please just burn them

You are leaned back into the cushions with Sandra draped against your chest, her legs spread so wide they hang over yours. Your hand has easy access and you use it—slow, idle strokes through her folds while you kiss, unhurried, building toward another round the way you have every evening this week. Her breath keeps catching against your mouth. Your other hand is in her hair. It is lazy and filthy and comfortable until your eyes snag on the shelf.

The pill pack is still sitting there.

You go still. Your fingers stop.

“Hey,” you say quietly, close to her ear. “Did you ever start those?”

Sandra follows your gaze. For a second she just stares at the little pack like she has never seen it before.

“…No,”
she says.
“I forgot. Completely. I—I was going to. Then I wasn’t. Then it just… left my head.”

Both of you fucked the reminder to actually start the pill out of eachother the last time this dilemma came up, but by now there is little doupt that she could, no should be pregnant.

You look at each other for a long time. Her fear is easy to read. So is your worry. Neither of you pretends the last week of raw sex did not happen.

You take your hand off her pussy and wrap both arms around her instead, a tight, inescapable bear hug. Sandra draws her legs in, making herself smaller against your chest, face tucked under your jaw.

“If I knocked you up,”
you say, voice low and even,
“I’ll take responsibility. Without question. I love you. I’m not leaving you for any reason. Not that. Not anything.”

Her breathing changes. The fear does not vanish, but it shifts—something bolder moving in underneath it.

She turns in your lap.

Her legs unfold and lock behind your back. Your cock, still hard from everything you were doing, is pressed up against her belly and the wet heat of her pussy. She puts her hands on your shoulders and makes herself look at you.

“I want you to,”
she says.

You blink.
“Sandra—”

“I want you to knock me up.”
The words come faster once they start.
“I would love to have kids with you.
I know that’s insane.
I know we just started actually being together.
I know I should have taken the pills and I didn’t, and I kept not taking them, and part of that was forgetting and part of it was me not wanting to.”

She swallows.

“The last few days I realised I can be honest with you. About the sex. About the love. About the stupid stuff in my head. So I’m saying it. I want your baby. I want you to get me pregnant. Not as a kink we laugh off later. As in I would be happy if it already happened.”

Your hands tighten on her waist.

“You’re sure,”
you say. Not quite a question.

“I’m scared,”
she answers.
“But I’m sure. I’ve been sure every time you came in me and I didn’t get up to go take one. I just didn’t have the courage to say it out loud.”

She rocks forward a fraction, enough that your cock slides against her.

“If you don’t want that, tell me now. I’ll deal with it. I’ll—we’ll figure it out. But I don’t want to keep pretending I was only being careless.”

The room is very quiet except for the two of you.

You hold her there, cock pressed against her belly, and try to make the thought land clean.

“We’ve spent so long around each other pretending we’re just friends. Like there was nothing else behind it.”
Your thumb traces the small of her back.
“I think we can skip ahead a bit already. We’ve waited long enough.”

Sandra searches your face. She is not unsure about you. She is unsure what skip ahead is supposed to mean in a sentence that started with forgotten pills and ended with her saying she wants your baby.

“Skip ahead how?”

You glance at the pack on the shelf, then back at her.

“So do you want to throw them away,”
you ask,
“or should we like… ceremonially burn them?”

That does it.

The smile you love—the real one, unguarded, the one that used to sneak out when she forgot to protect herself—breaks across her face. Whatever fear was left in her posture drops. She laughs once, short and bright, and uses the lock of her legs to lift that little height and drop.

She falls onto your cock in one wet, perfect slide, taking you to the hilt with a punched-out sound that is half moan and half relief. Her forehead knocks against yours. She stays there, full, smiling against your mouth.

“Burn them,”
she whispers.
“After. Don’t you dare get up yet.”

Then she starts to move.