try again. Call me Marissa.”

His throat worked around a swallow. “Right. Marissa.”

Much better.

I leaned forward, reaching for a weed near the lavender’s base. My breasts pressed together in the loose cradle of my dress, the fabric dipping just enough to offer a view—soft, full, flushed with heat. When I glanced back up, his gaze was exactly where I’d intended it to be.

He blinked and darted his eyes away, one hand flying to the back of his neck like it might hide the pink blooming across his cheeks. Every time I caught him looking, the ache between my thighs deepened.

I felt beautiful. I felt craved. I felt powerful.

“Could you be a dear?” I asked, bending back over, hands slipping into the soil once more. “There should be a few bags of fertilizer in my garage. Would you mind bringing one out?”

“Yeah, of course, Mrs.—”

I shot him a playful, warning look. “Marissa,” he corrected quickly, a sheepish laugh escaping him. “Right. Marissa.” He disappeared around the fence, heading for the small gate left behind by the previous owners.

I watched him go. Still long-limbed, yes—but those limbs had filled out. His shoulders were broader now, his arms shaped with a quiet kind of strength. Each step flexed his calves beneath those shorts, and I couldn’t help but wonder just how strong his thighs had gotten. I shifted to the next patch of garden, fingers lazily tugging at a mess of dahlia roots.

What was I doing? Was it just the attention?

The thrill of being seen—desired—from a distance? Or did I want more than that? A breeze stirred the hem of my dress, pressing the fabric softly between my thighs like the brush of a curious hand. I gasped—just a little—and a slow shiver rippled through me.
Not from cold. Then the sunlight dimmed.

I looked over my shoulder. Liam stood there; a bag of fertilizer slung over one shoulder like something out of a daydream. His tank top clung to sun-warmed skin, and the muscles in his arms flexed subtly beneath the weight. Not bulky—just... capable. He looked like he could hold something steady. Like he could hold me.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” I said, smiling up at him. “Just set it down here.” He obeyed without hesitation, lowering the bag gently beside me. Before he could straighten, I added, “Would you grab the hose too? Should be coiled up along the side.”

“Sure thing.” He didn’t even blink—just turned, found the tangled coil, and began unwinding it with smooth, practiced ease.

I watched the muscles in his forearms shift with each pull, tendons flexing beneath sun-kissed skin. The sun beat down on my back, making my dress cling—hot, heavy, damp with heat. I braced myself to stand, but the weight of my belly and the awkward angle made it a struggle. I wobbled, couldn’t quite push up, and felt the flush in my cheeks bloom into something sharper. Vulnerability. Unexpected. Unwelcome.

I glanced over my shoulder, softening my voice just enough. “Liam… would you help me up?” Sweet. Innocent. Just enough.

He jogged over without a second thought, hands outstretched. I peeled off my gloves and slipped my fingers into his—rough, warm, steady. He braced himself as I leaned into the pull, rising slowly, carefully. And as I stood, I leaned in—just a bit too close. Just enough to feel the press of him. Hard.

Interesting.

I steadied myself, one hand still in his, the other drifting to his chest. Beneath my palm, his heart was pounding. His face—sweet Liam—wore every thought openly: pupils wide, lips parted, breath caught.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” I murmured, letting my thumb brush along his cheek. His skin was warm, his stubble still soft—but just rough enough to tease my fingertips. He cleared his throat and tried to step back, but didn’t get far.

I was still holding his hand. And I didn’t let go. The moment stretched. Sunlight buzzed. The garden blurred—peripheral, irrelevant.

How far was I willing to go? How far was he? I could stop. I should. But then… he squeezed my hand. Subtle. Deliberate.

That was all I needed.

“You know, Liam…” I murmured, tracing the back of his hand with my thumb, “I’ve noticed something a little odd lately.” He didn’t answer—just watched me, wide-eyed and still. “You’ve been spending an awful lot of time outside,” I said, tilting my head with a slow smile. “Mostly when I’m out here.” His breath caught. Just a hitch.

