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The Secret Life of Cel Monroe 27 - 28
🕑 Added 2025-03-06 23:42:47 +0000 UTCChapter 27
I let out a breathy laugh, the kind that could melt butter or burn a man to the ground, depending on how I meant it. Right now? Scorching.
“Screw you, Chase.”
Still gripping my half-eaten slice, I gave a slow wiggle in his lap—just enough to remind him exactly where I was.
Exactly what was in his lap, pressing down against his huge boner.
“What the hell (pant) does me being in shape or outta shape have to do with anything?”
He went stiffer beneath me, hands back to my hips.
“And don’t act like this is about me,” I said, letting my head tip just enough so my lips brushed the edge of his jaw. “This is about you. You hate that I don’t need you to want me.” I smirked, letting my breath fan over his skin. “That I’ve got a whole audience for that now.”
His fingers dug in, and I let him stew, let him feel every inch of me, let him feel it all sink in.
And then, like a cherry on top, I shoved the rest of the pizza between my lips. “But (chew, chew) I bet you’re real curious (chew, chew) what they see, huh?”
Silence. Heavy.
Then—just barely—I felt it.
His chin, rough with stubble, brushing against the bare skin of my back just above the hem of my cami. His hands sliding over the protruding softness of my belly as it moved slightly with every slow, indulgent chew.
“What did you mean… eating on OnlyFans?” he asked.
“Eating. (chew, chew) Indulging. Just (chew) me… being me.”
“And people pay you for that?”
“Duh. Obviously. Because it’s me.”
I leaned forward, arching my back just so, just enough to make sure he really felt the weight of me.
“Didn’t you say something like that to me? Or was it Jordan?” A pause. A hum in the air, thick and electric. Maybe anticipation. Or maybe just me enjoying his touch a little too much, or him enjoying my ass too much. “Nothing hotter than a girl who’s not afraid to eat, right?”
“There’s nothing hotter than you period,” he said, “Doing anything.”
Oh, Chase.
I leaned back, shifting my hips sideways in his lap, letting my ass settle between his thighs as they spread to accommodate me, my toes stretching lazily toward the angled curve of the sectional.
He tilted his head toward mine, his hand catching my back—cradling me in his arms like he needed to keep me there, but wasn’t sure if he could.
Like he wasn’t sure if he could control himself.
I let the moment pulse between us, let my lips hover just a breath from his, my voice dropping to a whisper, soft, sultry.
“Sometimes,” I breathed, “I just want to be fed.”
“You want to be what?”
I took a puff from my vape, exhaled soft and sweet.
Then, fuck it—I gave it to him. “I want you to (huff) feed me Chase. I want you to feed me pizza.”
His eyes went wide.
Maybe confused? Surprised?
Then—dark.
Like I’d flipped a switch inside him, but what switch, I wasn’t sure.
Butterflies slammed through my stomach, heat flaring up my spine.
I wanted him.
I felt him wanting me.
But—what if I was wrong?
What if he thought this was too much?
The OnlyFans. The weight I’d gained. The way I laid it all out there, no shame, nothing held back.
Maybe I was too tipsy.
Maybe I’d ruined everything.
But then—
He moved.
One second, I was breathing. The next, I wasn’t.
Because his arms tightened—one at my back, the other at my knee—jerking me up against him, flush, tight, no space left between us and his mouth crashed onto mine.
And that kiss.
God. That kiss.
Okay, so he wasn’t feeding me.
But this?
This was okay for now.
Unleashed. Dominating. Taking.
Like he’d been holding back for too damn long—and now, he was done with that.
His right hand dug into my back, fingers splayed wide, gripping me like he owned me.
His left? Tore into my knee, pulling me tighter, holding me exactly where he wanted me.
Like I was his.
Like I’d always been his.
His kiss trailed lower, slow, and searing.
Down my soft, delicate jawline. To the curve of my neck, where my pulse fluttered, frantic, eager.
