She tenses against me, and I feel her pulling away emotionally even as she remains physically close. “You’ve missed the last two weekly appointments, and I’m almost fourteen weeks along now. I know business is important, but these babies are important too.”
The accusation carries suppressed frustration about my divided attention and misplaced priorities. She’s right that I’ve been absent during moments that matter to her, but she doesn’t understand the complexity of arrangements required to build the legitimate future she wants.
“Everything I’m doing is for you and the babies. The business transitions, the security measures, and the financial restructuring are all designed to give us the life you deserve.” My voice carries defensive anger that probably isn’t helpful for resolving the underlying tension between us.
“I don’t want the life I deserve. I want the partner I deserve.” She sits up in bed, and the moonlight through our windows highlights the exhaustion and hurt in her expression. “I want someone who shows up for medical appointments and doesn’t treat our relationship like another item on his business agenda.”
Her words cut deeply, exposing the way my efforts to protect and provide for her have created exactly the distance and neglect I’ve been trying to avoid. “You think I’m treating you like a business obligation?”
“I think you’re treating me like a valuable asset that requires protection rather than a woman who needs your emotional presence and support.” The distinction reveals how thoroughly I’ve failed to balance competing demands on my time and attention.
The conversation feels familiar and another variation of arguments we’ve had repeatedly over the past month as business pressures have intensified and my availability for personal concerns has diminished. Each fight follows the same pattern of her reasonable requests for attention, my defensive explanations about necessity, and mutual frustration about circumstances neither of us can fully control.
“I’m trying to build something legitimate for our future while managing threats that could destroy everything we’re working toward and keep us all safe. It’s not simple or easy, and it requires sacrifices from both of us.” The explanation sounds rational, but it doesn’t address her emotional needs or the impact my absence has on her wellbeing during a difficult pregnancy.
“I’m not asking you to stop working toward our future. I’m asking you to include me in the present while you’re planning for what comes next.” Her voice breaks slightly, revealing vulnerability that makes my chest ache with regret about the distance I’ve created. “I’m carrying seven of your children and sometimes, I feel like I’m doing it alone.”
The admission stuns me, forcing me to confront how my protective instincts have created exactly the isolation I’ve been trying to prevent. She shouldn’t feel alone while living in my home and sharing my bed, but my efforts to shield her from business pressures have apparently left her feeling abandoned rather than cherished.
“You’re not alone. You’ll never be alone.” I reach for her, needing physical connection to bridge the emotional distance my words seem unable to cross. “Everything I do is motivated by how much you mean to me.”
“Then show me. Stop telling me about your feelings and start demonstrating them through actions that matter.” Her challenge carries desperate hope that we can find our way back to the partnership that brought us together before external pressures complicated everything.
Instead of responding with more inadequate explanations, I claim her mouth in a kiss that carries suppressed need and frustrated desire. She responds immediately, fisting her hands in my hair as our mouths meet with desperate intensity that speaks to the hunger neither of us has been addressing while focused on other things.
“I need you,” I whisper against her lips, the admission emerging with raw honesty that reveals how much I’ve missed the intimacy we’ve neglected while dealing with external crises.
“Then take me.” Her response carries challenge and invitation in equal measure. “Stop protecting me from everything, including yourself.”
Our clothes vanish like smoke in the wind. When I touch her, it’s with reverence and desperation that makes her gasp and arch beneath me. “You’re so beautiful,” I murmur against her throat, tracing patterns across skin that’s grown softer and more sensitive with pregnancy. “More beautiful every day.”
She pulls me down for another kiss, this one hungrier and more demanding than the last. “Show me how beautiful you think I am.”
I work my way down her body with deliberate slowness, pressing kisses to her collarbone, her breasts, and the gentle swell where our children grow. Each touch is worship andapology combined, an attempt to communicate through physical connection what my words haven’t adequately expressed.
When I reach her pussy, she’s already trembling with need that matches my own desperate hunger. I spread her legs wider and lick her slit with enthusiasm that makes her cry out and clutch my shoulders.
“God, I’ve missed this,” she says, her voice breaking as I thoroughly explore her pussy. “I’ve missed feeling connected to you.”
The confession makes my chest tighten with regret about the distance I’ve allowed to develop between us. I focus on pleasuring her with single-minded devotion, alternating between broad strokes and light brushes with the tip of my tongue over and around her clit, gradually building pleasure and tension until she’s writhing beneath me.
“Not yet,” I say when she’s trembling on the edge of release. “I need to feel you from the inside.”
I rise to cover her body with mine, positioning myself at her entrance while she wraps her legs around my waist. Her slit is hot and wet, and my cock acts like a magnet, jerking in that direction. “Look at me,” I say softly, waiting until her gaze locks with mine before pushing forward slowly. “I want to see your face when I take you.” I ease my cock inside her pulsing sheath, groaning at the sensation of her walls clinging to my shaft as she whimpers and arches her hips.
The connection feels deeper than mere physical pleasure, as if we’re rediscovering something essential that other distractions have threatened to destroy. I begin to move with slow, deliberate thrusts that make her gasp with each stroke, ensuring I’mdragging my cock head against her clit through her walls with each push.
“Harder,” she pleads, digging her nails into my shoulders as she pulls me deeper. “I need you to fuck me like you mean it. I won’t break.”
Her desperate request breaks my careful control. My rhythm becomes more demanding and possessive as I bottom out inside her with each returning stroke, claiming her body while trying to reclaim the emotional connection that’s been slipping away during weeks of divided attention.
“You’re mine.” The words emerge with possessive intensity that probably reveals more about my fears than my confidence. “Always mine, no matter what else happens.”
“Then act like it.” Her challenge carries breathless need that makes my blood burn. “Stop treating me like something fragile and love me like the woman you chose.”
The words unlock something primal in my response to her. I thrust deeper and harder, joining our bodies with an intensity that drowns out concerns about anything else. Nothing exists except this moment, this connection, this woman, and this frantic need to reaffirm what we mean to each other.
“I can feel how close you are,” I say, reaching between our joined bodies to stroke her clit with a firm touch. “Come for me, Willa. Come good and hard.”