Gotcha.

“You wouldn’t happen to be spying on me… would you?” He let out a soft laugh, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand.

“No, no, not at all! I swear—it’s just… we have similar schedules, I guess.” His voice climbed a little too high, like he was trying to convince us both.

I let the moment stretch, my silence doing the work. Then I smiled—slow, knowing, amused. The kind of smile that didn’t believe a word… and maybe didn’t need to.

“You sure?” I asked, stepping back just enough to tug him with me. He followed.

Of course he did. I led him beneath the shade of the old maple, where dappled light kissed his skin and the air cooled just enough to raise goosebumps. I turned him gently, guiding his back to the trunk with a soft touch to his chest.

“I only ask,” I continued, voice smooth as honey, “because I can feel your eyes on me sometimes.” I stepped closer.

My belly brushed his stomach, and he froze—caught red-handed, breath shallow, pupils blown. I didn’t let him off the hook.

“Do you wonder what’s underneath?” I asked, fingers drifting to the hem of my dress, cotton rising just slightly as the breeze stirred around us.

He didn’t speak. He just nodded.

I stepped back into the sunlight, the warmth unfurling across my skin like a kiss. “Would you like to see?” I asked—light, easy—as if we were discussing flowers or the weather.

His Adam’s apple bobbed. I could almost feel the dryness in his throat as he licked his lips, his eyes dragging over me like he couldn’t stop—like he’d been doing it in secret for years. And now, suddenly, the thing he’d only imagined was standing right in front of him. I raised a hand to my shoulder, brushing the strap of my dress. My thumb slipped beneath it, tugging just enough to send the message.

Our eyes met.

Either one of us could have stopped it, right then. But I didn’t. I didn’t want to. I wanted to feel him. To be seen the way he looked at me when he thought I wasn’t watching.

I pushed one strap off my shoulder. Then the other. The fabric slid down—slow, deliberate—and my breasts spilled free. Heavy. Full. Kissed by sun and sweat and summer.

His gaze snapped downward, wide-eyed and ravenous. Mouth parted, but no sound came. I held his stare a moment longer, then eased the rest of the dress down. The cotton slipped over my belly, skimmed the curve of my hips, and pooled at my feet with a soft whisper. I stood there—bare, grounded, entirely unashamed.

He took a half-step back, the tree catching him like he needed something solid behind him.

“Oh my—” he breathed, the words barely audible. Like desire had emptied his lungs.

I stepped back into the shade. The cool dirt beneath the tree bound me—earthy and firm beneath my soles. Liam’s eyes tracked every inch, every movement, until I stood just before him. Face to face—if not for the soft, undeniable presence of my swollen belly pressing gently between us.

His gaze drifted from my breasts to the curve just beneath them, drawn to the fullness of my form—the life I carried, the ache I bore. He was stiff, visibly so, and not just from arousal. There was tension in his posture, hesitation flickering behind his eyes like he was still waiting for someone to call this off. To tell him it wasn’t allowed. I reached for his hand and brought it gently into mine.

“It’s okay, Liam,” I whispered—low, steady, sure. I guided his palm to the crest of my belly, letting it rest there—warm, still, trembling slightly.

He didn’t move at first. Just looked at me like I was something holy. Untouchable. I brushed my thumb across the back of his hand—a quiet invitation. Slowly, hesitantly, his fingers began to move. Stroking softly. Mapping the shape of me with wonder.

Encouraged, I nudged his hand higher. He followed. His fingers cupped my breast—tentative, trembling. When he gave the gentlest squeeze, I gasped. A sharp, involuntary intake. My body was too ready. Too sensitive. Swollen. Alive.

He pulled back instantly, guilt flashing across his face like he’d done something wrong.

“No,” I whispered. “Don’t stop. Just… gentle.”

His breath hitched. But he stayed. I reached for the hem of his shirt, lifting it slowly.
He didn’t resist. He raised his arms in quiet surrender, and I peeled the fabric over his head, casting it aside. His chest was smooth, a few soft curls resting between his pecs, rising and falling with each uneven breath.

