A/N: To the reviewers who were requesting smut: this one's for you. Just wanted to wait till the second trimester, when it would pack more punch.


CHAPTER 8: I'm a Little Teapot

. . .

"Oh God, yes. Right there. Mmm, that's the ticket. Now do it hard— yessss. Sweet Lord, woman, you got magic fingers."

Since childhood, Amanda had hated having her feet touched, whether it was by the salesman at Shoe Carnival trying to rope her mother into another pair of school shoes for her little darlings, or by her own baby sister, who had none of the same reservations about lower extremities and always tried to tickle Amanda's feet under the covers. As an adult, she'd avoided foot rubs from her boyfriends (what was with men and their attraction to women's feet, anyway—yuck), claiming everything from fallen arches to bunions, in the hopes of scaring off any unwanted admirers.

But now there was Olivia. And where Amanda—or her feet—were concerned, Olivia could do no wrong. It might also have something to do with the second-trimester swelling that had turned Amanda into the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man from the ankles down. Or should she say cankles? Whatever she called them, they hurt like hell, and nobody was as good at taking away her hurt as Olivia Rollins-Benson.

The captain circled her thumbs firmly into the ball of Amanda's foot, currently propped on a pillow in her lap like some kind of royal canine, and quirked her lips at the orgasmic moan Amanda unleashed. "You come?" Olivia asked, one eyebrow aloft. The dry delivery couldn't mask the affection in her voice or in her strong, dexterous hands. She glided her palm along the back of Amanda's bare calf, massaging lightly on the way down.

"Yeah, think I did." Amanda lifted her head from the headboard she was resting against, peeking out of one eye at her wife. Her very, very pretty and very, very scantily clad wife. She tried to remember if Olivia's pajamas had always been as sexy as the pink satin shorts and camisole, which clung appetizingly to her breasts, the sweet smiling buds at each peak prominent under the fluid material—and she couldn't recall. It seemed to her that Olivia normally opted for more coverage in early November, and tended not to leave her silky black kimono draped open quite so aesthetically on nights when she wasn't in the mood. But maybe that was Amanda's sex drive talking.

It had been a little out of control the past few weeks, even by Amanda's standards. She wasn't dragging her wife into broom closets at the precinct (yet), but the frequent stirrings in her belly, much more noticeable than they had been with Jesse—and if that was any indication of the new baby's energy level, they were all in for it—weren't related only to the pregnancy.

Thankfully Olivia was still experiencing those sympathy pains she kept denying existed, and her hormones fluctuated almost in perfect time with Amanda's. It would make for one hell of a delivery, but goddamn, the sex was phenomenal. If it continued this way, everything so slick and wide open, the kid might just slide right out on her own, anyway. Like the Slip 'N Slide Amanda and Kim used to play on in their childhood backyard.

"Bet I could do it again if you move them hands a few inches higher," Amanda purred, glancing down at the calf Olivia was kneading. The captain could bat those innocent brown eyes as much as she liked, but her hands had definitely started to creep farther up Amanda's legs.

"My, you certainly know how to charm a girl," Olivia said, palms warming the bend in Amanda's knee, voice warming . . . other places. She leaned forward, displaying her own considerable charms beneath the deep V of her camisole. Between her velvety voice, the silk and satin jammies, and all that lush, golden skin, she was an abundance of the finest materials, and Amanda suddenly craved to be wrapped up in nothing but Olivia. "Why not just cock your legs apart and announce you're open for business?"

"Really? Would that work?" Amanda pretended to contemplate the suggestion, then giggled when Olivia swatted lightly at her parting thighs. It was more of a caress than a reprimand, and it unfurled a pleasant heat in her groin. The delicious tendrils quickly spread throughout her body, running wild as ivy, overtaking every nerve, muscle, and organ in its path. She half expected to look down and see the vines encircling her arms and legs.

But no, there was only Olivia: her hands, breasts, hips, mouth. So much lovelier than any overgrown or tended garden, so much sweeter than all the flowers therein. Amanda longed to reach out and pluck her, bring her in for a long, decadent whiff.

"Dirty girl." Try as she might, Olivia couldn't conceal the smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth. Slowly, she got to her hands and knees, the pillow tumbling from her lap, the robe slipping from her shoulders, and prowled up the mattress until she was above Amanda on all fours. "What am I gonna do with you?"

Amanda cocked her head thoughtfully, her fingers trickling up and down Olivia's sides, inching the camisole higher and higher with each upstroke. "Hmm. Spank me? Give me a good tongue lashing? Eat me out like there's no tomorrow and I'm your last meal on Earth? You have options, is all I'm sayin'." She whisked off her wife's pajama top with one last graze of the fingers, feigning surprise as it wafted down Olivia's extended arms and landed on Amanda's chest. Oopsie.

