The morning light has just started to paint the far corner of their bedroom when Kaleya wakes, still cradled by the faint hum of last night’s dreams. First, her mind registers the comforting weight of the comforter, the musk of sleep-warmed linens, and then the oddity. Not discomfort, exactly, but an alertness in the body, a telltale pressure and slip between her thighs that feels, even in the afterglow of sleep, obscene.

She blinks twice, vision adjusting to the blue-white geometry of morning, and glances to her left. Alejandra sleeps deeply, the sharp relief of her cheek softened by loose strands of black hair, one muscular arm flung above her head, the other curled protectively at Kaleya’s side. Kaleya admires her for a moment, gazing at the even rise and fall of her chest and the way the faintest smile lingers on her lips as if she’s dreaming of something delicious. She tries to focus on Alejandra, on the quiet joy of waking next to her, but the distraction between her own legs is impossible to ignore.

Kaleya shifts her hips, hoping to mask the movement as a casual stretch. She’s three months pregnant and just beginning to show, her belly only slightly more prominent than the taut, gently muscled lines she’d maintained since college. Her breasts are the most dramatic change, heavy and hot, a source of constant, private fascination and awkwardness. But this morning her arousal is lower, deeper, wetter than she’s ever felt before. She squeezes her thighs together, feeling a squelch, and bites her lip.

She tries to remember if there’d been a dream: had she been fucked in her sleep, by Alejandra or some anonymous other? The wetness is so intense it’s bordering on ridiculous, soaking not just her panties (plain white cotton, a size up from her usual) but the sheets beneath her too. It’s embarrassing, in a way that’s making her feel young and oversexed, and she presses her hand between her legs as if to hide it from Alejandra’s sleeping form.

But Alejandra is not, in fact, asleep. There’s a beat of stillness, then a sudden predatory shift as Alejandra pulls her closer, pressing her face into the hollow of Kaleya’s neck.a

“Mmm,” she says, voice half-melted with sleep. “You smell different this morning.”

Kaleya flushes and squirms, trying not to pull away. “Sorry,” she whispers. “It’s… I think it’s the hormones.”

Alejandra opens one eye, regarding her with a lazy amusement. “Kaly, it’s not something you need to apologize for.” She inhales again, more dramatically, and nuzzles her nose into the crook of Kaleya’s shoulder. “Jesus, it’s like you’re leaking pheromones. Is this what the next six months are going to be like?”

Kaleya huffs, but her embarrassment softens under Alejandra’s obvious delight. “I have no idea. I googled it last night and all the articles were like, ‘congratulations, you are an unstoppable fuckmachine now.’ But this is… I mean, it’s a lot.”

Alejandra grins, stretching catlike before reaching down to cup Kaleya’s thigh through the blanket. “Show me,” she murmurs.

For a moment, Kaleya wants to refuse. Not out of prudishness, but out of a genuine fear of how much her body has changed without her permission. But the command in Alejandra’s voice, soft but absolute, is impossible to resist. She peels back the comforter, exposing herself. She tries not to squirm as Alejandra’s eyes zero in on the dark, spreading stain between her legs.

“Oh my god,” Alejandra says, reverent. “You’re fucking soaked.”

“It’s not—” Kaleya starts, but Alejandra is already sliding down the bed, her hands anchoring themselves on Kaleya’s hips. She presses her face close, then actually presses her nose into the saturated cotton, inhaling again. “Shit, Kaly. You smell incredible.” 

Kaleya’s hands grip the pillow, her knuckles white. The humiliation transforms, swiftly, into something else. She watches as Alejandra uses her teeth to pull the waistband of her underwear down, exposing the glossy, flushed mound beneath. The air feels cold and damp against her, and she tries to close her legs, but Alejandra wedges herself firmly between them.

“Don’t you dare,” Alejandra says, voice muffled by the pillow of Kaleya’s thigh.

She hooks her finger, dragging the soaked panties to mid-thigh, then strokes two of her fingertips down the length of Kaleya’s slit, over her swollen, protruding inner lips. The touch is barely there, yet Kaleya’s entire body bucks against it, an electric shock rippling from clit to scalp. She gasps in shock at her own responsiveness.

