Chapter 1- a little taste

The living room couch groaned gently beneath you—not in protest, just in acknowledgment. It had been doing that more often lately. A little more creaking when you leaned back, a little more space taken up by hips that had once slipped easily into any seat, thighs that now pressed soft and warm against each other. Your robe was loose around the shoulders but wouldn’t quite close over your belly anymore. You hadn’t mentioned it, and she hadn’t commented. She only smiled.

“Still comfortable?” she asked, walking in from the kitchen with a plate in hand. Her voice had that calm, knowing warmth that made it feel like she already knew the answer—and would accept it either way.

You nodded, a little breathless from the effort of shifting to one side. The roll of your belly moved with you, heavy and full. Your thighs spread wider. “Yeah. Just… slow tonight.”

She smiled as she set the plate down beside you. “You’ve earned slow.”

The food was simple but rich—her cooking always was. Something creamy, warm, fragrant. You didn’t know what she added to make it taste like that, but it always left you wanting more, even after you were full. Maybe especially then.

You looked at the plate, then at her. “You really want me to?”

She crouched beside the couch, resting her chin on your knee, hands soft and sure on your thigh. “I want you exactly as you are. But watching you let go?” Her eyes flicked over your body—your softened arms, the heavy hang of your belly, the way you were already breathing deeper just from sitting up. “That’s beautiful.”

You looked away, heat rising to your cheeks. You’d been successful, once. Sharp suits, morning runs, all angles and discipline. But your clothes hadn’t fit in weeks. You were always warm now, always full. Her fridge seemed bottomless. And she noticed everything.

She reached for a fork, speared a piece of something steaming and sweet, and held it out. “Just a little. For me.”

You took it, lips parting, and tasted the salt, the butter, the softness. You weren’t sure if you were hungry, but you felt something tighten deep inside—wanting. For her. For the way she looked at you like this.

“You like taking care of me too much,” you murmured.

She laughed gently, thumb brushing a spot just beneath your belly, where it curved into your lap. “I like watching you become mine.”

You shivered—not from cold. Her voice was low, reverent. “You don’t miss how I used to be?”

“No,” she said, cupping the side of your belly with both hands. “You were beautiful then. You’re sublime now.”

The word hit hard. Sublime.

She leaned in, kissed your stomach, just above where the soft curve met your ribs. Then again, lower. “Tell me if you want to stop.”

You didn’t. You shook your head. “No… I just—” Your voice caught. “It’s a lot.”

She rested her head against you like you were a pillow. “So are you,” she whispered. “That’s the point.”