His stubble scraped, sending little sparks dancing over my skin, making me shiver, making me ache, making me want.
Then—he reached the top of my cami.
Where my cleavage swelled—taunting him, begging for his mouth.
My body arched, squirmed, pressed closer, needing more, needing him.
I sucked in a breath, gripped my vape tighter, teeth sinking into my bottom lip—because if I didn’t hold onto something, I might just melt right into him.
And then—he stopped.
Just—stopped.
Like he was grappling for control.
Like he was forcing himself to pause before he lost every ounce of it.
His forehead dropped to mine, breath uneven, thick with heat.
And when he spoke, his voice was pure gravel.
“Have you lost your damn mind?”
I let my lashes flutter, then reached my dangling arm towards my mouth and took another drag from my vape, and exhaled it right into his face, smiling.
“Maybe.”
His eyes narrowed. “You love food that much, huh?”
I shrugged. The motion made the thin strap of my cami slip from my shoulder, sliding down my arm.
“Maybe.”
His attention locked on my belly, the cami riding up, exposing inches of pudge. “To the point where you’re all soft and weak, exploding out of your jeans and pushing what—two-hundy?”
I took a pull from my vape and blew in his face again.
Guys are always so clueless when it comes to guessing a woman’s weight.
“Try like way more.”
“Goddamn, Cel,” he rumbled. “How much do you weigh?”
I tilted my head, let my lips part just so, let my gaze go soft. “Not telling.”
“You’re not?”
“Nope. You gotta subscribe to my OnlyFans if you want juicy details like that.”
“You’re drunk, aren’t you?”
I rolled my eyes. “Maybe.”
“You sure you want me to feed you more pizza? You sure you’re not freaking out about how fucking big and out of shape you’re getting?”
God. The way he scolded me, all rough and firm like that? It shouldn’t have turned me on. But it did.
Was I really that big? Bigger than he approved of? Did he think I was fat? Did he want to punish me for it?
I lifted my chin, voice dripping with defiance. “I told you. I love it. And so do you. And if you really think I’m that drunk, (pant) then why’d you kiss me?”
His eyes were watching the way my breasts swelled, how my belly curved, soft and delicious, plush rolls forming each time he tilted my back with that strong right hand. Watching the way my thighs stretched across his lap, filling him up, surrounding him, owning him.
He smirked. “More pizza’s just gonna make you gain even more weight, sweetheart.”
My vape hit the floor. Forgotten.
“Please, Chase,” I whispered, voice breathy, desperate. Begging. “Please feed me. Right now. Right now, Chase!”
He leaned forward on the sectional, my body moving with him, my ass squishing his abs and pelvis, like I was part of him. His right arm locked around me, keeping me where he wanted me. His left reached out, fingers quick, grabbing a slice from the box on the coffee table and in one fluid motion, he brought it to my lips.
I tilted my head, parted my lips and took a bite as quickly as I could.
And oh, God—pleasure curled through me, deep, consuming. From the food. From the way he was holding me, the way I was sinking into him. From the way his eyes never left me, watching me like I was the indulgence.
I chewed, slow at first, then faster, letting the melted cheese, the warm, soft crust fill me up and make me feel good. My fingers curled into his hoodie, needy, desperate, holding on like I’d fall apart without him.
I ate and chewed, still wanting, still aching for more.
I looked up at him, swallowing, eyes wide, lashes fluttering, voice a breathy whisper—sweet, sultry, demanding.
“Faster, (gasp) Chase.”
He shoved the slice into me, his eyes locked onto my mouth. The way I moved, the way I chewed, the way my lips wrapped around every bite—like I was made for this, made for being fed, made for him.
He fed me more. And more.
And more.
When I finished the whole slice, he quickly grabbed another, then another, his hand always ready, always near me, pressing slice after slice towards my lips, never letting me go without, never letting my mouth stay empty for more than a second.
