He was fucking her belly.
Not inside her — 'over' her. The specific obscenity of his cock sliding back and forth across the taut dome of her pregnancy, his hips working in short controlled thrusts that sent the belly jiggling with each forward press, her boobs swinging in the opposite direction from the motion, the dark nipples catching the shower water and flicking droplets with each swing.
He kissed her again in the middle of it.
Her mouth was already open — for the moans, for the protests, for the breathing that had become purely reactive — and his tongue pushed in immediately, finding hers, the French kiss resuming mid-thrust as his hips continued their work against her belly and his hand found her boob again.
Kneading.