Alejandra lifts her hand, then examines the wetness stringing between her fingertips. “Do you see this?” she says, almost clinically, then licks her fingers clean. “You taste amazing.”

Kaleya, unable to muster a retort, closes her eyes as Alejandra presses her pointer and middle fingers to her entrance and pushes, slow and deliberate. There is no resistance. If anything, the excess of lubrication makes it almost comically easy. Alejandra sinks her fingers deep, curling them until Kaleya nearly screams.

“Fuck,” Alejandra says, “you’re swallowing me whole. Is that…does it feel good?”

“Yes,” Kaleya says, voice thin and reedy. She feels raw and open, more animal than human, every sense on the surface. “God, yes, it’s—don’t stop.”

Alejandra obliges. She keeps her fingers pumping, slow but relentless, and her mouth moves up to Kaleya’s breast, latching onto the nipple and sucking with a ferocity that borders on greedy. Kaleya can feel a faint ache, the beginning of something she knows will only intensify with time. It feels right, every nerve ending a live wire, her body reconfigured overnight for maximum pleasure and minimum inhibition.

Alejandra’s hand is working harder now, her thumb grinding Kaleya’s clit in insistent, perfect circles. Kaleya’s thighs begin to tremble. She feels the orgasm coming, not as a distant threat but as a tidal wave already about to crash. It’s been weeks since they’d fucked; too much fatigue, too much nausea, too many work emergencies. Now it all returns at once, a backlog of longing and denial collapsing into this singular, obscene moment.

She arches her back, pressing her cunt against Alejandra’s palm, and the orgasm hits her with no warning. She cries out, voice muffled by the pillow, as her body seizes up. Then, to her horror, she feels a gush, more intense than anything she’s ever felt, a spray that soaks Alejandra’s hand and splatters onto the sheets.

Alejandra freezes, then laughs, a sound of pure, delighted disbelief. “Holy shit. You squirted!”

Kaleya’s face burns. “No I didn’t.”

“You did,” Alejandra insists, wriggling her wet hand in the air. “I’ve never seen you do that before.”

“I’ve never—” Kaleya begins, but Alejandra is already sliding down, mouth hovering a hair’s breadth above Kaleya’s pulsing cunt.

“Let me taste you,” Alejandra says. And then she’s licking, slow and luxuriant, drawing the flat of her tongue up and down until Kaleya’s hips jerk again, desperate for more. The mess is everywhere, sticky and hot, and Kaleya can smell herself, a heady sweetness that fills the air. She’s still spasming, still leaking, and Alejandra seems intent on wringing every last drop from her.

When Kaleya comes again, it’s quieter, just a slow, rolling wave that leaves her trembling and spent. She pushes at Alejandra’s head, half-heartedly, but Alejandra ignores the protest and keeps licking until every muscle in Kaleya’s body turns to jelly.

At last, Alejandra surfaces, her face slick with arousal and hair matted to her cheeks. “You’re amazing,” she says, eyes shining.

“I’m disgusting,” Kaleya says, but she can’t keep the smile out of her voice.

“You’re perfect,” Alejandra corrects, crawling back up the bed and collapsing on top of her. They’re both sticky, the sheets ruined, the room humming with the aftermath.

For a few minutes, they lie like that, the silence filled only by their ragged breathing and the muffled sound of a neighbor’s lawnmower starting up somewhere down the block. Kaleya feels Alejandra’s heartbeat slow against her chest, the sweat cooling between their bodies. She lets herself drift, the embarrassment now replaced by a warm pride.

Then she remembers her manners. “Your turn,” she says, and flips Alejandra onto her back in one smooth, practiced motion.

Alejandra lets out a surprised yelp, but her eyes are hungry. She reaches up and cups Kaleya’s face, kissing her with an urgency that says she’s been waiting for this all morning. Kaleya can taste herself on Alejandra’s lips, a slick, dark sweetness that makes her shiver.

She kisses her way down Alejandra’s body, pausing to nip at the hollow of her collarbone, the sharp ridge of her hipbone, the taut muscle above her pubic bone. Alejandra’s skin is warm, almost feverish, the subtle taste of salt and something darker beneath. She slips Alejandra’s sleep shorts down and buries her face between her thighs, tongue probing and searching. Alejandra’s cunt is already slick with anticipation, but not nearly as wet as Kaleya’s. The difference only makes her more determined.

