Page 68 of Slightly Married
My eyes never left the sight of her presented so temptingly before me as I stroked myself with one hand, while the other ran over the smooth curves of her ass.
I leaned down, pressing a kiss to the small of her back, feeling her shiver beneath my touch. I trailed more kisses down her spine, my hands sliding up her sides to cup her breasts, thumbs brushing over her hardened nipples.
She moaned, her back arching, pressing her ass against me. I could feel her heat, her wetness and my body ached with the need to be inside her.
I straightened, my hands returning to her hips. I guided myself to her pussy, coating myself in her wetness before slowly pushing inside.
I set a fast pace, my hips slapping against hers, our bodies moving in a hard, desperate rhythm. Her moans filled the room, her body meeting mine thrust for thrust.
Her moans turned to cries, her body seizing as she neared the edge. “K,” she gasped. “Please...”
Gripping her shoulder for leverage while my fingers reached beneath her to work her clit relentlessly, I increased my pace. She detonated around me, coming hard, her scream of release muffled by the bed.
I gripped her hips tightly, chasing my climax. I slammed into her until I came hard, filling her with my come.
Spent, I collapsed beside her on the mattress, drawing her against my chest as our heartbeats thundered and then steadily calmed. Kayla curled into me, pressing a drowsy kiss to my shoulder before we drifted into sleep.
A few nights later, while relaxing on the veranda of our bedroom, I couldn’t help but smile as Michaila recounted the day’s events I’d missed with her characteristic animation.
“Katalina and her father came by to see Aris. She claimed to be pregnant with Santo’s child,” Kayla said, leaning against my shoulder. “Her father demanded Santo marry her immediately. Poor Tia was frozen in shock.”
I raised an eyebrow, picturing the scene. “How did Santo handle that?”
“He laughed in their faces and demanded a paternity test.” Michaila intertwined her fingers with mine. “Your family was amazing. When Aris questioned Santo about whether he wascertain the child wasn’t his, Domna insisted Santo was smart enough to know if he’d impregnated a woman.”
“Sounds like my mother,” I said, unable to suppress a smile.
“That wasn’t even the most dramatic event. Remember the woman we saw Aris with at the restaurant? Turns out she’s Tia’s mother.”
“What?”
“Yep. She showed up a few hours ago, and I got the feeling she had no idea who we are to Aris! She didn’t even recognize me.”
“Really?”
“Stormed in like a hurricane. Apparently, Katalina called her with some ridiculous story.” Michaila shook her head. “Tia eventually calmed her down, and they left together.”
“This family never lacks for excitement,” I observed dryly, though I found myself increasingly appreciative of the feminine dramatics that had entered the once-orderly Christakis household.
Michaila squeezed my hand. “I’m just thankful we don’t have that kind of drama in our relationship. Wait—” She paused, sitting up straighter. “Stella can’t pop up in nine months with a surprise Christakis heir, right? Because that would be just my luck.”
“No, she won’t.” My response was immediate and definitive.
I slept with the woman once, months ago. I had no desire to revisit anything related to Stella Pavlou.
“Perfect! Just doing my due diligence as your wife and future baby mama.” She patted her stomach with a satisfied grin. “We don’t want ghetto twins.”
“Ghetto twins?” The phrase was unfamiliar to me.
“It’s an African-American term,” she said with a laugh, nestling back against my chest.
As she launched into her explanation, I found myself laughing with her. Her ability to introduce levity into even the most serious matters continued to be a revelation.
The following morning at breakfast, we announced our news. My mother’s joyful tears, Dimitrios’s enthusiastic back-slapping, and the tension between Deanna and Aristides created a memorable scene.
When my aunt made some excuse before quietly excusing herself, I kissed Michaila’s cheek, feeling a complex mixture of emotions. Withholding Matthaios’ identity from Michaila weighed on me.
As we strolled through the garden afterward, I apologized for my aunt’s behavior. “There are still some things—” I began, then stopped myself.