I reached up, fingers curling around the back of his neck, drawing him down as I rose onto my toes. Our lips met—warm, eager—and this time, there was no hesitation. His hand found my breast again, cupping it with careful reverence, his thumb brushing the tender peak. A whimper slipped from me—soft and involuntary.

Half surprise, half need. My free hand drifted downward, skimming the faint trail of hair along his stomach before teasing beneath the waistband of his shorts. I didn’t grab.

Not yet.

Just traced my nails back up over the ridges of his abs, smiling into his mouth as he gasped and shivered. His lips parted. Invitation, accepted. I slipped my tongue between them—slow, deliberate—caressing his with practiced ease, savoring the way he melted into it. Eager. Overwhelmed. Entirely mine.

He kissed me back like he was chasing something he never expected to catch. His hands roamed, fondling with earnest, slightly uncoordinated hunger.

I could still feel the tension in him—the uncertainty beneath the want. It was sweet.
Endearing. I guided him gently until his back met the tree, both of us breathless and smiling—flushed with sun, and heat, and hunger. I reached down, took his hand, and brought it between my thighs.

“You don’t need to imagine anymore,” I whispered, my voice low and wicked. “I’m right here, dripping for you.”

His fingers brushed my slick folds—soft, bare, soaked. Feeling just how ready I was—proof of every look, every ache, every filthy little thought he’d tried to hide.

He didn’t hesitate. His fingers explored with messy enthusiasm—too much at first, but eager to learn. I tilted my hips, guiding him. Just a shift.

Just enough. And then—he found it.

My knees nearly buckled. I grabbed his shoulder, clutching tight, rocking into his hand as pleasure flared through me in sharp, hungry bursts. My sunhat slipped from my head, landing somewhere in the grass as I looked down—pleasure tightening beneath his eager touch. He shifted slightly, and before I could ask what he was doing, his mouth found my neck. A kiss—hot, open, just below my jaw. I gasped. Startled. Impressed.

So, he did know a few moves after all.

“Fuck me,” I whispered, breathless, pressing a hand to his chest and guiding him back. I turned, bracing myself against the tree.

The bark scraped my palms, grounding me. I glanced back through the mess of my blonde curls, arching my spine, pushing my hips out—offering him the view I knew he’d imagined more than once. I swayed—slow and deliberate—letting him see everything.
Every inch.

“Come on, sweetheart,” I purred, lips curving into something wicked. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

He was bewitched.

Utterly undone.

With a clumsy rush, he shoved his shorts down. His cock sprang free—thick, eager—but I only caught the barest glimpse before he stepped forward, closing the space between us in a heartbeat. One calloused hand gripped my hip, steadying himself. Then I felt him—his tip pressing against my entrance, hot and hesitant.

His movement faltered, hesitation clinging to him like morning dew. Like he couldn’t quite believe this was real. Like one wrong breath might wake him from it. I pushed my hips back into him, guiding him in, and felt the thick, deliberate slide of his cock parting me—slow, steady, sinking deep into my slick, desperate heat.

We gasped in unison—soft, stunned—as if the pleasure had stolen the breath straight from our lungs.

His grip tightened on my hip, steadying himself, and then he began to move. Slowly. Deliberately. Like he wanted to feel it all—every stroke, every inch, every trembling second. I widened my stance, toes digging into the earth, knees bending just enough to meet him fully. My fingers curled into the bark for balance, the roughness grounding me as each thrust rocked me forward—then pulled me back. The rhythm was slow. Lush. Wet.

Our bodies moving together in a slick, quiet crescendo, I reached back, found his wrist, and gave it a small tug. He understood. His pace quickened, breaths shortening, hips snapping forward with growing urgency. I bit my lip to muffle a moan, my eyes fluttering shut as the sensation gathered—low, hot, alive. Every nerve inside me sparked to life. Penetration alone had never brought me there before. Not really. Not until I got pregnant. Something had shifted.