Between bites, his lips moved over my belly—hot, possessive, hungry. His mouth tasted, trailed, kissed slow and deep, claiming every soft inch. And still, his fingers stayed close, gently brushing my lips, feeding me bite after delicious bite.
Damn.
He might just be better at this than Jordan.
“Unbutton (chew, chew) me,” I gasped, voice thick, mouth still full, still chewing.
He fed me the last of the slice, fingers grazing my lips, back to watching every chew, every swallow like it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
Then, his hand shot to my jeans, fingers rough, determined, digging around the waistband, sinking into my soft flesh, working fast, no hesitation.
Then—he got it undone.
And just like that, my belly spilled free—full, round, heavy—gorgeous. Like he’d unleashed something, set something loose, and fuck, the relief that hit me—I gasped, almost moaned, my body shivering with it.
It was hot, dizzying, a rush.
My zipper didn’t stand a chance, giving up, surrendering, peeling open all on its own.
His eyes were wide. “Aren’t you full yet?”
“(chew) Mmmhmm.” I swallowed, licked my lips. “But you’re not stopping until it’s all gone.” I opened my mouth for more.
He quickly leaned forward and grabbed another slice and pushed it between my lips.
“God, Celeste, since when did you turn into such a naughty girl?”
“(chew, chew)More!”
“You have gotten so goddamn curvy babe.”
“(chew)More!”
“Your belly’s so big and soft. But I can’t believe how big your boobs are now.”
“I know. (chew) Keep talking, (gasp) keep feeding.” I licked sauce from my lips, eyes locking onto his.
Another bite. Then another. Then another.
“What (chew, chew) do you like (chew) best, what part of me turns you (chew, chew) on the most?” I asked, words muffled, mouth still chewing.
“The look on your face when you know you’re turning me on.”
Another bite. Faster.
I moaned, squirming against him. “That’s (chew, chew) not an answer, (chew, chew) tell me! Tell me your (chew, gasp) favorite part of me.”
“Your ass.”
“Oh, (gasp, chew) Chase, yeah… I (chew, chew) knew that’s what you’d say.”
My belly expanded, stretched, filled, every inch of me soft, heavy, warm, alive.
My breath? Labored. Shaky.
My body? Helpless. Quivering. Completely his.
Surrendered.
And still—I wanted more.
I snatched the last of the slice from his fingers with my mouth, lips brushing his fingertips, tongue flicking against them.
But even as I chewed, even as I swallowed—it wasn’t enough.
I needed more.
More of him.
More of everything.
“Help (chew, chew) me up. Take me (chew) to the bedroom, Chasey Bear. And bring (chew) the pizza Hurry, Chase. Please! Hurry!”
His jaw flexed. His grip tightened.
“Don’t try to (huff) lift me. You don’t understand how (pant) heavy I am now.”
Like that was a challenge, he moved.
One arm slid under my knees, the other pressed firm into my back, and with a flex of muscle—he was up, and we were up.
I gasped. Squealed.
Heart racing, pounding, heat flashing through me.
Afraid I’d be too much. Afraid I’d gotten too big for him. Afraid he’d drop me, that I’d come crashing down, all 238 pounds of me.
Probably more after tonight.
Hell, probably more right now.
But I didn’t fall.
Didn’t even sway.
Because he had me.
Held me strong. Firm. Like I belonged there.
And just like that, I was floating.
Gliding through the air, away from the sectional, toward the bedroom, his right arm pressing into my back, fingertips grazing the curve of my breast.
My legs draped over his arm—heavy, full—but he held me tight.
Strong and protective.
Even as his breath came harder, even as his grip flexed, even as his body worked beneath mine, muscles straining, legs moving slower now.
Like carrying me took everything he had, but he wasn’t about to say a damn word about it.
At the door, I nudged it open with my toes. It swung wide.
