Island Time, Interrupted

She noticed it on the fourth morning.

The calendar in her phone had been pinging for two days—soft, clinical reminders she kept swiping away because the island didn't run on clinical reminders. The island ran on olive oil and salt wind and Jason's hands on her body at hours that had nothing to do with clocks. But on the fourth morning, she stood in the stone shower with the ocean filling the window and her hand went to her stomach on its own, and the number sat in her head like a stone dropped into still water: eleven days.

She'd never been late. Not once in fifteen years. Her body was a clock she'd never had to wind—predictable, mechanical, boring in its reliability. And now it was eleven days late, and she was standing naked in a shower on a Greek island with a man she'd met through corporate espionage, and the water was running over her body and she was doing math she didn't want to do.

She pressed her forehead against the tile. Cool. Solid. Real in a way the thought in her head was not.

"Hey." His voice came from the doorway. She turned. He was leaning against the frame with a cup of coffee in his hand and nothing else—his body bare in the morning light, the muscles of his chest and stomach casting shadows, his cock soft against his thigh, and she looked at him and the math got worse. Or better. She couldn't tell.

"You look like you're solving a problem in there," he said.

"I am."

"Want help?"

She turned off the water. Didn't reach for a towel. Let him look at her—wet, dripping, the water running down her breasts and her stomach and her thighs, pooling on the stone floor around her feet. His eyes tracked the water and then came back to her face, and she saw the shift—the soft concern giving way to something darker, something that lived in the space between his ribs and his spine.

"Come here," she said.

He set the coffee on the counter and walked to her. She grabbed his wrist and pulled him into the shower, under the water she'd just turned off, and he didn't resist—just let her pull him in and then his back hit the tile and the water was cold and she was against him, her wet body pressed to his, her mouth on his collarbone, her hands on his hips.

"Leigh—"

"Shut up. I need you to fuck me right now."

He looked down at her. The water was warming now, running over both of them, and his cock was already hardening against her stomach—she could feel it thickening, pressing into her, and she rolled her hips against it without thinking, chasing the friction.

"What's wrong?" he said, and his voice was low and careful even as his hands came to her waist and gripped.

"Nothing's wrong. I'm late. I'm really late, actually, and I don't want to think about what that means right now. I want you to make me not think."

His hands tightened on her waist. His jaw shifted. Something moved through his eyes—not shock, not panic, but something heavy and electric that she couldn't name before he kissed her. His mouth was hot and the water was running between them and his cock was fully hard now, pressing against her belly, and she could feel her own body responding—the heat building between her legs, the ache that had become a constant presence since they'd arrived, the wetness that had nothing to do with the shower.

He lifted her. Her back hit the tile and her legs went around his waist and his cock was against her entrance, and she reached down and positioned him and he pushed inside her in one long stroke that made her gasp into his mouth.

"Is this what you need?" he said, against her lips, and his hips pulled back and snapped forward, driving him deep, and the sound her body made was obscene—wet, the water and her arousal mixing, the slap of skin on skin amplified by the stone walls.

"Yes. Harder."

He fucked her against the shower wall. Not gentle, not careful—hard, deliberate thrusts that rattled her teeth, each one shoving her up the tile and letting gravity pull her back down onto his cock. She gripped his shoulders and dug her nails in and he groaned and fucked her harder, his hands under her thighs, his fingers digging into her flesh, and she could feel the head of his dick hitting something deep inside her that made her vision go white at the edges.

"I've been thinking about this since yesterday," she said, and her voice was breathy and broken between thrusts. "Since you had me on the kitchen counter. Since you came inside me and then just—held me there—with your dick still in me—and I could feel you getting hard again—"

"I know." His rhythm shifted—slower, deeper, grinding his pelvis against her clit on each downstroke. "I felt you clench when I did it."

"Because I wanted it again. Because I always want it again. Because since we got here you've been inside me so many times I can feel you when you're not—" She broke off because he thrust particularly hard and her head hit the tile and she didn't care, the pain and the pleasure tangling into something that made her clench around him.

"Tell me about being late," he said, and his voice was rough and his hips didn't stop.

"Jason—"

"Tell me." He pulled almost all the way out, just the tip of his cock inside her, and held there. She tried to push down, to take him back, and his hands held her in place. "Tell me while I'm inside you."

"Eleven days. I've never been late. And we've been—every day, multiple times a day, and you keep coming inside me because I keep telling you to because I'm addicted to the feeling of it—"

He drove back in. Full force. She screamed—not a moan, not a gasp, an actual scream that echoed off the stone walls—and her body convulsed around him, the orgasm hitting without warning, triggered by the fullness and the words and the way his face looked when she said it.

