Free Web NovelChapter 303: Chapter 303 - Kissing While Marinating the Hot Woman
The first thing — he knew about her ability. Not just that she had an ability. The ’specific mechanics’ of it, the ’specific application’ she’d been about to attempt, the exact conversion formula: ambient steam to nova.
He’d named it before she’d moved a single finger. Which meant he’d read her frequency already. Which meant when he was touching her belly while she was unconscious he hadn’t just been touching — he’d been ’reading’, and what he’d read was detailed enough to include operational capability.
The second thing.
Virgin.
’Pregnant virgin.’
He’d said hymen.
He knew.
He knew what exactly one other person in the world knew, what she’d never told anyone in the year since the pregnancy, what she’d protected with every layer of classification her ability could construct — the specific, humiliating, biologically anomalous fact that she was carrying a pregnancy she’d come by without losing what she’d been born with, the result of a dimensional energy experiment she’d never adequately explained to anyone, least of all herself.
He knew.
Both things.
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"How do you—" The words came out cracked. "How do you know—"
He kissed her.
Not preceded by a warning. Not negotiated. Just — the distance closed, his mouth on hers, the contact immediate and complete.
She pushed.
Both hands found his chest, flat-palmed, pushing outward with the full force of the panic and the mountain and the two impossible pieces of information still falling through her like stones through water.
He kissed her deeper.
His mouth opened against hers and his tongue pushed between her lips, finding the resistance there and pressing past it with the steady, unhurried confidence of someone who has done this enough times to know that the initial resistance is not the final position. His tongue found hers — she was ’trying’ not to respond, was actively attempting to keep her mouth still and unparticipating — but the contact was warm and insistent and her body had been in a bathtub full of warm water for however long it had been in a bathtub and her nervous system was not cooperating with her principles.
Her eyes filled.
Not crying — the same involuntary tear response from the warehouse, her system overwhelmed again, the tears of a body that has received too much too fast and is venting pressure through the nearest available valve.
She pushed harder.
His hand caught both her wrists — one smooth motion, both hands gathered above her head, his grip closing around both her wrists together and pinning them against the back edge of the tub, her arms extended above her, the motion exposing her underarms fully — the dark growth there, the pale inner arms, her hands flexing uselessly at the end of his grip.
She made a sound against his mouth.
Muffled. Fully muffled. The sound of a woman trying to form a word — ’stop’, or ’no’, or ’get off’, or possibly something considerably less clean than any of those — with a mouth that was currently occupied by someone else’s tongue, the attempt producing instead a wet, cracked "’mmmph—’" that mixed with his breath and the shower water and the steam.
Her legs kicked.
Both legs, the only free limbs remaining, flailing in the water at the bottom of the tub with an angry, frustrated, ineffective splashing that sent water over the tub edge and across the tile floor and accomplished nothing except getting them both wetter.
His abs were against her pregnant belly.
The swell of the pregnancy pressed between them, the taut skin warm against his stomach, the baby inside shifting in its suspension — she could feel it, the faint interior movement, the separate small life entirely unbothered by everything happening to its mother.
His cock head pressed against her belly button.
The contact was precise — not intended, just the geometry of the situation resolving itself, the tip of him finding the outward-pushed navel and pressing against it with the warm insistence of blood and gravity, a small tight circle of pressure that her nerve endings processed and reported with embarrassing promptness.
Her toes curled.
She tried to suppress the reaction. Failed. Her toes curled against the bottom of the tub and her thighs pressed together and a sound came out of her throat that was not the sound of protest, was not the sound of outrage, was the mortifying sound of a body that has opinions that differ entirely from its owner’s.
"’Mmph—! Mmmph—!’"
His tongue moved against hers.
Slow. Deliberate. The French kiss of a man who is not rushing anything, who has made a decision and is executing it at whatever pace he finds appropriate, who is going to be thorough about this the way he was thorough about the soap.
Her hands flexed above her head.
His grip held.
The tears ran down her temples and into her hair and mixed with the shower water and she couldn’t tell anymore which was which, couldn’t tell which sounds she was making were outrage and which weren’t, couldn’t maintain the organizational clarity of ’this is wrong and I am refusing it’ against the simultaneous weight of his mouth on hers and his abs on her belly and the specific knowledge that he knew both of her secrets and had said them aloud and she still didn’t know how.
Her legs stopped kicking.
Not surrender. Exhaustion. The legs of a woman who has been surviving on converted ambient energy for four months and has spent the last several minutes in a combination of shock, panic, and sustained physical resistance, finding the limit of what they have left.
They fell still in the water.
Her boobs pressed against his chest with each breath — the dark nipples dragging across his skin every time her chest expanded, every time her body took the breath she needed to continue making muffled sounds of protest against his mouth, the contact so continuous it stopped being individual events and became a constant, the friction of it registering as heat.
Her eyes were open.
Looking up.
At the shower ceiling. At the water coming down. At the steam collecting above them in soft rolling clouds.
At the completely absurd, completely catastrophic, completely impossible situation of being kissed breathless in a prison bathroom by a naked man who knew she was a pregnant virgin and had said so to her face and was now — was now—
"’mmNNGH—’"
His tongue pressed deeper.
Her back arched off the tub.
A small, involuntary, completely betraying arch — her spine lifting, her belly pressing forward into his, her boobs mashing harder against his chest, her pinned wrists flexing above her head in a way that had stopped looking like an attempt to free them.
The shower ran on.
Steam collected.
Her legs, still in the water, were not kicking.
The tears on her temples were drying in the warm air.
"Slurrp.... Umnnghh..... Ahhhnnn~~!?"
The kiss hadn’t stopped.
It had changed — the way weather changes, not stopping but shifting register, the initial press of his mouth becoming something more deliberate, more structured, his tongue moving against hers in slow dragging pulls that mapped the inside of her lower lip and then her upper and then came back to her tongue to resume the conversation from a different angle.
’Slurrp—’
The wet sound of it filled the shower bathroom, mixing with the water on tile and the steam and her own breathing, which was not the breathing of protest anymore. It was the breathing of someone whose chest was working harder than it should be for reasons she was actively refusing to examine.
"’Umnngh—’"
The moan came from her throat without her permission.
Low. Cracked. Embarrassingly present.
His mouth curved against hers — she felt it, the fractional shift of his lips into something that was not quite a smile but carried the same information — and then his hand released her wrists.
She should have pushed him.
Her hands came down from above her head and she should have planted both palms against his chest and shoved. That was the organized response. That was the response of the woman who had survived four months alone in a dimensional pocket by making organized responses to things.
Her hands landed on his shoulders.
Not pushing.
Just — there. Her fingers curling into the muscle there without direction, her palms flat against the wet skin of his upper arms while the shower water ran between them and the steam continued collecting in the ceiling corners and her brain sent the push signal three times and received no execution confirmation.
His hand moved to her boob.
The right one. His palm closing over it from beneath, lifting the full warm weight of it and squeezing slowly — not rough, not gentle, the specific pressure of someone kneading something deliberately, his fingers working into the soft flesh from the underside and pressing upward, the whole breast deforming slightly under the grip before his palm relaxed and the flesh bounced back.
"’Ngh—’"
Her hips shifted in the tub water.
He kneaded it again. Slower this time, his thumb pressing inward from the side and his fingers from below, the nipple caught at the top of the motion and dragging across his palm — dark, stiff, harder than she’d wanted it to be since approximately three minutes into the kiss.
He pulled his mouth from hers by an inch.
"’Haah—’"
