The cry left her before the seal of her teeth could close around it — a high, bitten, helpless sound of a woman whose nipple had been taken by the mouth of a man who knew exactly how sensitive it was right now and was using that knowledge with full, flat, deliberate intent.
Milk.
The warm, sweet, immediate release of it through the fabric — his mouth drawing on her, her body giving it up with the involuntary, hormonal, deeply physical generosity of a pregnant body that had been coaxed and was now flowing — the wet, soaked quality of the fabric between his lips and her skin, the warm rush of it that she felt not just on her breast but in her lower abdomen, in the deep, interior pull that connected nursing reflex to arousal in a humiliating, biological way that no one had warned her about.
"Raven—" Her voice broke. "It — it hurts, wait—"
His free hand came up.
It covered her mouth.