He angled me careful, cradled me close, carried me through, making sure I didn’t bump the frame, like I was precious, something rare, something to be handled with care.
And then—the bed.
He sank down first, knees to the mattress, bringing me with him, lowering me gently, like he wanted me to feel every single second of being in his arms before he let me go.
The mattress dipping, my body melting into the sheets, spilling out, stretching, taking up space.
His chest heaved. His arms shook.
He stayed there, hovering, forehead to my shoulder, breathing me in, breath rough and deep.
Then he pulled back, sat up, hands braced on his thighs, chest still rising and falling like he’d just finished a full set in the gym.
“Damn, Cel… you really are getting heavy.”
“You better keep (pant) training, then.” I cooed. “And go get the pizza before I starve.”
His lips parted like he had more to say.
But I was already done talking.
He stripped off his hoodie, revealing thick, sculpted muscle stretching against his UW football t-shirt. He rolled his shoulders, shaking out the burn. Then he stalked off.
I used the moment to yank at my jeans, twisting, wriggling, trying to shove them down over my ass, my thighs—too tight, too much, too full.
When he came back, pizza box in hand, I was still fighting.
He saw. Rolled his eyes. Tossed the pizza onto the nightstand.
I abandoned my jeans, desperately grabbed a slice, took a huge bite, sauce smearing at the corner of my mouth.
“Help (chew) me get these off,” I gasped around my food.
No hesitation. No teasing.
Just big hands gripping my waistband, yanking them down, my body jiggling with every pull, every shift.
I moaned and ate, sinking into the bed, squirming, chewing, swallowing, desperate to keep the pleasure going.
His knuckles dragged over my thighs, my hips, sending a shiver up my spine.
Then—my jeans gave way.
Squeezing over the massive curve of my ass, my pussy arching towards his face, my body shifting to help—though let’s be real, he was doing all the work.
Then—his hands slid down my legs like he was unwrapping a gift he’d been waiting way too damn long to get his hands on.
Until—gone.
Jeans tossed aside, forgotten, never needed to see them again.
Then—fingers hooked into my thong.
And just like that—it was off too and I barely even noticed the struggle.
My focus?
Still on the pizza.
Still chewing, still swallowing, still savoring.
Every bite sinful, indulgent, perfect.
Then—his voice.
“Let’s get that top off too.”
I hardly looked up.
Just kept chewing, kept focusing, needing more.
He exhaled, shook his head, like I was a damn handful. Like I was impossible.
Then—low, firm, all command. "Stop eating for one second so I can get it off, Celeste."
I groaned and pouted, but forced myself to put the slice down, licking my fingers quickly.
Then, his hand was on me, wrapped around my wrist, pulling me up, my back lifting from the mattress, from the pillow, from the warmth of my own indulgence.
Not because I moved.
Because he moved me.
Like I was precious. Soft. Something to be adored.
I lifted my arms—heavy, lazy, pliant. Ready.
And he peeled my camisole off.
The fabric dragged over my belly, tight, scraping, teasing as it slid up, brushing my breasts, catching on peaked nipples, grazing my arms—
Then—gone.
And God. That felt good.
I sighed, arms dropping like dead weight at my sides.
Belly free. Boobs free.
The last bit of restriction—gone.
And I sunk straight back down.
Grabbed my pizza fast, desperate, took another bite.
And watched.
Watched him undo his belt.
Watched him shove his jeans down.
Watched his shirt hit the floor, revealing muscle on muscle, tight, cut, built just for me.
Then—he dove into bed beside me.
Mouth on my belly instantly.
Then higher.
On my breasts. Between them.
His stubble rubbed, rough against my buttery softness, the contrast making me shiver, making my body squirm, making me want more.
Then—lower.
I arched, gasped, moaned, still chewing, still taking in every bite, every lick, every flick of his tongue teasing my clit.
I squealed—between chews.
And he didn’t stop.
Neither did I.
I ate. And ate.
And he ate too.
