The Firecracker Feast

Chapter 1

The July sun hammered down on Derek's backyard, turning the air into a visible shimmer above the scorched grass. It smelled of charcoal, seared meat, and the sweet, chemical tang of sunscreen. Margot stood by the rickety picnic table, its wood sticky with spilled lemonade, and felt a bead of sweat trace a path between her shoulder blades.

She'd been good all week. Salads, grilled chicken, mineral water. A preemptive strike against the inevitable caloric siege of a Fourth of July barbecue. But the siege had begun hours ago, and her defenses had crumbled spectacularly.

A paper plate, now structurally compromised, sat before her. It bore the evidence: a smear of barbecue sauce, a few crumbs of potato salad, the flaky ghost of a biscuit. Her own body was the greater crime scene. Under her thin, floral sundress, her stomach was a hard, pronounced dome. The fabric, which had floated so breezily this morning, now pulled taut across the curve. Every breath was a conscious effort, a shallow lift of her swollen middle.

She let out a soft, pained groan, more air than sound.

"Don't stop now."

Derek's voice was a low rumble beside her. He appeared with a fresh platter, ribs glistening under a sticky, crimson glaze. The grill master. Broad shoulders under a faded tee, a smudge of ash on his jaw. He wasn't looking at her face. His gaze was fixed, unabashed, on the strained line of her dress.

"I'm done," Margot said, the protest weak even to her own ears. "I'm honestly, physically done, Derek."

"Bullshit." He said it with a grin, a flash of white teeth. "There's always room at a picnic." With a practiced flip of his tongs, he transferred a full rack of ribs onto her wrecked plate. The bone-in weight made the plate sag further. "You attacked those first ones like you were on a mission. I'm just supporting the mission."

She stared at the ribs. Her body throbbed with a dull, deep ache of fullness, a warning signal she'd been ignoring for an hour. But beneath the ache, under the layer of mild shame, a thrilling filament of warmth pulsed. It was the same feeling she got when she pushed herself too hard on a run, a mix of pain and dizzying accomplishment. This was a different kind of marathon.

"I shouldn't," she whispered.

"You absolutely should." He leaned a hip against the table, crossing his arms. His eyes finally met hers, and the directness there was electrifying. "You love it. Look at you."

Her face flushed hotter than the sun could manage. She picked up a rib. The meat fell off the bone at the slightest tug. She took a bite. It was obscenely good-smoky, sweet, salty. The act of chewing, of swallowing more into the already-crammed space, sent a jolt through her. It was a struggle. A conquest.

She moaned, this time in genuine, helpless pleasure at the taste.

"That's it," Derek murmured, his voice dropping. The noise of the party-the chatter, the classic rock from the Bluetooth speaker, the crackle of the grill-seemed to fade behind his words. "You're enjoying it. Really enjoying it. I've been watching you all afternoon. That third helping of my potato salad. The way you spooned that coleslaw right onto your hot dog bun."

She froze, rib halfway to her mouth. He had been counting.

"You think I don't notice?" he continued, his eyes dragging back down her body. "You started flat. Now look at you. That dress is working overtime. I like it."

The words were crude, absolutely inappropriate. They should have sent her running. Instead, the warm filament inside her sparked into a live wire. Shame and arousal bled together, inseparable. She took another deliberate bite, larger this time, forcing herself to work through the fullness.

"It hurts," she admitted, the confession spilling out.

"I know," he said, not unkindly. "That's the point, isn't it? Feeling it. You're so careful, Margot. All the time. It's fucking hot to see you let go."

He reached out then. Not for her hand, or her arm. His fingertips, calloused and warm, brushed the curve of her belly where it pushed against the floral cotton. The touch was shockingly intimate, possessive. It sent a vibration through her core.

She gasped, her abdomen clenching involuntarily under his hand, which only made the distended flesh feel tighter, more present.

"See?" he said, his thumb rubbing a small, slow circle. "Solid. Packed. I bet you can't even bend over."

She couldn't. The idea of trying made her lightheaded.

"You did all this on purpose," she breathed.

"You did this," he corrected, his smile widening. "I just provided the ammunition. And I'm not done." He nodded at the pie table. "Apple and cherry. Cool whip's in the cooler. You're having both."

The command was ludicrous. Impossible. Her stomach gave a wet, internal lurch at the very thought. But the hand on her, the look in his eyes... it translated the command into a challenge. A dare she was terrified to accept, and even more terrified to refuse.

She set the rib bone down, a final, clean surrender. Her fingers left shiny trails on the plate. She stood, moving with the slow, careful grace of someone carrying something precious and volatile. The world tipped slightly; the fullness was a heavy, central gravity pulling at her.

Derek's hand fell away, but the heat of his touch remained branded on her skin.

She took one waddling step toward the dessert table, then another. Every shift of her hips made her aware of the new, profound weight in her center. The dress hem brushed against thighs that felt strangely connected to the aching orb of her stomach.

She didn't look back. She knew he was watching. She could feel it, a pressure as tangible as the food inside her. The party chatter swelled around her again, but it was just noise. All that was real was the ache, the taut fabric, the path to the pie, and the man whose hungry gaze was fixed on the desperate, rolling sway of her body as she moved toward her next, utterly ridiculous, serving.