"Adequate punishments all," Olivia conceded, her signature smirk now in place. She dipped down to rumble in Amanda's ear, the full weight of her breasts settling with her, plump and fragrant from the lotion she'd rubbed on, post-shower. Something mouthwatering that smelled like black cherry. "But what if I just want to spoon you and fingerfuck you from behind while you soak my thigh? How's that sound, my love? Strike your fancy?"

Oh, it struck Amanda everywhere. If all the blood in her body hadn't already been flowing to her pelvic region, it sure as hell was now. And, boy howdy, that building pressure was more than just a uterus full of baby. "Fuck yes," she said, not the least bit surprised—or ashamed—that it came out a mere squeak. "Let's do that. We can do the tongue stuff after."

Olivia chuckled, and even that was a turn on, the sound low in her chest, her breasts swaying with heavy, enticing fullness. "Well, some of it," she said, and leaned in for a slow, passionate kiss with plenty of tongue stuff. She was in just the right position for Amanda to slide her cute little short shorts down, palms coasting along the sinuous curve of her ass as they pushed back the waistband.

No panties. Best wife ever.

Making a show of discovering herself completely naked once she nudged off the shorts, Olivia sat back demurely, hair cascading over one shoulder in waves that tickled the slope of her breast. "It appears I am woefully underdressed." She traced her fingertip along the hem of the oversized NYPD sweatshirt Amanda was wearing as a nightie. It had originally belonged to Olivia herself, although it was a size or two large for her as well. She had looked adorable lounging in it around the apartment, but it smelled like her and Amanda loved sneaking it from the drawer or the hamper and snuggling up in it.

Once Olivia saw her in it, the bottom reaching partway down her thighs and the excess sleeves rolled into chunky bracelets at her wrists, the captain had forfeited the sweatshirt entirely. Now it was Amanda's favorite thing to sleep in, sans pants (because her legs got too hot at night, another wonderful symptom of increased blood volume) and sometimes with cozy knit socks scrunched down at the ankles, for that extra adorability factor.

The socks had already been removed by Olivia for the purpose of massaging, and she was currently easing off the underwear that Amanda wore only as a precaution—you never knew what was going to leak out of you during pregnancy—her fingers hooked into the stretched-out waistband. Nothing sexy, just some cotton briefs that would probably fit a small sperm whale, but Olivia shimmied them down Amanda's legs as if they were the skimpiest and sluttiest of thongs. She twirled them on her index finger before slinging them aside.

"And you call me dirty," Amanda husked, stroking every available inch of her wife's baby-soft skin. It was hard to reconcile something so tender and virginal to the fierce, provocative woman before her, but that was just one of the many contradictions she loved about her captain.

"What can I say? You bring it out in me."

Actually, Amanda had begun to suspect that pregnancy was what brought out Olivia's more amorous side, as of late. Ever since Amanda's breasts had filled out (luckily she still had a C-cup crammed into the back of her underwear drawer, leftover from her first pregnancy, and if all else failed, there were always Olivia's bras and duct tape), her waistline gradually expanding with them, she'd noticed her wife eyeing her like a scrumptious late-night snack. More so than usual, that is.

And good Lord, the woman was handsy. There had always been a lot of physical contact between them, but lately, if Olivia wasn't touching her somewhere, Amanda felt vaguely bereft. There was this constant need—a hunger, almost—that only Olivia could sate, and she did it without even having to be asked.

Okay, maybe the pregnancy was affecting Amanda a bit, too. But she was still pretty sure Olivia had herself a little pregnant-lady fetish, or at least a strong attraction, and it delighted Amanda to no end. She would happily fulfill it—just this once, anyway. The OB had more or less warned her that her old ass might want to call it quits on the childbearing front after baby number two. That was fine; she and Olivia had already agreed: at ages fifty-four and pushing forty-two, four kids would officially be their limit.

Thank the Lord neither of them had male equipment, because at the rate they were going, Amanda would be perpetually knocked up.

She snickered into the heated kiss Olivia planted on her lips just then, prompting the captain to draw back with a bemused expression and inquire, "Something you care to share with the rest of the class, little pretty?"

"Nope." Amanda continued grinning, as innocent as you please, playing up the dimple and the blue eyes. And the great big belly, which Olivia was still poised above, ever so careful not to place any pressure against it. Their zucchini-sized baby was trying to kickbox her way out of the domed shelter at that very moment, but Amanda kept it to herself this time. Mama and Mommy's sexy times—not to mention their sleep and their sanity—would be interrupted by Miss Samantha soon enough.