The way my body responded. The raw ache that never quite faded. I was always on the edge now. Always ready. It didn’t take much anymore. And now—I could feel it. Rising. Swelling. The wave coming for me. Beautiful.

Unstoppable. I was so close.

But then I felt it—his rhythm faltering. Hips stuttering. Fingers tightening.

Those soft, breathy huffs turned sharp. Desperate. I looked back just in time to see him pull out, his hand working himself with frantic need. A second later, he came—thick, hot ropes painting my ass, streaking the curve of my hip. Warm. Sticky. Claiming. I didn’t flinch. Didn’t sigh. If anything, I smiled—breathless, flushed, still pulsing with the pleasure he hadn’t quite finished. More turned on than disappointed.

“I—I’m sorry,” he panted, voice raw, guilt thick in it. “I didn’t mean to— I just…” I turned to face him slowly, still smiling, my cheeks pink from sun and everything else.

Without a word, I reached back, dragged two fingers through the mess he’d left on me, and brought them to my mouth. I tasted him. Eyes never leaving his. His gaze locked on mine—wide and wild—somewhere between awe and disbelief.

“It’s okay, Liam,” I said, voice low and indulgent. “You’re young.” He blinked, lips parting like he might ask what I meant—but I didn’t give him the chance. I nodded toward the grass. “Lie down.”

He obeyed instantly, dropping to his ass and stretching out on his back, limbs sprawling open in that clumsy, dazed way only someone thoroughly bewitched could manage. I stood over him for a moment, watching his chest rise and fall—still heaving from the rush.

Between my thighs, I felt the wet heat of my desire trickling down—hot, sticky proof of everything left unfinished. In my current state, getting down was always easier than getting back up. But for now, gravity worked in my favor. I lowered myself over him, our hands finding each other instinctively.

Straddling his hips, I felt the brush of his unruly pubic hair against the slick, aching heat between my legs. His cock was still pulsing—but softening. Fading. That wouldn’t do. I rocked forward, slow and deliberate, dragging my soaked folds along his shaft. My swollen clit slid against him in slippery, teasing passes, coaxing him back with every stroke.

His breath caught. His fingers dug into my ass, trying to steady the rhythm, urging it on—wordless, but pleading. Twitch. I felt him stir. Felt him start to thicken beneath me.
Straining. Rising.

“See…” I murmured, smirking as I lifted my hips just enough to free him, watching him spring back to life. “You’re ready for another round.” I bit my lip, eyes locked to his, and reached down—wrapping my fingers around him, guiding him to where I needed him most. To where I was soaked.

Swollen.

Desperate.

I sank down onto him in one long, slow slide. His cock stretched me open, filling me, and a deep, helpless groan spilled from his throat. His hands flew to my hips, gripping tight—trying to anchor himself as I seated fully onto him. A throaty laugh broke from my lips—low and breathy—followed by a moan as our bodies met again. One hand braced on his chest, slick with sweat. The other wrapped around his wrist, grounding us both. And then I began to move. Slow. Steady. Savoring every inch. Every roll. Every grind.

This time, I was in complete control. And I intended to take everything I wanted.

I angled my hips just right, letting my swollen clit grind into the dense thatch of hair at his base with every roll. The friction sent sparks dancing up my spine—sharp, greedy little jolts that built and built, until I was frenzied with the need to come apart.

Until now, our passion had been quiet—just breathy moans and the soft slap of bodies, carried off by the breeze. But not anymore. The moment took me. I began to ride him harder, bouncing in raw, rhythmic strokes, my weight driving him deeper each time.
The sound of our bodies—wet, wild, relentless—echoed through the trees.

Louder than any moan.

Louder than any confession.

Liam reached up, clutching at my breast, pinching my nipple with the clumsy desperation of someone teetering on the edge. His other hand slid down to my belly, cradling it like something sacred. I felt him shift beneath me—legs bending, hips rising—thrusting up to meet me with growing urgency, our bodies crashing together in a frenzied rhythm neither of us could fully control.