She licks. She sucks. She flattens her tongue and drags it up and down until Alejandra’s hands are tangled in her hair, holding her in place. She brings two fingers up and works them in, curling them just so, the way Alejandra likes, and then matches the rhythm of her tongue to the thrust of her hand. Alejandra’s moans grow sharper, the tension in her thighs building. She spasms, thighs clamping tight around Kaleya’s head as she comes, hard and sudden, wetness pooling under her.

Kaleya keeps licking and works her fingers until Alejandra cries out again.  She finally slumps back against the pillows, completely spent. For a moment, Kaleya just watches her, sweaty, flushed, hair a wild mess, and feels a fierce happiness in her chest.

“See?” Alejandra says, breathless, when she can speak again. “Unstoppable fuckmachine.”

Kaleya laughs, and Alejandra reaches up and pulls her into a sticky, tangled hug. They lay there, bodies knotted together, sheets ruined, and morning sunlight creeping higher across the wall.

“It’s going to be a weird year,” Alejandra says, eyes bright.

Kaleya kisses her, slow and soft. “I hope so.”

*

Neither of them makes a move to get up until hunger forces the issue-real, undeniable hunger, not the lust masquerading as appetite that has left them tangled in the sheets for an extra hour. Kaleya swings her legs over the side of the bed, pausing to wince at the sticky aftermath on her thighs, and pads barefoot to the bathroom. She takes her time, savoring the small domestic rituals: toothbrush, cool splash of water, the scent of strawberry soap.

When she returns to the bedroom, Alejandra is sitting up, bedsheet draped across her waist, hair loose and wild.

“I love you, but you’re turning the mattress into a biological hazard,” Alejandra says, waggling an eyebrow.

“I’ll wash the sheets,” Kaleya promises, stooping to start gathering them into a bundle. “You get breakfast started. Muffins?”

“I’ll put the kettle on.” Alejandra snaps a salute, then springs off the bed and scoops up some discarded clothing in one fluid motion. She makes a show of slapping Kaleya’s ass on the way past, then disappears down the hall toward the kitchen. Kaleya grins.

The kitchen is painted a soft, robin’s egg blue, a compromise after months of debate and three different color swatches taped to the wall. The house itself is a sturdy old Massachusetts cape in North Cambridge, a fixer-upper they’d fallen in love with the first time they walked the creaky hardwood floors. On mornings like this, the sunlight floods in through the bay window, splashing across the battered farmhouse table where they eat most meals.

Kaleya finds Alejandra already busy at the counter, slicing the last of the banana-nut muffins they’d baked the night before. She wears nothing but a faded Amherst crewneck and a pair of boxers, legs bare, feet planted wide for balance as she works. The electric kettle begins to rumble, and she sets out two mismatched mugs; one with a faded unicorn, the other a “World’s Okayest Mom” gag from Kaleya’s sister.

“Good thing we made the full batch,” Alejandra says, popping a stray crumb into her mouth. “You’re eating for two now, after all.”

Kaleya rolls her eyes, stepping into the laundry alcove nearby, setting the sheets in the machine and starting a new cycle. She takes a seat at the table. “At this point, I think it’s more accurate to say I’m secreting for two.”

Alejandra snorts, loading the muffin halves into the toaster oven. “That’s the hottest thing you’ve ever said to me.” It’s a small, perfect moment, she thinks to herself, with the August sunlight, carbs, and the easy banter of people who’d been orbiting each other for years. The kettle chimes, and she pours them both strong black tea. When the muffins are done, she slathers them with butter, watching with satisfaction as it melts into the crumb.

They eat in companionable silence, save for the occasional moan of appreciation—Kaleya’s mostly sincere, Alejandra’s increasingly exaggerated until Kaleya has to swat her leg under the table to make her stop.

“So, what’s the plan today?” Alejandra asks, licking her fingers.

Kaleya considers. “I thought I’d read for a bit, then take a stab at next week’s reports. But mostly I want to sit in the sun and wear something that isn’t stained with my own fluids.”