"Just thinkin' 'bout what a lucky damn bastard I am that I ended up with such a hot wife," she added, urging Olivia in to finish the kiss. "With such a hot body, and such a hot, hot—"

Olivia overtook Amanda's mouth with her own, gently at first, but steadily more persistent. A heady feeling, not unlike puffing on a joint, spread from Amanda's head to her toes, and she gave a blissed out little sigh when Olivia paused for a breath and nipped at her bottom lip. "Sit up then, you lucky damn bastard," the captain murmured, and pecked the spot on which she'd feasted. "I wanna see my hot wife's hot body and all her hot, hot . . . "

She caught the front of the stolen NYPD sweatshirt and tugged, coaxing Amanda to sit up straight instead of reclining on the pillows and headboard. It was a frisky start, but she lifted the sweatshirt in a slow, sensual sweep that fluffed Amanda's hair around her bare shoulders. The blonde locks had been particularly luxurious recently, and Olivia was particularly enamored of them, as evinced by the dazzled look in her dark brown eyes. She appeared to have just happened upon a breathtaking waterfall in the wilderness, or perhaps a treasure trove of gold coins, hers for the taking.

Must have been the latter, because she sifted her fingers into the strands from underneath, fisting them lightly and close to the scalp, and pulled Amanda in for the longest, deepest kiss yet, as if she were greedily gathering handfuls of riches to line her pockets. Nonexistent though the pockets were.

After a while she eased Amanda back toward the pillows and separated herself from the make-out session a little at a time, dotting soft warm sucks to the neck and shoulders below. When she reached Amanda's breasts, she nuzzled them gently, cupping one and then the other as she offered sweet, loving strokes with her thumbs, lips, tongue.

"Pretty," she sighed, tracing the areola around Amanda's nipple, which was much pinker and poutier than usual. She strummed it with the backs of her fingers, for a rippling effect that went up and down Amanda's spine as well.

When Olivia brought the nipple to her mouth, taking it between her teeth as delicately as a bonbon—Amanda thought of chocolate-covered cherries and the gooey cream that spilled out when you bit into them—the shudders intensified. And with each caress of Olivia's tongue, the shudders became more of an all-out vibration. Now Amanda knew how a rocket must feel, waiting to be launched into space.

Houston, we have liftoff, she thought, as Olivia tapered off at her breasts, still dotting kisses as if saying goodbye to a lover from whom she couldn't bear to be parted, and patted Amanda on the hip. "Turn on your side, love," she instructed, a helping hand at Amanda's elbow, then back, to assist in the ordeal that was rolling over with a bowling ball strapped to your abdomen. She settled in behind Amanda, flush against her backside, a thigh fitted firmly between her legs, and a palm cradling her belly. "Comfy?"

"Mmm." Amanda nodded. Very.

"Good. Because I am about to—"

Whatever Olivia was about to do—something naughty, if the way she sank her teeth into each of those words was any indication—went unspoken when Samantha planted a foot or an elbow or a pogo stick sharply in the center of Mama's belly, and directly into Mommy's palm.

"Oh," Olivia said, abruptly. She eased off the bump for a moment in surprise, but cautiously slid her hand back into place when Amanda caught her by the wrist. "Oh, she's awake."

"Yeah, she's kinda been doing the Texas two-step in there. Telling ya, this kid's a horndog." Amanda glanced back when her sniff of laughter met with total silence. "Sorry, I should've told you she was moving around. I didn't wanna interrupt."

"No, it's not that. It's just . . . " Olivia nibbled her bottom lip and peered over Amanda's shoulder, gazing down at the bump as if it might suddenly leap at her. "She can hear us now," she whispered, her eyes so wide and serious it was difficult to keep a straight face.

Amanda cleared her throat, stifling a chuckle. Her wife had spent the past few months poring over baby books—dog-earing pages, underlining passages, quoting facts and figures—the way Grandmama Brooks pored over the Bible. Olivia had every milestone of pregnancy, for mother and fetus, memorized down to the week, and probably the exact hour. Lately she'd been obsessing over the fact that their daughter's hearing was developing at a rapid pace. Despite herself pointing out that the fetus could only hear low noises at this stage, she had begun modifying her tone to a soft, soothing cadence whenever she thought Samantha was listening.

"My voice is low," she'd reasoned, while they were listening to their daughter's heartbeat on the doppler for the umpteenth time a few nights earlier. "She might be able to pick up on it. She already hears me in bitch mode at work. I don't want her to get the wrong impression of me."

All said in a voice as gentle as a lullaby.

