Isabella woke up to sunlight and the smell of coffee — and Owain's hand sliding up her bare thigh under the sheets.

— Morning, Isabella, — he murmured, his voice rough with sleep, his mouth finding her neck.

— Morning, Owain, — she sighed, stretching like a cat, her whole body deliciously sore from the night before. — What time is it?

— Breeding time, — he said, rolling on top of her.

She laughed — and then gasped, because he was already hard, already nudging at her entrance, and she was already wet for him. Three months of trying had turned them into animals — beautiful, lovesick animals.

— Owain — she breathed, wrapping her legs around him. — We did it three times last night —

— And we're gonna do it every morning this week, — he growled, pushing into her slow and deep. — Every fertile morning, Isabella. Owain's not leaving anything to chance.

He made love to her slow that morning — no rush, no frenzy, just deep, grinding strokes in the sunlight, his eyes locked on hers, his hand cradling her face.

— You're so beautiful, — he whispered. — So beautiful, taking me like this. My good girl.

— I love you, — she whispered back, her nails tracing his shoulders. — I love how you take care of me. I love how badly you want this.

— I want everything with you, — he said, his thrusts deepening, his breathing getting ragged. — A house full of babies. Gray hair. All of it.

She came quietly — a soft, rolling wave, her body tightening around him — and he followed her over, groaning into her neck, pulsing deep inside her.

— Stay, — he whispered afterward, holding her close, still buried in her. — Five more minutes. Let it work.

— I love this part, — she admitted, her cheek on his chest. — Just... us. Stuck together.

— Me too, Isabella, — he said, kissing the top of her head. — Me too.

They were late for everything that day. Neither of them cared.

The fertile window became their favorite week of the month. Every morning — slow and sweet. Every night — wild and desperate. He bred her in the shower, water streaming over them, her hands braced against the tile. He bred her on the couch, her legs over his shoulders, the TV forgotten. He bred her in the kitchen, bent over the counter, his hand over her mouth to muffle her screams.

— You're insatiable, — she gasped one night, laughing, as he carried her to bed for the third time that day.

— You're the one who begs for it, — he growled, throwing her onto the mattress. — Every single time, Isabella.

— Please, Owain, put your baby in me.

You love being bred.

— I do — she whispered, spreading her legs for him, honest and wanton. — I love it. I love being yours like this.

He took her hard that night — deep, possessive strokes, his fingers digging into her hips — and when she came, screaming into the pillow, he held himself buried to the hilt and emptied himself into her with a groan that sounded like a prayer.

— Mine, — he breathed against her skin. — All mine. And soon — ours.

She fell asleep in his arms, his hand spread protectively over her belly, both of them dreaming the same dream.

The shower was his idea — Wednesday morning, both of them half-awake, the hot water pounding down.

— Come here, — he said, pulling her under the spray, his hands already roaming — soap-slick over her breasts, her belly, between her thighs.

— Owain — she gasped, the water streaming over them both, his mouth on her neck. — We're gonna be late again —

— Let 'em wait, — he growled, turning her around, bending her forward — her hands braced against the cool tile, the hot water cascading down her back.

He pushed into her from behind — deep, sudden — and she cried out, the sound echoing off the shower walls.

— God, you feel good — he groaned, gripping her hips, driving into her. — So wet, so tight, Isabella. This pussy's gonna give me a son.

— Or a daughter — she gasped, pushing back against him.

— Either, — he said, his hand sliding around to rub her clit in tight, fast circles. — As long as it's ours. As long as it's made like this — with you screaming my name —

She came hard — her knees buckling, only his arm around her waist holding her up — and he buried himself deep and let go, his forehead pressed between her shoulder blades, groaning her name into the steam.

They stood like that under the water for a long time — him still inside her, the water washing over them — and she thought her heart might actually burst.

Thursday night, the kitchen. She was making dinner — or trying to — when his arms wrapped around her from behind.

— Smells good, — he murmured, nuzzling her neck. — But you smell better.

— Owain — she laughed, stirring the pot. — The pasta —

— Can wait, — he said, his hands sliding up under her dress — no panties, per his standing order during fertile week — his fingers finding her wet and ready.

— Oh — she gasped, the spoon clattering into the pot.

He turned her around, lifted her onto the counter — the pasta forgotten, the sauce simmering — and spread her legs wide.

— I've been thinking about this pussy all day, — he said, dropping to his knees right there on the kitchen tile, pulling her to the edge of the counter.

His mouth was on her before she could answer — licking, sucking, devouring — and she fisted her hands in his hair, moaning loud enough for the neighbors.

— Owain, please — she begged. — Please, I need you inside me —

He stood, freed himself, and drove into her — the counter rattling, her back against the cabinets — fast and hard and desperate, exactly what she needed.

— This is my favorite, — he panted, pounding into her. — You, all wet and needy in our kitchen. My wife. My girl. About to be the mother of my baby.

— Yes — she sobbed, her legs locked around him. — Yes, breed me, Owain, please —

They came together — her screaming, him roaring — and he held her on that counter afterward, both of them shaking, the pasta burned and neither of them caring at all.

— Worth it, — she whispered against his neck.

— Every time, — he said, carrying her to bed.

By Friday, they were exhausted — gloriously, happily exhausted. They lay in bed that night, too tired to move, his arm around her, her head on his chest.

— Fertile week's over, — she said softly.

— Mm, — he said, stroking her hair. — We gave it everything, Isabella.

— If it didn't work this time — she started.

— Then we try again next month, — he said simply, kissing her forehead. — And the month after. As many months as it takes. I'm not going anywhere.

She looked up at him — her husband, her Owain, her whole world — and her eyes filled with tears.

— I love you so much it scares me sometimes, — she whispered.

— Good, — he said, pulling her closer. — Love me scared. Love me forever.

She fell asleep to his heartbeat — steady, strong, hers — his hand resting on her belly like a promise.