“Ma—Marissa…” he groaned through gritted teeth, trying not to fall.

My hand slid up from his chest, slick with sweat, and wrapped gently around his throat—not tight, just there. A quiet reminder. This was mine. “Don’t stop,” I whimpered, voice trembling, eyes wild and half-lidded. “I’m already pregnant.”

I was so close I could taste it. The first thing to tremble were my legs. Lust-driven tremors rippled upward—through my thighs, across my belly, into my chest—until my breath fractured into ragged little gasps. I could feel myself clenching around him, tight and desperate, my pussy gripping him as the orgasm tore through me. Fast. Wild.
Uncontrolled.

Liam stilled beneath me, holding his breath like it might stop what was coming—but it didn’t. I felt the pulse of him deep inside, then the first warm spurts.

Soft at first.

Then flooding.

He came hard, pulsing into me as my release crested and crashed in time with his. We shuddered together—locked in a breathless, perfect moment. Euphoria surged through me; nerves lit like lightning over sunburnt skin. Still, I didn’t stop. I kept grinding—slowly, deliberately—rolling my hips to draw out every drop.

To wring him dry. To chase that high just a little longer.

He sat up suddenly, wrapping his arms around me like he couldn’t bear the distance.
His face pressed into my chest, lips grazing the swell of my breast as he panted, trembling. I could feel him shaking—whether from pleasure or disbelief, I didn’t know. Maybe both. I cradled the back of his head, threading my fingers through his tousled brown hair, holding him as he caught his breath.

“Fuck, Liam…,” I sighed into his ear, voice soft and wrecked, still soaked in afterglow. He shivered against me. “God, I needed that,” I whispered—more exhale than speech.

He pulled back just enough to look at me, still holding me close. His brow was damp with sweat—mine too—and the rest of us. Our bodies were slick, tangled in heat and satisfaction.

His brown eyes met mine, heavy-lidded and dazed, like he was still trying to decide whether this was real… or the best dream he’d ever had. I leaned in and kissed him—soft, slow, wet. Grateful. We stayed like that for a while, still joined at the hips, our breaths syncing as a lazy breeze cooled flushed skin.

The garden was quiet. The world hushed. Warmth settled around us like a blanket. I felt at peace. A little guilty, maybe. But mostly… sated. Because I knew what this was. Not love. Not a mistake to cry over. Just lust.

Pure carnality.

A spark we’d let catch fire. And from the way Liam looked at me, I could tell—he understood. This wasn’t a beginning. It was a moment. One he’d remember for years.
Maybe forever.

I rose from his lap with a slow, weighted breath, still savoring the feel of him. He didn’t look like the boy-next-door anymore. He sat taller now, something new stirring behind his eyes. Confidence. Pride.

A man blooming in the heat. His cock twitched again—half-hard, hungry. Young. Virile. Eager. I rested my hands on my thighs and sighed.

I should go inside. Clean up. Wipe away the traces before my husband came home. But I couldn’t move. Instead, I looked at Liam, let a breathy laugh slip free, and held out my hand.

“Help me up, please?” He didn’t hesitate.

Just stood and offered his hand with a new kind of smile—no nerves, only certainty. I fanned myself as he gathered my clothes and sunhat, handing them over like a gentleman with a secret burning in his pocket. “So, um…” he started, clearly unsure what to say. Or what any of it meant. I took a deep breath, breathing in the thick perfume of sex and sun-soaked air.

My skin still tingled. My thighs were still slick. My desire? Already rebuilding.

“I’ll need your help tomorrow,” I said, turning on the balls of my feet and walking toward the sliding glass door.

Just before I stepped inside, I glanced back. He was still watching me—boldly now, without shame. I gave him a playful wink and slipped through the door, leaving him outside to collect himself... And leaving me alone to face the soft, familiar whispers of my conscience. But one thing was certain.

I wasn’t finished.