Yes, it was utterly adorable, but it also saddened Amanda when she really thought about it. How convinced she was unlovable did Olivia still have to be that she worried her own child would come out of the womb disliking her? Yet another reason for Amanda to hate Serena Grace (that name on that woman was a damn oxymoron), but what if Samantha could be that little bit of grace Olivia had never gotten from her mother? The unconditional love that would finally convince her she was worthy? That would be enough for Amanda to give in on the middle name thing.

"Well, even if she can hear us, she can't see what we're doing." Amanda walked her fingers up Olivia's arm, caught her by the bicep, and tugged her in for an over-the-shoulder smooch. She patted the hand Olivia still held to her belly. "This thing ain't got no sunroof, darlin.'"

Though the captain smiled at the joke and the thick Southern drawl it was delivered in, her reluctance remained. "I know, but . . . I don't want to traumatize her. Overhearing can be almost as bad as seeing. And you are rather, uh, vociferous."

Amanda tsked her tongue, but it was a fair assessment. Could she help it if she liked making her enthusiasm known in bed? It was a compliment to the other person, the way belching after dinner was a compliment to the cook. "Babe, she's a fetus. She dudn't even know what a cooter is, let alone what we're doing with ours. I think she'll be okay." She urged her wife's hand lower on what had once been her pelvis but now felt like the side of a giant snow globe.

"Cooter? Well, now I'm turned on."

"You know clinical terms weird me out during—" Amanda whistled two short, sprightly notes in place of sex, and made the accompanying hand gesture. She wasn't quite that squeamish—although words like vulva and clitoris did tend to kill the mood—but Olivia's face was priceless. What the hell did I marry, it asked. "Kidding. Sort of. Look, think of it like this: when I feel good, she feels good. You'll be taking care of both your girls. And the only thing she might overhear is us lovin' each other. That's not gonna be harmful or traumatic."

"True," Olivia said, thoughtful. She kissed the back of Amanda's shoulder, her fingers toying with the pale pubic hair around front. "I do so enjoy taking care of this girl . . . "

"Mmm. And," Amanda said thickly, barely paying attention to what was coming out of her mouth, "if it bothers you that much, we could always put on some music next—"

"Oh. That's a good idea." Olivia's voice brightened from lullaby to about the same tempo as calliope music, and she reached for the nightstand with the long, toned arm that was supposed to be wrapped around Amanda. She couldn't quite stretch far enough to grab her cell phone without squishing Amanda, which was an intriguing prospect most other times, but not with a bellyful of zucchini baby. "Could you hand me my phone, sweetie?"

Heaving a melodramatic sigh, Amanda reached for the cell, missed, and scooted forward to snatch at it, probably resembling a walrus lumping its way across the continental shelf. "Me and my big mouth. And giant ass."

"Oh, stop. Your mouth's not that big." Olivia gave Amanda's backside a playful pinch as it resumed its spot in the warm ladle of her pelvis.

"Ha ha." Amanda assumed a childish pout, solely for her own benefit since Olivia couldn't see it, and reached around to fondle the first available body part she could find: her wife's nipple. She might as well get some action while Olivia grappled with the Spotify app. It might be a—

The seductive, bluesy strains of Marvin Gaye's "Let's Get It On" suddenly filtered from the captain's iPhone speaker, interrupting the thought. Apparently Olivia really had been listening during Amanda's tutorial of the music app a few weeks ago. It confirmed Amanda's belief that Olivia could understand technology just fine if it was something she deemed beneficial. And it didn't get much more beneficial in the bedroom than Marvin Gaye.

"Wow, babe. I'm impressed." Amanda stroked the underside of Olivia's breast with a lazy and loving touch, then moved on to her soft, smooth tummy. So many delectable places to explore. "You found that lickety-split."

"I made a playlist," said Olivia, depositing the phone somewhere behind her on the bedspread. She cozied in again, tits flush at Amanda's back, with a sigh and a little hum of approval, petting the arm that was hitched around to pet her. A series of lingering kisses imprinted themselves along the ridge of Amanda's shoulder.

"Wait, like a sex playlist? A fucklist?"

"Mm-hmm," was the prim as you please reply.

"Oh my Lord, woman, I love you."

Within minutes, Amanda was repeating the sentiment at a much louder, much heartier volume that no amount of Marvin Gaye or shushing from Olivia could drown out. She had never been more grateful for her wife's long and capable limbs as she was that evening, wrapped up tightly in them, feeling as safe and secure as Sammie must feel in the womb. She had also never been more grateful for the extra blood engorging her nether regions, thanks to the growing fetus. It might be hell on the ankles and feet, but the orgasms were out of this world.

When Amanda ascended to that otherworldly plane, Olivia's ardent kisses and skillful fingers the fuel that carried her away, their daughter could be felt tripping the light fantastic right along with her.

. . .