Alejandra grins. “Very ambitious. I’m going to work on that pitcher set for the craft fair. Maybe swim, if it warms up enough.”

Their pool wasn’t much, just a ten-foot above-ground they’d installed last summer, wedged between the back fence and a wobbly birch tree. But it’s enough, and on weekends, it’s their favorite place to unwind.

“Swim sounds good,” Kaleya says, already picturing the weightless relief of floating in cool water. Her back aches more these days, a dull, persistent pressure just above her tailbone. “Maybe after lunch?”

“Deal.” Alejandra raises her mug in a toast. “To body fluids. May they never cease.”

Kaleya laughs, the sound joyful. She finishes her muffin and lets herself just sit for a while, watching the dust motes in a shaft of light, feeling the slow, pleasant hum of contentment radiate outward from her center.

After breakfast, they drift apart for a few hours; Alejandra to her basement workspace, where the sharp, earthy scent of clay is already creeping up the stairs, and Kaleya to the sunroom at the front of the house. She changes into a soft yellow dress, empire-waisted and just loose enough to flatter her new shape. She curls up on the couch with a paperback. The baby is the size of a peach this week, or so the app says, and her body is adjusting in ways that are both thrilling and faintly alarming.

Sometimes, in the quiet, she catches herself touching her belly, half expecting to feel something move. Not yet, she reminds herself. It’s too soon. But the anticipation is there just below her consciousness.

She reads, she dozes, she checks her phone, and then throws it across the cushions in disgust at the endless stream of news. By noon, the kitchen smells of garlic and herbs—Alejandra’s doing, surely—and Kaleya follows her nose to find lunch already in progress. There’s leftover eggplant parmesan, reheated with a mountain of salad on the side, and fresh basil from the pot on the windowsill.

“You spoil me,” Kaleya says, digging in.

“You’re my favorite science experiment,” Alejandra replied, eyes dancing. “How else am I supposed to see if you’ll develop superpowers?”

They eat and talk about nothing, everything, the kinds of conversations that only happen when you know someone will remember the small details months later. The food is good, and the company better. When the dishes are done, Alejandra turns to her with a sly, sidelong glance.

“So. Pool?”

Kaleya nods. “Give me five to change.”

They move together, the anticipation humming between them like a taut wire. Kaleya picks out her swimsuit, a pastel pink bikini one size up and still somehow too tight across the chest, and tugs it on, smoothing the fabric over her boobs. She examines herself in the bathroom mirror, unsure whether to be proud or shy about the faint curve in her belly just beginning to show. She chooses proud. For now.

When she meets Alejandra at the back door, her wife is already waiting. She has a towel slung over one shoulder, sunglasses perched on her head, and a grin that promises trouble.

“You look incredible,” Alejandra says, pulling her close for a lingering kiss. Then, without warning, she scoops Kaleya up bridal-style and carries her, shrieking and laughing, down the steps and out into the bright, blinding afternoon.

The water is shockingly cold against her skin, but after the initial gasp, Kaleya finds it glorious; a full-body reset, every nerve blinking awake beneath the bright summer sun. She swims a slow lap around the perimeter, arms slicing through the blue. She floats for a minute on her back, watching fluffy white cloud shapes drift lazily overhead.

Alejandra cannonballs in, sending a tsunami over the lip of the pool and nearly soaking the towels on the lawn chairs. She surfaces, eyes wild, and chases after Kaleya with a wolfish grin.

“Come here, fuckmachine,” Alejandra calls, paddling up behind her. She hooks an arm around Kaleya’s waist, hauling her in, and nips at the salt of her shoulder before pushing her away with mock ferocity.

They wrestle for a few minutes—Alejandra’s competitive streak is legendary, even in water—and then collapse, both panting, against the rubbery side of the pool. Alejandra tucks a wet lock of hair behind Kaleya’s ear and stares at her,. The intensity of her gaze hits Kaleya like a physical force.

“God, look at you,” Alejandra says, voice lower than before. “You’re fucking radiant.”

Kaleya blushes, water streaming off the sharp arch of her cheekbone. “You’re such a sap.”

“Yeah, but you love it.”

