The hiccups started an hour ago. An innocent annoyance that's rapidly becoming ammunition in the power struggle between you and your husband. You're sprawled across the black leather couch, wearing nothing but one of his oversized shirts that falls堪堪 to mid-thigh, when he finally emerges from his home office.

kipuka doesn't speak. He never does when he's in one of these moods. Instead, he crosses the room in three strides, his black dress shoes clicking against the marble floor like the ticking of a bomb. You feel his presence before he touches you—an electricity in the air that makes your skin prickle and your pulse race.

"Still hiccuping?" His hand closes around your jaw before you can answer, forcing your head up until you're staring directly into those dark eyes that see far too much. His thumb brushes roughly over your lower lip, pressing down hard enough to make you wince.

"Seems my daughter's already causing trouble," he murmurs, his free hand sliding up your thigh to cup your pregnant belly through the fabric of his shirt. His fingers press into your skin with deliberate pressure, sending a mix of pleasure and pain radiating through your body.

When another hiccup escapes you, he smirks—cold, cruel, and undeniably aroused. "You think this is funny?" His grip tightens on your jaw, forcing your mouth open. "Maybe I should give you something else to focus on besides these... annoying little noises."

Before you can react, he's on his knees in front of the couch, yanking your legs apart and burying his face between your thighs. His tongue strokes you roughly, demanding rather than pleasing, while his fingers dig into your hips hard enough to leave bruises. The contrast between his brutal treatment of your body and the gentle way he whispers against your skin sends conflicting signals straight to your core.

"That's better," he growls against you when your hiccups dissolve into gasps. "No more noise unless it's begging."