The Roommate's Baby

"God, you're so tight," he growls between clenched teeth, pleasure written all over his face, his eyes half-hooded as he gazes down at me, bent over in front of him. "You have a perfect fucking pussy, you know that Rina?"

"Perfect match for your perfect cock," I reply, then gasp again when he draws back and thrusts into me once more.

It doesn't take him long to build up a rhythm, and between him pounding into me from behind, and the way my hips grind against the couch as he fucks me, it's not long before the pressure starts to build deep in my belly.

Then he slides a hand between my legs, his finger pressing against my mound, inching toward my clit, while all the while he keeps up his pace, fucking me hard, fast. "I want you to come for me, Rina."

His finger reaches my clit, and the combined sensation has me gasping to catch my breath, that pressure rocketing higher and higher.

"Come for me," he commands, and my heartbeat speeds up, my hips bucking as I thrust forward against his hand, pinned between his hand against my clit and his cock still pounding into my pussy.

"I'm coming," I manage to pant between breaths, the pressure so high now I can't stand it, can't focus on anything except the sensation of his cock, his fingers. "Fuck, fuck, I'm coming..." I trail off into a loud moan as the orgasm hits hard, my pussy convulsing around his shaft.

But his fingers don't stop moving. He shifts the pressure, works them against my clit softer now, in gentle circles, knowing I'll be sensitive, but also knowing how much pressure to keep on me to make my clit start to pulse again already. "Oh, I'm not done with you yet," he promises, and that dark curl of pleasure in his tone makes my belly tighten.

He angles his hips so his cock drags along my inner walls, and between that and his gently circling hands, rolling my clit underneath the pads of his fingers, it's not long before that pressure builds right back up again. "Come again, Rina."

I cry out, almost before the words are out of his mouth, unable to contain it any longer. This orgasm leaves my legs shaky, my heart pounding, my whole body on fire.

And still, he doesn't stop. "One more, Rina." He slows his hands even more, presses against my mound more than my clit this time. I'm sensitive as hell, though, so even that light touch—especially that light touch—stokes another fire in the pit of my stomach.

I lose track of the orgasms. All I can sense anymore are his fingers, his cock, and the spikes of pleasure that shoot through my veins every time he touches me, fucks me, lifts my hips and angles himself deeper into me.

When he finally comes with a growl of pleasure, it's all I can do to keep myself from screaming aloud at the white hot rush of his cum inside me, coating my inner walls, sending yet another spark of heat through my body.

He draws out, and I gasp at the rush of heat that trickles down my inner thighs, coating the couch beneath me.

“Wait.” I cast a glance over my shoulder in protest. “I need to lie down. Keep my legs up, so…” So more of his cum doesn’t escape.

He’s still breathing fast, and his eyes are just starting to clear from the haze of lust that had taken them over. “Shit. Sorry. I didn’t realize…” He runs a hand through his hair, then reaches down to undo the shirt around my wrists.

“It’s ok.” I smirk. “I know getting girls knocked up isn’t usually your goal…” When my hands are free, I spin around and lie on my back.

Cannon, for his part, grasps my ankles and pushes them up around his shoulders, kneeling in front of me now. His hands run along my calves, my thighs, savoring the touch as he gazes down at me. “I’ll get the hang of this eventually,” he promises.

I laugh. “Hopefully it won’t take that long.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Why, sick of fucking me already, Rina?”

My cheeks flare red. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know,” he replies, still smiling. But there’s something behind that smile. A look in his eyes that I don’t quite recognize. Something almost…wistful.

When I figure I’ve been on my back long enough, I sit up and gently pull him toward me. Tug him into a slow, searing kiss. Our naked bodies press flush together, and for a moment, I allow myself to get lost in that kiss.

Then I remember.

NSA.

He seems to remember the same thing at the same time, because he draws back from the kiss, eyes searching for mine. I duck past him and head toward the kitchen.

"I'll clean up," I say, but he catches my wrist, stops me.

"You did the last one. This one's mine." For a long moment, those dark eyes of his study mine. I think he's going to say something else, for a split second. Then he shakes his head and smiles. "You go take that shower you wanted. I think we're sufficiently dirty now."

I smile back, though it doesn't quite reach my eyes, I know. Because deep down, I'm already thinking... are we? Deep down, I already want to fall right back into bed with him.

NSA, I remind myself, for the last time tonight. "Thanks," I say, and then I force myself to disentangle my hand from his and march toward my bedroom, alone. I really do need that shower, after all.

Over the next few days, we wind up going off-chart. I have one more green heart day of ovulation—or at least, when my phone app estimates that I'm ovulating sometime around now—but we decide that hooking up for a few days past the green hearts marked on the chart can't hurt. After all, sometimes the schedules can be slightly off. People get pregnant at all sorts of points in their cycles.

That's what I tell myself, anyway. And Cannon agrees readily.

On the second day of this experiment, we hooked up in the morning before work—Cannon lifted me onto the kitchen counter, and I wrapped my legs around him, holding his face against my chest as he fucked me until we both came screaming.

That night, we took our evening shower together. The first time, up against the shower wall, I expected. But what I didn't expect was that after we'd finished, and we set about washing each other down, Cannon would remove the shower head from the wall and slide it between my legs, pinning me in place against his body as he directed the stream at my pussy, making me orgasm over and over as he held me.

"I read that when women orgasm during sex, it can help the sperm reach the egg," he told me afterward, by way of explanation. But I couldn't help noticing that, after that, our sex shifted a little. We took longer at foreplay—he started off day 3 by going down on me before we even fucked, and that night, I couldn't resist the urge to drop to my knees in front of him and lick the length of his long, thick cock, savoring his thickness, his velvety soft smooth skin over the hard steel of his shaft. He stopped me before he finished, of course, since we need to make sure all of his cum winds up in my pussy.

But something about that seemed different. We weren't just fucking for a baby, not entirely, not anymore. We were getting each other off in other ways too. Drawing this out, making it more pleasurable.

I tell myself that's normal. Natural. After all, we both like sex. We should enjoy this process, even if there is an end-goal that we're doing it. It doesn't have to all be mechanical, robotic make-a-baby sex. We can have fun with it along the way.

Then comes day 4. By then, we're way past my ovulation cycle. It would be another couple weeks before I'd know if anything took, if I'm pregnant. At this point, if I'm not pregnant already, we'll have to wait until next month to try again.

But when we get home from work, after a long day of pushing a hell of a lot of boring paperwork across my desk, and we turn on the TV expecting to both cool off this time, since our agreement was to only fuck on days when it's plausible that it might impregnate me... I find myself casting sideways glances at him.

And I catch him doing the same to me.

Halfway through the TV show—one of our favorites, the show we watch religiously every week together, and normally would never miss an episode—it's clear neither of us are remotely paying attention.

That's when Cannon grabs the remote and flicks the TV off.

"What are you doing?" I ask, my voice soft.

He spins toward me with a shrug and a smile. "Were you watching?"

"Kind of."

"What just happened, then?"

"Um..." I bite my lower lip.

"That's what I thought." His dark eyes catch mine, and I can't look away from him, not when he's looking at me like this. Through me. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"That we're both really bad at paying attention to that show?" I guess.

His smirk widens. "That we're clearly distracting one another." His hand comes to rest on my leg. Begins to trail up it. "We might as well admit it."

My throat tightens. It's all I can take to swallow and clear it enough to answer. "Admit what?" My heart hammers in my chest. Does he mean...?

"Admit that we want to fuck, chart or no chart."

Oh. Right. Of course. I don't know what I expected. But even this, even fucking just for fun rather than for the purpose we agreed to, it feels dangerous.

Still. When he slides his hand higher up my thigh, I can't resist. "I mean, it can't hurt, can it, to squeeze in a few extra days...?"