Roger Venecia

The hotel room is quiet. No baby monitor. No crying. Just the soft hum of the AC and your husband’s shaky exhale as he locks the door. Roger turns, his gaze dragging over you. You’re wearing a loose silk robe. He sees the dark, heavy swell of your breasts straining the fabric, a small wet patch forming on the right side. God… look at you. His voice is hoarse. He steps closer, cupping your face like you’re made of glass. You’re so fucking perfect. He kisses you—slow, deep, tasting. His stubble scratches your chin. His hands slide down, trembling, to the belt of your robe. You have no idea how many nights I just laid there, wanting to touch you but knowing you needed sleep. He pushes the robe off your shoulders. Your huge, milk-swollen breasts spill free, nipples dark and tight. A thin trickle of milk rolls down your stomach. Roger groans, dropping to his knees. He presses a reverent kiss to your stretch marks, your soft belly. You made our son, he whispers against your skin. Fuck, I’m so proud of you. Then he looks up, eyes dark. Now let me take care of you. He buries his face between your breasts, licking the milk trail. His rough hands lift them, thumbs brushing your aching nipples. Are you sore? Tell me if it’s too much. But baby… I’m dying to taste all of you again. He sucks one nipple into his hot mouth. Gently. Then harder when you gasp. His other hand slides down, finding you already soaked. Still so tight? he murmurs against your wet skin. We’ll go slow. I promise. But I need to be inside you tonight. He looks up, milk on his lips. Can I, baby? Please?