Devouring me. Worshiping me.
His mouth on my pussy—hot, and relentless. Like I was his favorite taste, something he craved, something he needed.
His tongue—deep, firm, the gentle tug of his teeth, eating me like he like he couldn’t get enough.
His hands, splayed over my swollen belly, fingers gripping, gentle around my fullness, then shifting lower, under its curve, gripping again—jiggling.
Everything else moved with it.
My tits, heavy and aching, bounced from the motion, soft flesh quivering.
My hips, my thighs, all of me jiggling like jello under his hands, under his mouth, under him.
“You have gotten so fucking big Celeste.”
The way he said it—not just noticing, but scolding, teasing, feeling it, reveling in it.
I twitched and trembled and felt it everywhere.
And I kept eating.
Kept chewing.
Kept moaning.
Kept taking it all—until the pizza was almost gone, until my body was wrecked, stuffed, bloated, so full I could hardly move.
Quivering. Weak. A mess of satisfaction.
Then—I watched him.
Watched as he grabbed the condom, rolling it over his massive hardness, his hands steady, his breath rough, his eyes dark with need.
I watched, sprawled out, helpless, trembling, every inch of me ruined and ready.
And the second he was inside me—
I shoved the last of the pizza in my mouth and—
I climaxed.
Because nothing in the world had ever felt this good.
Chapter 28
“You feeling alright?”
That voice.
Then—a kiss.
Lips pressing into the curve of my neck, just long enough to make my skin prickle, my body stir.
I groaned, clutching a pillow, sinking deeper into the cool satin sheets, the fabric smooth against my bare skin.
The room was bright, flooded with golden morning light filtering through honeycomb blinds, painting everything in soft amber and creamy white.
I squeezed my eyes shut. Head pounding. Heartburn clawing its way up my throat.
Where was I? What day was it?
Then it hit me.
Chase.
Oh, Chase.
Last night.
Holy hell.
I blinked, brain swimming, foggy, body sluggish, wrecked from too much of everything.
My belly? Heavy. Stretched. Like I’d swallowed a damn bowling ball.
I cracked one eye open. Chase was sitting on the edge of my bed, fully dressed in his T-shirt and jeans, blonde hair a sexy mess, eyes locked on me. His hand ran over the huge, soft mound of my hip, only half-covered by my sheets.
His touch? Possessive. Reverent. Like he couldn’t believe he got to have me.
I squinted up at him. “What time is it?”
“Almost nine.”
I groaned. “Shit.”
Tried to move. Didn’t get far. Everything was slow, heavy, sinking deeper into the damn Tempur-Pedic.
“You need to go to work?”
“Hell no, I’m calling in sick.”
“You need something?”
I swallowed, throat dry, voice scratchy. “I need water.”
Chase was already moving, no hesitation, just quiet, steady care. Gone. Then back. Cold bottle in his hand, cap twisted off, pressed into my palm.
I propped myself up on my elbow, drank fast—too fast—and immediately regretted it. My stomach churned and stretched further as I shifted.
Chase caught it immediately.
"You good?"
I handed the water back, sank into the bed with a moan. "Yeah, (burp) I think so, I just..." I sighed, voice muffled into the pillow. “I need to go pee but I don’t want to get up.”
Chase didn’t wait for me to struggle. Didn’t let me fight my way up on my own.
He moved, hands strong, knowing exactly what to do. One arm slid behind my back, the other gripping the soft, full curve of my knees. Then—a couple firm, powerful pulls, and I was sliding forward, belly pressing heavy, body shifting warm and soft, sinking deep into his hold, suddenly feeling like a giant tub of lard.
My legs swung over the side of the mattress, feet hitting the floor with a soft, heavy thump.
I let out a long exhale, bare breasts heaving, hands bracing against the bed, body still sluggish, still adjusting.
Then—he helped me to my feet.
