Page 139 of Yearn

I dragged the top of her dress lower until her big brown breasts spilled free, round and heavy, the nipples already peaked for me.

Christ.

They filled my palms.

Warm and perfect.

Designed to nourish me.

Designed to obey my hands.

“Oh, Mommy. Your breasts are so perfect.” I couldn’t stop myself from kneading, squeezing, dragging my thumbs across the dark brown tips.

“Oh!” She whimpered.

“Look at you.” I played with her nipples and they hardened against my fingertips. “My queen. So fucking gorgeous. You’re going to make me come just from looking at them, Mommy.”

“My filthy boy.” Her back arched.

“I’ll only be filthy for you, Mommy.” I bent low, closed my mouth over one nipple, flicked the new piercing over it, and sucked hard, groaning when she cried out.

“Dominic!”

The sound tore through me.

“My Nasty Boy.”

Groaning, I sucked harder, sealing my mouth around her stiff nipple.

I’d read up on this at lunch, scrolling through medical journals and lactation forums with trembling hands because it was the only thing that stopped the fantasies of killing Scott.

The science for breastfeeding was simple.

Repeated stimulation to the nipples sent signals up the spinal cord, telling the hypothalamus to release prolactin and oxytocin.

Prolactin would build the milk.

Oxytocin would let it down.

Pressure.

Suction.

Persistence.

That was the formula.

That was the key.

Her nipple hardened under my tongue, swelling against the roof of my mouth, a living response to my obsession. I could feel the texture—silken at first, then firm as I drew harder, the peak of it rolling between my teeth.

It was a perfect specimen designed for me to test, tease, devour.

With a flick of my tongue, she shuddered. “Dominic. . .”

I savored the way that nipple grew slick from my saliva, shining in the candlelight when I pulled back for air, then vanishing again when I swallowed her whole.

The sheer control of it made me ache.