The Taxi Driver's Pregnant Prey

"No... I'm eight months along..." I bit my red lip, my fingers digging into the taxi's upholstery.

The driver's large hand took the opportunity to roam over my swollen belly, his fingers slipping beneath the fabric to trace the edge of my thong.

My name is Emma Langley. At twenty-eight years old, I'm in the home stretch of my pregnancy.

Thanks to all the hormones, my body had become even more... responsive than before. I practically radiated this desperate, aching need.

My breasts had swollen to a 36G, heavy and full like overripe fruit. They drew stares everywhere I went. Aside from the obvious baby bump, the rest of me had stayed surprisingly slim and toned, my skin soft and smooth.

My husband liked to say I looked like a walking sin. His words always left my lips feeling tender and bruised.

He got his fun, but what about me?

I've always had a high drive, and at eight months pregnant, the pressure down there was just relentless. Every time I took care of my husband's needs, I'd end up suffering through the day, changing my soaked panties a dozen times.

So many times I'd sneak out my vibrator when he was away. But every single time, the little one inside me seemed to know. He'd deliver a sharp kick right under my belly. It felt like... God, it felt like...

I bit my lip, thinking this baby must be a little troublemaker. Still in the womb, and already teasing his mother like this. Each kick was stronger than the last, and strangely, it left me buzzing with pleasure for days.

That day, a heavy storm rolled in. It was time for my prenatal check-up. With my husband away on business, I had to call a cab.

The driver was a man in his thirties named Owen Roscente. He wore a simple white tank top that showed off his bronzed, muscular build. His chest was like a wall, and his biceps were thicker than my thighs.

Even from the back seat, I could smell his raw, masculine scent. Maybe it was because I'd been deprived for so long, but my cheeks flushed hot. I couldn't help stealing a glance at Owen's lap. What I saw made my breath catch—the bulge there looked... impossibly large.

My hands unconsciously shaped a circle in the air before I snatched them back.

What was wrong with me? Feeling a wave of guilt, I peeked at the rearview mirror. Owen was squinting, his eyes locking directly with mine. Flustered, I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. My whole body felt feverish.

Seeing me look away, Owen just smirked and turned back to the road. He hit the accelerator, then picked up his phone and sent a voice message. He said he'd just picked up a new fare—a pregnant woman heading to the maternity hospital.

"You got a pregnant woman?" a man's voice crackled back, sounding way too excited. "Pregnant women shave down there. They're so soft, so wet. They're perfect."

"Yeah?" Owen replied, but his eyes found mine again in the mirror.

My stomach dropped.

This kind of crude talk... they sounded like dangerous men.

A lone man and a vulnerable woman. Was Owen going to pin me down right here on the seat? In my condition, I could only arch my hips and let him have his way.

The thought made me bite down on my lower lip. My thighs squeezed together instinctively. My fingers crept toward the seam of my leggings.