I wobbled, settling, pressing into him. Softness meeting strength, my body molding into his, one hand in mine, his other sliding down, cupping my ass.
Then—he let go.
And I waddled to the bathroom, naked, half-asleep, still too full to function.
I left the door cracked, settled down and went pee. Wiped, flushed, sighed.
Then braced my hands on my thighs, rocked forward, tried to stand.
God. So heavy. Like my body wasn’t ready to move, like gravity had a stronger hold on me than usual. I pushed through it, straightened up slow, sluggish, feeling every extra bit of myself.
I washed my hands, splashed a little water on my face. Mascara smudged, eyeliner blurred. Eyes swollen, cheeks puffy from last night.
With a sigh, I pressed both hands to the counter, leaned forward, and—oh.
My tummy…
Soft, heavy, spilling onto the cool marble, my belly flopped down while the counter pushed up, pressing deep into the plush crease below.
Relief.
Feet, knees, back—finally, all that weight off me, resting somewhere else.
Oh God.
When the hell had I gotten big enough for this?
I shifted, adjusting, soft flesh oozing toward the sink.
And right there, nestled deep, hidden, swallowed up in all that plush?
My belly button. So deep.
I traced a finger over it, amused, a little amazed. Kinda cute, actually.
But honestly my tummy was getting to be… a lot.
And so were the stretch marks.
Climbing higher, spreading wider, whispering stories my body hadn’t told before. Some faint, silvery. Others pink, fresh, shifting with me.
I ran my fingers over them, tracing the paths they carved. My skin still silky—lotion, oils, self-care. Keeping me soft, smooth, even as I grew.
Maybe I needed more. Before those marks got louder.
I yawned, belly shifting heavy against the counter, pressing deeper, wobbling with the motion, and—damn. It really was just there, wasn’t it?
With a slow stretch and a lazy jiggle, I padded back to bed and flopped, face-first, into the sheets, not quite ready to let go of sleep.
Chase was sitting on the edge of the bed and I felt the touch of his hand on my ass, then his lips.
“Goddamn,” he muttered, voice husky.
I turned my head, cheek smushed into the pillow. “What?”
He gave my ass a few more kisses then a few gentle pats. “You’re just…” He exhaled and stalled like he couldn’t find the words. “So. Fucking. Beautiful.”
“Not my most eloquent morning, Chase.”
“You’re just…” He exhaled again, hands tightening just a little. “You’re everything.”
"I need my vape. I think it’s somewhere by the couch."
There was a pause. “There’s one right here.” The bed shifted as he got up. Heard him move. “There’s some on your vanity thingy too. Cel there’s like six vapes in here.”
“They’re all empty.” I lifted a lazy hand, waved it vaguely in the air as I peaked towards him. “And that one’s a THC vape.” I let out a quick yawn. “Actually, bring that one to me. But then hurry up and find the other one.”
“What, are you waking and baking now?”
“No. I just need it for my tummy. I’m still so full, and I have heartburn, so don’t give me any shit right now.”
Another pause. Then, no argument, no smart remark. Just a few steps forward and warm fingers pressing it into my hand.
I propped myself up, took a hit—then coughed, my whole body jiggling with it as I watched Chase walk out the door and towards the living room.
He came back moments later, holding my crimson nicotine vape. “It was on the floor. You want me to—”
I lurched forward, heavy, slow, gut pressing into my thighs, arm stretching, fingers snatching it from his hand before he could finish. Brought it straight to my lips, took a pull—
A hot burn, a bitter taste, then, nothing.
I sucked again, harder, more desperate.
Still nothing.
“Shit.”
Chase looked down at me. “What, is it dead?”
I groaned, went limp against the mattress. Full-body dramatic. “I need you to run down to 7-Eleven.”
“Babe, I don’t have a ton of time.”
I peeked up at him through my lashes, brows pulling tight. Stubborn. “Chase.”
“Fine. What’s that stupid little thing called?”
