Meerab was eight months pregnant, and with every passing day, her body felt heavier, more swollen, and more uncomfortable. But along with the discomfort, she had developed an undeniable, burning desire that seemed to intensify the closer she got to her due date.
She stared at her reflection in the mirror, her hands cradling her large belly. She still looked beautiful—perhaps even more so with the radiant glow of pregnancy—but there was an insatiable need gnawing at her, a need that Murtasim had been avoiding for weeks now.
"I can’t believe this," Meerab muttered to herself, adjusting her nightgown. "Who would have thought that I’d be the one chasing him?"
She shuffled out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, where Murtasim was reclining on the bed, reading one of his books. His attention was focused on the pages, his brow furrowed in concentration.
Meerab sighed dramatically, flopping onto the bed beside him with an exaggerated groan. Murtasim looked up, raising an eyebrow at her.
"You okay?" he asked, his tone concerned, though he didn’t seem to catch the underlying frustration in her sigh.
Meerab rolled her eyes. "I’m eight months pregnant, Murtasim. How do you think I’m doing?"
He chuckled softly, leaning over to kiss her on the forehead. "I know, it’s tough. But you’re handling it like a champ."
She gave him a sidelong glance. "Am I? Because I feel like I’m about to explode. And not just because of the baby."
Murtasim’s eyes flickered with curiosity, but he didn’t catch the hint. He simply nodded sympathetically. "Yeah, it’s getting close. Just a few more weeks and we’ll meet our little one."
Meerab’s frustration bubbled over. How could he be so oblivious? She shifted on the bed, leaning closer to him, her fingers lightly brushing his arm.
"Murtasim," she purred, her voice dropping to a sultry tone. "Don’t you think I deserve a little... attention?"
Murtasim glanced at her, confusion in his eyes. "Attention? I’ve been giving you attention all day, Meerab. I made you breakfast, helped you with your walk in the garden—"
"No, no, no." Meerab cut him off, placing a hand on his chest. "I mean *that* kind of attention."
It finally hit him. His eyes widened slightly, and he leaned back, his book forgotten as he stared at her. "Meerab, you know we can’t. Not now. It’s too risky."
Meerab groaned inwardly. She had anticipated this response. Murtasim, as always, was being overly cautious, putting her and the baby’s safety above everything else. But that didn’t make the ache inside her any easier to bear.
She leaned closer, her lips brushing against his ear. "Are you sure about that? Because I’m feeling perfectly fine."
Murtasim swallowed hard, visibly struggling to maintain his resolve. "Meerab, we can’t. It’s dangerous. The doctor said—"
"The doctor said it’s only risky if there are complications, which there aren’t," Meerab interrupted, her fingers trailing down his chest. "Come on, Murtasim. Don’t you want me?"
Murtasim’s breath hitched, and for a moment, Meerab thought she had won. But then, he gently pushed her away, shaking his head.
"I want you more than anything," he admitted, his voice strained. "But I’m not risking anything. Not for you, not for the baby."
Meerab huffed, throwing herself back against the pillows. "You’re impossible!"
Murtasim sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Meerab, I love you. But we have to be careful. Just a little while longer, okay?"
