Epilogue 1 #2
"Why are you scared?" He held my waist in place, not rough, just immovable.
Heat seeped through his palm. "She's in the garden with the baby.
She isn't coming back that fast. You look like you're dying.
You really think you can fix it alone? If it gets worse and you run a fever, then what? The baby still needs to eat."
He wasn't wrong. I'd been at it forever, and it only got worse.
I hesitated, teeth digging into my lip, and his hand started moving with controlled pressure. It still hurt, but the tight, throbbing swell eased enough that I could breathe.
"Easy..." I grabbed his arm, nails almost digging into him.
"I am being careful." His voice came out dark and strained. His breath brushed my neck, too hot. "Six months, Willow. I've been losing my damn mind."
My face burned. I tried to push him away, but he held my waist.
The way he touched me started to shift. It stopped feeling purely clinical, stopped feeling like help and started feeling like him. Like us. My body, traitor that it was, softened before I could stop it.
"Artyom... don't," I breathed, trying to shove him, but my strength was gone.
"I didn't do anything wrong." He kissed the corner of my mouth, words muffled against my skin. "The doctor said the best way to relieve it is suction. The baby... or the husband."
He slid his fingers to the buttons of my pajama top.
I tried to stop him. I couldn't.
He worked them open one by one, and the cool air hit my skin. I shivered. His mouth followed, kisses trailing from my lips to my throat, then lower. I went limp like water, fingers knotting in his hair, my breaths turning short and uneven.
Then I heard Little Pudding cry outside.
Anna's voice followed, close enough to make my blood turn to ice.
I jolted and shoved at Artyom. "Get up. Now. She's back."
Artyom paused, then instead of moving away, he pulled me tighter. He grabbed the small blanket from the bed and wrapped it around me, then carried me straight toward the bathroom.
I almost yelped and slapped a hand over my mouth.
"What the hell are you doing?" I glared at him.
"Hide." He shut the bathroom door and locked it. Then he dipped his head and nipped my earlobe, his voice wrecked. "I'm not letting my mother see me leaving her daughter-in-law like this."
Outside the door, Anna soothed Little Pudding. Then she called for me. "Willow? You in there? He woke up. He needs to eat."
I tried to answer, but Artyom covered my mouth with his hand. With the other, he tugged my pajama pants down.
My eyes went wide.
He put a finger to his lips, then kissed me, swallowing every sound I tried to make.
"Don't make a noise," he murmured, almost amused. "If she hears, it'll be bad. I'll go out in a minute and tell her you are showering. I'll calm the baby first."
"You bastard," I tried to spit out, but my words broke apart as he pressed me back, and my body betrayed me all over again.
Steam fogged the mirror. The room filled with heat, the kind that made everything feel unreal and too close. I clung to his shoulders, riding the rhythm he set, helpless against the stubborn hunger he'd kept leashed for months.
From outside the door came Anna's soothing voice as she comforted the baby, along with Little Pudding's soft babbling. I was panicked and terrified, yet I couldn't control my body's reaction. All I could do was bite down on his shoulder to keep myself from making a sound.
Cool tile met my bare feet for half a second before he lifted me, set me on the edge of the vanity, and stepped between my thighs.
"Artyom—"
The rest of his name broke into a gasp when his mouth closed over the heavy, aching curve of my breast. He sucked hard, the pressure sharp and perfect after weeks of engorgement and careful, clinical pumps.
Milk let down in a sudden rush; he groaned against my skin, the sound low and almost pained, and drank like a man who had been starving for more than just this.
One hand braced my lower back so I wouldn't slip, the other kneaded the opposite breast, thumb rolling over the tight peak until another trickle of milk spilled and he chased it with his tongue.
My head fell back against the mirror. The glass was warm from the steam.
Every pull of his mouth sent sparks straight down between my legs.
I was already wet—embarrassingly, helplessly wet—and when his free hand slid lower and found me, two thick fingers pushed inside without warning.
I clenched around him on pure reflex. He cursed softly against my breast, the vibration traveling through me.
"Still so tight," he muttered, voice rough. "Six months, Willow. Six fucking months of watching you and not touching." His fingers curled, stroked, found the place that made my thighs shake. "You're soaking my hand already."
I tried to answer, but only a broken sound came out. His fingers worked deeper, slower, deliberate. He knew exactly how long it had been for both of us. He was not rushing the first time I came.
It hit me hard and fast, a sudden, rolling wave that made my hips jerk against his hand.
I bit down on my own wrist to keep quiet.
He watched my face the entire time, dark eyes half-lidded, mouth wet with my milk.
When the pulses slowed, he eased his fingers out, brought them to his lips, and tasted me without looking away.
Then he lifted me again.
The shower spray hit my shoulders as he carried me under the water. He set me on my feet only long enough to strip the rest of his own clothes. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed dark, the head already slick. He looked almost angry with how hard he was.
I reached for him on instinct. My fingers closed around the heavy length, and he hissed through his teeth, hips jerking once into my grip.
"Not yet," he said, voice strained. "I won't last if you touch me like that."
He turned me instead, pressed my palms flat against the tiled wall, and crowded in behind me.
The water poured over both of us. One of his hands slid around to cup my breast again, rolling the nipple between his fingers until milk beaded and washed away.
The other hand guided himself between my legs, the blunt head of his cock sliding through the wetness there, not entering yet—just rubbing, teasing, coating himself in me.
"Artyom, please—"
He pushed in.
The stretch was sudden and deep. Six months of emptiness and then the thick, relentless slide of him filling me completely.
A broken moan tore out of my throat; he clamped a hand over my mouth again, hips already moving in a slow, grinding thrust that seated him to the root.
I felt every inch. The pressure of him against the still-sensitive places inside me made my knees threaten to buckle.
He kept the first few thrusts measured, almost careful, but the careful part didn't last. His hand left my mouth so he could grip my hip hard enough to leave marks. The other stayed on my breast, squeezing in time with every deep stroke.
"Take it," he muttered against my ear. "You've been walking around this house in those thin little tops, leaking, smelling like milk and want, and I couldn't do a damn thing. Now you take every bit of it."
I could only nod, forehead pressed to the wet tile.