“Elf Bar. Get me the cherry or the snow grape, either one, I don’t care.”
“Snow grape?”
“Yeah,” I winced, looking down. My stomach squeezed, churned, rolled. Hesitated, pressing my hand just below my breasts, fingers sinking into soft, plush skin. Another rumble. Louder.
My eyes shot back up to him, pleading.
“Um… also, can you get me some cigarettes?”
His head jerked back. “What?”
I licked my lips, tried to look innocent. “I just really feel like I want a cigarette right now.”
“You don’t smoke.”
“Yeah, I know. I just want a pack. I’m not ready to stop indulging.”
“Cel—”
“I read somewhere it helps with digestion,” I said, placing a hand on my bloated stomach. “And I feel like absolute ass right now.”
He exhaled, slow. Through his nose.
I pushed my luck.
“Also, swing by Caffe Ladro and get me a large iced mocha.”
His brow shot up.
“And something sweet,” I added quickly. “A brownie. A croissant. Or both. Whatever looks good. Please. I’m dying right now.”
Chase stared at me. “What about your espresso machine?”
I gave him the look. Rolled my eyes. “You don’t have a ton of time, remember?”
“You’re too much sometimes.”
I smirked, slow, sweet, smug. “And yet you always want more.”
He sighed like he was carrying the weight of the world—or just the weight of dealing with me. Ran a hand through his already-messy hair, jaw tight, eyes sharp. Too sharp for this early in the morning.
“You’re lucky you’re so goddamn stunning.”
He leaned down, going for a kiss, but I put a hand to his chest, pushing lightly. “Just go, hurry, Chase.”
Another sigh, big, annoyed, and so damn put upon. But he backed up, still watching me, still devouring me, even as he turned—
And—thunk.
He smacked his head right into the bedroom doorframe.
I snorted, loud, unladylike, unapologetic.
“Fuck,” he muttered, rubbing the spot, shooting me a glare. Then he was gone, grabbing my keys, and out the door.
I groaned, limbs heavy, the sheets slipping down my body as I rolled onto my side. Reaching for my phone on the nightstand, I unlocked it, checked work, shot off a quick check-in aka told them I’m sick, then saw it.
Shit.
Texts from last night. From this morning.
JORDAN: How you doing, princess? What u up to?
JORDAN: You want me to come tomorrow night?
JORDAN: Morning, beautiful. I miss you.
My stomach twisted, a slow, tight ache settling low, deep, heavy.
Why was I always so damn impulsive? So quick to chase pleasure, (no pun intended) let it wrap around me, drown in it, gorge on it, only to shiver when it was gone?
I’d been clear—no commitment, just fun. A little romance, a taste of indulgence, but no promises.
But when a man wants more—when he loves you anyway, despite the warnings, despite the escape routes—it changes things.
How could I be so open, so damn shameless with what I wanted—letting them touch me, feed me, worship me— but the second love slipped in, I felt caged?
Why did being adored always feel like silk wrapped too tight?
And yet, Chase… last night.
The way he fed me.
Not like Jordan.
Jordan was easy. Playful. Safe. Gave without asking. Made it light, made it sweet. Let me be untethered, untouched by consequence.
But Chase dominated.
He commanded.
And I wanted it again.
But Jordan’s words sat there, waiting, patient.
And guilt—stupid, pointless guilt—wrapped tight, whispering things I didn’t want to hear.
Jordan was a good guy.
But Chase made me burn.
Neither of them knew that while Jordan was texting, missing me, wanting something steady, something sure, I was still stuffed, stretched, full from Chase.
And that terrified me, and turned me on, at the same time. But it wasn’t just about them finding out. It was about choosing.
Or worse—
What if I already had?
I exhaled, stretched deeper into the mattress, stomach tight, legs heavy, brain spinning.
Maybe I just needed my vape.
Before I could spiral too deep, the front door swung open, heavy boots stomping against the hardwood.
