Chapter 272: Chapter 272 – Checking the Milk Quality

The temperature of his palm at her face.

She put her hands on his thighs.

The automatic, steadying-herself quality of it — the grip not aroused-grip, the practical grip of a woman using available surfaces to come vertical. Her palms against the outside of his thighs, the pressure of pushing up.

He helped.

The other hand finding her arm — the crook of her elbow, the steady, upward guidance of someone matching her momentum. The careful quality of helping a pregnant woman rise from the floor — the attention to her center of gravity, to the forward weight of the belly, the adjustment.

She came up.

The slow, joint-by-joint, five-months-pregnant quality of rising from a kneeling position. Her knees straightening. Her back. The intake of breath as vertical returned and her lungs found the full, uncompressed volume of a standing body.

She stood.

The gasping quality of it — still. The continuous, recovering breath. Her mouth open. Her hands going to his chest as she found her balance — the automatic, landed quality of someone who needed a surface and found the nearest one.

She looked at him.

From standing.

The eye-level quality of it after all the kneeling — the strange, reorienting quality of a face seen straight-on after hours of looking at it from below.

’”Hah…”’

The exhale.

Not a word. The everything-still-loading quality of a person just returned to upright.

He didn’t wait for her to finish loading.

His hand at her back — the guiding, pressing quality of it. The gentle but entirely non-negotiating forward pressure that moved her from standing to the bed, one slow step at a time, his hand maintaining the steady direction until the backs of her knees found the mattress edge.

She sat.

The mattress receiving her. The full, sinking, relief quality of a body finding a soft surface after carpet and floor. Her thighs spreading slightly to accommodate the belly. Her hands going automatically to it — both palms flat at the sides, the perpetual, automatic containment gesture.

She breathed.

The slow, controlled breathing of someone taking inventory of all their current systems.

He stood above her.

His cock — still there. Still the fact of it, at this new angle, from this new relative position. Flushed. The evidence of everything they’d been doing written on the surface of him in the honest language of arousal that didn’t require interpretation.

She looked at it.

Then up at his face.

His eyes — already somewhere else. Moving.

Down.

The slow, specific downward travel of his gaze — not her face. Her chest. The soaked blouse with its two dark, continuous spots at her nipples. The full, heavy, pregnancy-and-production weight of her breasts beneath it.

His hand moved.

The unhurried, deliberate quality of it — finding the front of her blouse. The neckline. Not the buttons. The direct, I-don’t-need-the-buttons quality of his fingers finding the fabric at the dip of her cleavage and simply —

Pulling.

Down.

The fabric stretched. The resistant-then-giving quality of stretched cotton — pulling past the bra cup, the bra following the fabric’s direction, the strap pulling down over her shoulder. The full, heavy slide of her breast coming free — one breast, the left, falling forward out of the fabric. The weight of it. The milk-full heaviness of it as it found the open air, swinging gently with the momentum of its own release.

She felt the air.

The cool-on-warm quality of it — the hotel room air meeting skin that had been pressed and confined and hot.

She gasped.

Not loud. The small, involuntary intake of someone who had just had something unexpected happen to a sensitive area.

His hand.

It was already there.

The full, palm-closing, fingers-spreading cup of it — his hand around her breast before she had finished processing the exposure. The learned, possessive quality of a hand that had been here before and was returning with full topographical knowledge. His palm at the underside of the weight. His fingers closing around the full circumference.

He squeezed.

The long, slow, deliberate squeeze — not hard, the rolling, knowing quality of someone pressing a thing that was full of something and being aware of that fullness. The milk responding. The thin, immediate, pressure-triggered seep of it — the warmth of it through what remained of the fabric, the slow, continuous, pressure-responsive release of a body that had been producing since morning with no relief.

She felt it.

The relief of pressure. The strange, the-pressure-is-lessening quality of milk releasing under the squeeze of his hand. The sensation of it — not entirely not-aroused. The confusion of the sensation. The way it lived in the same nerve architecture as everything else his hands had ever done.

Her lip caught between her teeth.

Her hands tightened on her belly.

’”Don’t—”’ The word arrived. Unfinished. Not followed.

He looked at his hand.

At the breast in it. The dark, stiffened nipple — already erect, the cold-air plus everything-else combination producing it with the unambiguous commitment of a body that had received extensive education in what this particular man’s presence meant.

He looked at the nipple.

The attentive, idea-arriving quality of a gaze that was going somewhere.

’”Have you ever thought,”’ he said.

His thumb.

Finding the nipple — the slow, circling quality of his thumb pad against it, the dragging friction of skin against stiffened skin. Her body’s response arriving before she could curate it — the full-body, spine-level, involuntary quality of her back tightening.

’”…of getting nipple piercings?”’

She blinked.

The wrong-word, I-heard-what-you-said-and-I-need-a-moment quality of a blink.

’”What—”’

She heard her own voice.

The trembling quality of it — not from cold. The full-body-post-arousal-still-recovering quality of a voice in a body that had been through what hers had been through. The trembling that had been present since the hospital room floor. The deep, bone-level trembling of a structure that had been used beyond its rated load capacity.

’”Wr— wait, what are you— that’s—”’

He leaned.

No preamble.

The fast, committed lean — his face moving from standing above to mouth-level to her breast in one fluid, bird-striking quality of motion. His lips finding her nipple and then —

His teeth.

The direct, immediate, no-warning bite of it — not gentle, the sharp, deliberate clamp of incisors closing around the stiff nipple with the full, precise application of pressure.

’”AHHH—!!”’

Her cry.

Full-volume. Not managed. The involuntary, shocked, immediate cry of a body that had been bitten in a sensitive location without preview — her back arching off the bed, her hands flying from her belly to his head, gripping his hair, not-pushing, the instinctive grip of someone who has received sharp sensation and needs somewhere to put their hands.

The milk.

Immediate.

The sharp, triggered, full-release quality of it — not the slow seep of pressure. The bite triggering the let-down reflex, the milk releasing in the fast, thin-stream quality of it running directly into his mouth. The warmth of it. The intimate, nothing-in-the-world-like-this quality of human milk running over his tongue.

He drank.

The quiet, focused, attending quality of drinking something that was coming.

She felt him.

His mouth. The suction of it. The combined sensation of teeth and lips and tongue and the drawing quality of suction against a nipple that had been bitten and was now being consumed. The layered sensation of it — the pain that was not fully pain, the pleasure that was not fully pleasure, the third thing that was both and neither.

’”W— wait—”’

She was still gasping from the cry. The words arriving between breaths.

’”It hurts— it— wait, it—”’

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep