Forbidden Heat:Between Friends Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Leo's POV

The alarm blared at 6 AM—Cici's ovulation tracker app, shrill enough to cut through the haze of sex and lavender detergent. She shot up, eyes wild, like she'd just won a lottery ticket. "Prime time," she breathed, grabbing my arm and yanking me on top of her. "Doctor said 6-8 AM's peak fertility. Gonna knock me up for sure."​

I groaned, still half-asleep, but my dick was already hard—trained by four days of nonstop fucking, primed to pump her full. LA' morning fog pressed against the windows, turning the bedroom soft and hazy, but Cici was anything but gentle. She wrapped her legs around my waist, ankles locking, and pulled me in so hard I almost choked. "Now, Leo. Fuck me now—deep, slow, like you're planting a seed."​

Planting a seed. The way she said it—raw, urgent, like this was life or death—made my balls tighten. I pushed in inch by inch, savoring the stretch of her pussy, the wet heat that clung to me like a glove. "So tight," I hissed, grinding my hips. "So fucking perfect for me."​

She moaned, nails digging into my shoulder blades—adding to the scratch marks that already crisscrossed my back. "Only for you," she whimpered. "Only for this baby. Sid's never felt this—never made me beg, never filled me up right." Her hips lifted, meeting my thrusts, and I could feel her cervix soften—ready, willing, greedy for my cum.​

We fucked slowly for an hour—no screaming, no slamming, just deep, rhythmic thrusts that made the bed creak in time with our breathing. The fog lifted, the sun streaming through the windows, and I noticed Sid's stupid fitness tracker on the nightstand—blinking, like it was judging us. "Look at his dumb watch," I growled, nodding at it. "Tracks his steps, his calories… not that he's man enough to track a baby."​

Cici laughed, a breathless, dirty sound, and bit my neck. "He'll track this baby—think it's his." Take him to Bruins games, brag to his dad about 'little Sid Jr.' Never know it's your balls deep in me right now."​

The thought lit a fire. I grabbed her hips, lifting her up, and slammed her back down—hard enough to make the headboard bang against the wall. "Gonna make sure it's mine," I snarled. "Gonna flood your womb, make every egg in there scream my name."​

She screamed—loud, unhinged—her pussy squeezing me so tight I thought I'd cum on the spot. “Yes! Fill me! Make it stick! I want your eyes, your jaw—fuck, I want everything!" Her voice cracked, and I felt her cum—hot, gushing, soaking my thighs. That was it—I let go, shooting load after load, thick and hot, deep into her.​

We collapsed, chests heaving, her head on my chest, and she giggled—delirious, satisfied. "That's one," she said, kissing my collarbone. "Need at least three more today. Doctor said multiple rounds boost odds by 40%."​

Three more. My balls ached just thinking about it, but when she looked up at me—eyes shiny, lips swollen, pussy still pulsing around my softening dick—I couldn't say no. This was obsession, plain and simple. Her obsession with getting pregnant, my obsession with claiming her, with making Sid's perfect life a lie.​

We showered together—hot water cascading over us, her hands never leaving my dick. She sucked me off in the spray, knees slipping on the tile, and I came in her mouth again. "Swallowed every drop," she grinned, wiping her chin. "Gotta keep the pipeline full."​

Breakfast was a blur—protein shakes (Cici insisted "fertility fuel") and granola bars, eaten on the kitchen floor while she straddled my lap. Sid's $500 coffee maker gurgled unused; we were too busy kissing, too busy grinding, too busy chasing that baby. "Garage next," she said, finishing her shake and pulling me up. "Wanna fuck you in Sid's car."​

Sid's car—his pride and joy, a 1972 Camaro he'd restored with his dad. The garage smelled like motor oil and gasoline, sunlight slanting through the windows onto the cherry red paint. Cici bent over the hood, ass in the air, and grabbed a wrench from the workbench—holding it like a prop. "Tie me up with his ratchet straps," she purred. "Make it rough. Make me remember."​

I laughed, but my hands were shaking as I grabbed the straps—thick, industrial, the kind Sid used to haul furniture. I looped them around her wrists, securing her to the hood latch, and she moaned. "Yes—just like that. Treat me like your slut. Your baby mama."​

I didn't hold back. I slammed into her, hips crashing against her ass, the sound of skin slapping mixing with the clink of tools and the distant honk of a car on the street. The Camaro shook, and I grabbed her hair, yanking her head back. "Look at you," I growled. "Fucked on your husband's car, tied up with his tools. You're a dirty whore, Cici."​

"Your dirty whore," she screamed, pussy squeezing me. “Yours! Gonna have your baby, gonna make you proud!"​

I came hard, shooting another load inside her, and she followed—body shaking, scream echoing through the garage. I cut the straps, and she collapsed against the Camaro, chest heaving, motor oil smudged on her thighs. "That's two," she panted, grinning. "Two more to go."​

We fucked again at noon—on Sid's home office desk, surrounded by UCLA textbooks and client files. I bent her over the papers, her tits pressing against a stack of contracts, and fucked her while she moaned into his leather chair. "His clients would lose their minds," she giggled mid-thrust. "If they knew their fancy designer's wife was getting railed on his work."

I grabbed her hair, pulling her up, and kissed her hard. "Don't care," I growled. "Just care about filling you up. Making sure this baby's mine."​

By 3 PM, we were both exhausted—sweaty, sore, our bodies aching in places I didn't know existed. But Cici wasn't done. She dragged me to the backyard, threw a blanket on the grass (Sid's favorite, the one with Bruins logos), and straddled me. "Last round," she said, her voice softening. "Gonna make it count."​

This time, it was slow—intimate, almost tender. She rode me like we had all the time in the world, her hands on my chest, her forehead pressed to mine. The oak tree Sid planted rustled above us, birds chirping, and for a second, it felt wrong—not the betrayal, but the tenderness. Like we weren't just two people chasing a baby, but something more.​

"Want this to work," she whispered, her eyes glistening. "Want him to be ours. Even if Sid never knows."​

I nodded, throat tight. I didn't love her—didn't even like her that much, outside of the sex—but I wanted this too. Wanted to see her round with my kid, wanted to watch Sid dote on him, wanted to know I'd left a mark on their perfect little life. "It'll work," I said, squeezing her hips. "Gonna cum inside you one last time. Gonna make it stick."​

She came first—quiet, tears streaming down her face—and I followed, pouring every last drop into her. We stayed like that, tangled on the blanket, until the sun dipped below the horizon and the air turned cool. Cici laid her head on my chest, listening to my heartbeat, and smiled. "I think it worked," she said. "I can feel it."​

I didn't say anything. Just held her, staring up at the stars, thinking about Sid—about his flight home in two days, about his stupid Camaro, about the life he thought he had. And for the first time, guilt hit me—sharp, cold, unrelenting. What if she wasn't pregnant? What if we got caught? What if that kid grew up and found out the truth?

But then Cici kissed me, soft and slow, and the guilt faded. Replaced by desire, by obsession, by the thrill of getting away with it. "Let's go inside," she said, pulling me up. "Gonna take a pregnancy test in the morning. Pray it's positive."​

We walked back to the house, naked, grass sticking to our legs, and I glanced at Sid's Camaro—still sitting in the garage, shiny and proud, oblivious to what we'd done on its hood. This was our secret. Our dirty, dangerous, perfect secret.​

And when Sid came home? He'd never suspect a thing. Never know his wife was carrying his best friend's kid. Never knew his life had been turned upside down by a week of nonstop fucking, nonstop lying, nonstop obsession.​

As we climbed into bed, Cici curled up next to me, and I closed my eyes. Tomorrow, we'd take the test. Tomorrow, we'd find out if it worked. But tonight? Tonight, we'd sleep—exhausted, sated, and ready for whatever came next.​

And if it did work? If she was pregnant? I'd be there. Hiding in the shadows, watching my kid grow up, knowing he was mine. Knowing I'd won.​