Kaleya nods; she does love it. She loves the way Alejandra’s hunger for her is never coy or calculated, but direct. Sometimes it’s almost overwhelming, like now, with the pressure of Alejandra’s thigh pinning hers to the pool wall. She catches Alejandra looking, not at her face, but at the way her bikini clings to her breasts, stretching taut across the new, swollen curves. She sees the way Alejandra’s eyes linger on her belly, then flicks up to meet her gaze, dark and hungry.

“Is this okay?” Alejandra asks, voice suddenly gentle. “You look—god, you look amazing, but I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“You’re not,” Kaleya says, honest and a little out of breath. “I like the way you look at me. I always have.”

That’s all the invitation Alejandra needs. She presses closer, the world narrowing to the cool pressure of the pool wall behind Kaleya’s back and the heat of Alejandra’s body against her front. Alejandra kisses her, open-mouthed and unhurried. One hand slides up to cup the side of Kaleya’s breast, thumb stroking lightly over the wet fabric. Their tongues move sweetly together, soft moans shared between them.

It's a different sensation than in bed; less urgency, more exploration. The resistance of the water slows everything down, making every touch deliberate. Kaleya finds herself focusing on tiny things: the taste of chlorine on Alejandra’s lips, the flutter of her own pulse in her ears, and the way her nipples have already gone pebble-hard, demanding attention.

Alejandra must have noticed, because her thumb keeps circling, applying just enough pressure over the fabric to make Kaleya whimper into her mouth. Then, with a mischievous look, Alejandra tugs the bikini top aside, exposing the nipple and rolling it between her fingers.

Kaleya gasps. The sensation is almost too much; her breasts had been sensitive before, but now every touch is multiplied, as if her body has traded all modesty for raw sensation. She arches into Alejandra’s hand, hungry for more, and Alejandra obliges, pinching and teasing until Kaleya feels her knees buckle.

“Fuck,” she whispers. “You’re going to kill me.”

“Not a bad way to go,” Alejandra says, then bent down and sucks the exposed nipple into her mouth, teeth grazing just enough to make Kaleya’s toes curl.

She thinks for a moment that’s the extent of it; some exhibitionist thrill, a flash of skin in the backyard before the neighbors come home. But then Alejandra’s other hand slides down, palm flat against Kaleya’s belly, then lower, finding the waistband of her bikini bottoms.

Alejandra’s touch is featherlight at first, tracing the seam, teasing the elastic. Kaleya bites her lip, her breath coming shallow. She presses her hips forward, an unspoken plea.

Alejandra slides her hand inside, underwater, two fingers searching and then finding the swollen, slippery heat of Kaleya’s cunt. Even submerged, the wetness is unmistakable. The thick, slick mess only seems to multiply with each pass of Alejandra’s fingers. She works slowly, using the palm of her hand to rub Kaleya’s clit while curling her fingers in gentle, rhythmic strokes. The water muffles everything except the wild hammering of Kaleya’s heart and the soft, desperate noises she can’t quite hold back. They kiss again, harder this time. Alejandra swallows Kaleya’s moans as she builds her up, then draws back just enough to watch her face.

“You’re close,” Alejandra says, a statement rather than a question.

“God, fuck yes,” Kaleya says, voice barely a whisper.

Alejandra presses her thumb to Kaleya’s clit, fingers pumping in a steady cadence, and Kaleya comes with a violence that surprises even her. Her whole body shakes, muscles contracting around Alejandra’s hand, and she might have screamed if Alejandra hadn’t kissed her at just that moment. She slumps against Alejandra, head resting on her shoulder, eyes closed.

“Holy shit,” Kaleya manages, after a minute. “That is—”

“Incredible?” Alejandra supplies.

“Yeah.”

They float like that for a while, letting the current nudge them gently around the pool, bodies entwined. A gentle breeze dries the tops of their shoulders as their legs drift lazily below the surface.

After a while, Alejandra tips her head back and laughs, a sharp, bright sound that rings out across the yard. “We’re going to have to wash these swimsuits twice.”

Kaleya smiles, the world reduced to summer heat and chlorine and the pulse of Alejandra’s heartbeat where their hands meet beneath the water.