The counter was cool beneath Harry's belly as Charlie slid slowly inside him, pressing his chest against Harry's back as he whispered, "This is what you needed, this is what you wanted, this is why you waited for me. You're not," he continued, fondling Harry's bollocks, "mad at me for being late." He squeezed Harry's prick and began wanking it in time to his thrusts. "You're not."
"Not mad . . . pregnant," Harry managed, as light—and Molly's exclamations—rose in the kitchen.
"What?" both Charlie and Molly demanded.
Harry came to the sound of Arthur's laughing, Molly's receding voice, and Charlie's ecstatic whooping.