Thank God.
Chase walked in, jaw tight, shoulders squared, iced mocha in one hand, a 7-Eleven bag and a Caffe Ladro bag in the other.
“Finally,” I groaned, dropping my phone, shooting forward, fast, heavy, desperate.
I grabbed the bags from him, tore into them among my sheets and comforter, ripped open the vape box, flipped the switch to pulse, brought it to my lips, took a long, deep pull, and exhaled.
Chase set my mocha on the nightstand. “Goddamn, you really are addicted to that fucking thing.”
I rolled my eyes, already reaching for the coffee. “Would you stop it already? This is how I wake up.”
He sat on the edge of the bed, watching me like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to scold me or kiss me. “Got Marb Red 100s. You’re gonna hate em. Hopefully never ask me to buy that shit again.”
I pulled the cigarette pack from the bag, flipped it over in my hands. “You’re an ass.”
He smirked, didn’t deny it.
I took a long sip of my mocha, letting the cold, creamy sweetness settle, then grabbed a brownie. Big bite. Immediate relief.
I licked my lips, slow. Chase’s jaw ticked, his body went still. And just like that, the air between us shifted.
He reached over, took the other half of the brownie from my hand, held it up to my lips. Daring me.
I opened my mouth, let him press it onto my tongue. Soft, dense, rich, melting against the heat of his fingertips. I chewed, swallowed, lips parting just slightly, and his eyes never left my mouth.
“You done acting like a brat now?” His voice was low, teasing, but firm.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
His smirk deepened. Fingers trailed down, grazing my jaw, thumb brushing my bottom lip. “Yeah. Didn’t think so.”
A shiver.
He exhaled, standing up, still looking at me like he wasn’t quite ready to leave.
“I gotta go.”
I let my lips curl into a slow, lazy smile. “Okay, Chase…”
He leaned down, kissed me. Slow. Deep. A this-isn’t-over kind of kiss.
Then, finally, he was gone.
I stretched out in bed, ate, scrolled, let the morning settle, then peeled myself up.
Slipping into black panties, I wandered to my walk-in closet, cinching my champagne-colored silk robe around me.
It still fit. But just barely.
The silk clung. Pulled, stretched, hugged every inch.
It made me nervous.
It made me hot.
I fumbled through my vanity, found my lighter, steadied myself.
Then grabbed my mocha and the cigarette pack and wiggled out onto my little balcony.
The sun hit me immediately.
Warm. Golden. Thick like honey, melting into my skin.
I sank into my patio chair, legs stretched, my belly settling between my thighs, pressing, soft and full.
I unwrapped the pack, felt the weight of it. Like it meant something. Like it was a choice.
Tapped it lightly against the table. That’s what people do, right? Pack them or something?
I opened it. Slid one out and lit it.
Took a slow, tentative drag—
Jesus.
My lungs burned, my stomach twisted, my body reacting before my mind could catch up.
I coughed, shivered, licked my lips.
Then did it again. Slower this time. Let the smoke curl, swirl, dance with the warm morning air.
Took a sip of my iced mocha, inhaled, exhaled, watched the city move below me.
And then—
Oh.
A deep rumble.
Low. Sudden. Unmistakable.
I froze, pressed my thighs together, shifted, the chair creaking beneath me.
Another gurgle.
This one louder. Sharper.
Well.
Didn’t think it would work this fast.
I pressed a hand to my belly, felt it tighten, shift, prepare.
Another rumble. Urgent. Unforgiving.
Shit.
I shoved the cigarette into the plastic mocha cup, pushed up from the chair—
Too slow.
My body was too full, too heavy, moving too sluggishly for the kind of urgency I was feeling.
Sucked in a breath, held everything in, waddled, hurried, moved as fast as my bloated stomach would let me.
Thank fucking God Chase was already gone.
The Secret Life of Cel Monroe
by Jolene Dubois (2025)
