Craving My Sister’s Hot Husband

All Of You

Seraphina

Dominic undresses me with a patience I didn’t know he possessed, his fingers working each button of my blouse with quiet attention, pushing it off my shoulders and setting it aside rather than tearing it away. His hands move over my skin like he’s relearning it, like the pregnancy has made me new in some way that requires starting from the beginning.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs against my collarbone. “I don’t tell you that enough.”

“You tell me other things.”

“Those too.” He looks up at me. “But this is what I mean right now. Just beautiful. Just you.”

He lays me back gently and the desk is hard beneath me but I barely feel it because his hands are everywhere and they’re so careful, that the tenderness of it becomes its own kind of overwhelming.

When he finally enters me, it’s slow and deep and unhurried, but the stretch still steals my breath. My walls flutter around the thick intrusion, already slick from his earlier teasing, and he groans low in his throat as he sinks to the hilt. He holds himself still for a long moment, buried completely, letting me feel every pulsing inch of him while his eyes lock on mine.

“Still okay?” he asks, voice rougher now.

“More than okay.” My nails dig lightly into his shoulders. “Don’t stop.”

Dominic begins to move—long, heavy strokes that drag almost all the way out before sliding back in to the root. Each withdrawal leaves me achingly empty; each re-entry fills me so perfectly I gasp. The wet, obscene sound of our bodies meeting fills the quiet office, louder with every measured thrust.

My arousal is relentless. I’ve never been this wet, this slippery. Every time he pulls back, his c**k emerges glistening, coated in a thick, milky white ring of my cream that clings to the shaft and drips in slow, viscous strands. When he slams home again, deeper now, more insistent, the force splays the creamy mess outward, painting sticky streaks across his taut lower abdomen and the tops of his thighs. It drips onto the polished wood of his desk beneath me, pooling in small, shining puddles that smear with every rock of his hips.

Dominic glances down between us, watching himself disappear inside me again and again, and a dark, satisfied sound rumbles from his chest.

“You’re making such a f*****g mess, Kitten,” he murmurs, voice low and gravel-rough. His thumb swipes through the slickness coating his balls, lifting it to show me how it webs between his fingers before he smears it over my swollen c**t. “Look at this, so much cream for me. Soaking my c**k, my balls, my desk… feels so goddamn good wrapped around me like this.”

The words, combined with the filthy visual, make me clench hard around him. He hisses through his teeth and rewards me with a sharper, more deliberate thrust that punches the air from my lungs. My juices gush again at the impact, a fresh rush that slicks his length and trickles down to drench the seam of his sac. His balls slap wetly against me now, heavy and glistening, each smack sending little shocks of pleasure up my spine.

He shifts his angle slightly, grinding the thick ridge of his c**k against that sensitive spot inside me on every deep plunge. The pressure builds fast, too fast, and I can feel myself starting to cream even more, the white froth thickening with every stroke. When he pulls out halfway to watch, the sight is obscene: his shaft painted stark white, strings of my arousal stretching and breaking between us, more dripping onto his desk in slow, syrupy rivulets.

“f**k, Seraphina,” he breathes, almost reverent. “You’ve never come this much for me. Never soaked me like this.” He drives back in with a wet squelch that makes us both moan. “Keep creaming on my c**k just like that, let me feel how much you need it.”

His hand returns between us, fingers circling my c**t in tight, slippery strokes while he keeps up that devastating rhythm, slow enough to savor every sensation, deep enough to ruin me. The combination shatters something inside me. The orgasm isn’t sharp and explosive; it’s a long, rolling wave that starts deep in my core and spreads outward in endless pulses. My walls ripple and flutter around him, milking his length, forcing even more of my cream to spill out with every contraction. It coats him completely now, dripping in thick ropes whenever he withdraws, splattering messily across his thighs and lower stomach.

He watches it happen with dark, hooded eyes, jaw tight with restraint. “That’s it… Give it all to me… f**k, you’re drenching everything.”

Only when the aftershocks are still trembling through me does he finally let himself go. A few harder, deeper thrusts, each one accompanied by a fresh gush of my release, and he buries himself to the hilt with a low, broken groan. I feel the hot pulses of him spilling inside me, mixing with my own wetness until it’s all one slick, overwhelming mess. When he finally eases out, a thick trickle of combined release follows, spilling onto the desk beneath me in a slow, pearly stream.

We stay connected for a moment longer, both of us breathing hard, bodies still trembling. His hand finds my stomach again, palm warm and steady over the place that’s still flat, still giving nothing away.

“Eight months,” he says quietly, voice wrecked. “Give or take.”

“Something like that.”

“A lot can change in eight months.”

I don’t ask what he means by that. Don’t push for promises or declarations or plans. Some part of me understands that this moment requires silence, requires stillness, requires letting it simply be what it is without demanding more from it.

He straightens eventually, helping me sit up, smoothing my hair back from my face with both hands.

“Kitten.” His eyes hold mine. “I need you to trust me. Can you do that?”

“I already do,” I say. “That’s the problem.”

Something shifts in his expression, quick and complicated. “I know. I know it is.” He kisses my forehead, my temple, the corner of my mouth. “I’m going to figure this out. The company. Elena. All of it. I’m going to figure it out and you’re not going to carry any of this alone. Do you hear me?”

“I hear you.”

“Good.” One more kiss, softer than the rest. “My Kitten. My baby. Mine.”

The possessiveness should feel familiar by now. But wrapped in this tenderness it feels entirely new, and I lean into it helplessly.

A knock at the office door shatters the quiet.

“Mr. Ashcroft?” His assistant’s voice was professional and apologetic. “Your two o’clock has been waiting for fifteen minutes. Shall I reschedule?”

Dominic’s eyes stay on mine for a long moment, something wordless passing between us, before he answers over his shoulder.

“Give me five minutes.”

We dress in silence, the comfortable kind. He hands me my blouse. I straighten his tie without being asked. Small domesticities that feel enormous in this context.

At the door, he takes my face one more time.

“What happens now?” I ask the question that’s been sitting in my throat since I walked in here.

“Now,” he says carefully, “we protect this. Whatever else is falling apart, we protect this.” His hand moves briefly to my stomach, a gesture so private and careful it steals my breath. “You and this baby come first. Everything else I’ll sort out.”

He opens the door for me, his professional mask sliding back into place with practiced ease. But before I step through, he leans close to my ear.

“Go home, Kitten. Rest. I’ll be there tonight.”

I walk to the elevator alone, his words still warm against my skin, his baby growing somewhere beneath my ribs.

And for the first time since the three pink lines appeared this morning, I’m not afraid.