He held her through it. His arms locked around her, his cock buried to the hilt, and she could feel him pulsing inside her but he didn't come—not yet—and when the contractions slowed he pulled out and turned her around and bent her over the built-in stone bench and spread her legs and pushed back in from behind.

The angle was different. Deeper. She could feel him in her stomach. The water was running over her back and down the crack of her ass and he was fucking her with long, slow strokes that made her feel every inch of him, and she was still sensitive from the orgasm and each thrust sent a jolt through her that was half pleasure, half overstimulation, and she loved both halves equally.

"You might be pregnant," he said. His hand came down on her ass—sharp, stinging—and she clenched around him. "Right now. With my child. Inside you."

"I know."

"Does that make you come harder or does it make you want me to stop?"

"Don't you fucking stop."

His hand came down again—same spot, harder—and the sting radiated through her and mixed with the pressure of his cock and she felt another orgasm building, lower this time, heavier, like a storm forming over water.

"It makes me want you to never stop," she said, and her voice was wrecked, barely recognizable. "It makes me want you to keep coming inside me until there's no question. Until it takes. Until I'm full of you and I can't tell where I end and you—"

He pulled out. She made a sound—raw, furious—and he pulled her up and turned her around and lifted her onto the bench and pushed her knees to her chest and entered her again, facing her this time, his eyes on hers, and his hand came to her throat. Not squeezing. Just resting. His thumb on her pulse point, feeling it hammer.

"Look at me," he said.

She looked. His face was wet from the shower and his eyes were dark and his jaw was clenched and he was fucking her with short, brutal thrusts that kept him fully inside her, just grinding, pressing, his pelvis mashing her clit with every movement.

"If you're pregnant," he said, "I'm not letting you leave this island."

"I wasn't planning to leave."

"I'm not letting you go back to the firm. I'm not letting you go back to the job. I'm not letting you—"

"The job is over, Jason. I told you. I chose—"

"I'm not letting you go." His hand tightened on her throat. Not choking—controlling. Tilting her chin up so she had no choice but to look at him. "You came here to take something from me. You're leaving with more than you expected."

She laughed. It came out strangled because his cock was still inside her and his hand was on her throat and her body was clenching around him involuntarily. "You're making a pun about pregnancy while you're inside me."

"I'm a multitasker."

She kissed him. Messy, uncoordinated, teeth clicking, water running into their mouths, and his rhythm broke—he started thrusting hard again, the grinding giving way to pounding, the bench shaking under them, and she wrapped her arms around his neck and held on and felt the orgasm building like something tectonic.

"Come with me," she said. "I want to feel it. I want to feel you come inside me again."

"Fuck, Leigh—"

"Do it. Fill me up. Make it count."

He came with a groan that sounded like it was pulled from the bottom of his lungs—his hips slamming forward, his cock buried so deep she could feel him in her throat, and the hot pulse of his release inside her triggered her own orgasm and she came so hard her vision went dark and her legs locked around his waist and her nails drew blood on his back and she said his name and it sounded like swearing.

They stayed like that. Water cooling around them. His cock softening inside her. His forehead on her shoulder. Her hands in his wet hair. The ocean visible through the window, flat and silver, indifferent to what had just happened on the stone bench.

"I need to get a test," she said.

"There's a pharmacy in the harbor. I'll go."

"You'll go to a Greek pharmacy and buy a pregnancy test."

"I'll go to a Greek pharmacy and buy five pregnancy tests. I'm an architect. I believe in redundant structural verification."

She laughed again. Wet, shaky, still impaled on him. "You're insane."

"You're late." He lifted his head. Looked at her. His eyes were soft now—the post-orgasm softness that made him look younger, less constructed. "Eleven days late, and you told me while I was inside you, and you came while telling me, and I came while listening, and if you think that's not the most intense thing that's ever happened to me, you don't know me at all."

"I know you," she said. "I know you better than I was hired to."

He pulled out of her. She felt his cum leaking out of her immediately—warm, slippery, running down her inner thigh and mixing with the shower water and swirling toward the drain, and she watched it go and felt nothing but a savage, irrational satisfaction.

He stepped out of the shower and grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her and kissed her forehead and said, "Stay here. Don't move. Don't think. I'll be twenty minutes."

He left. She heard the front door. The footsteps on the stone path. The sound fading into the wind.

She sat on the bench. The water was off. The air was warm. She put her hand on her stomach—flat, taut, disciplined—and pressed, and the thought that had been a stone in the water became something else. Something with a heartbeat she couldn't hear yet but could almost feel, like the vibration of a building through its foundation.

"Fuck," she said to the empty room.

Then she smiled.