Chapter 5: The Morning Feeding
The silence after the car door faded was a living thing. It stretched, thrumming with the echo of their heartbeats and the ghost of his words. Just the beginning. Megumi lay motionless in the circle of his arms, her skin cooling against his where the sweat had dried. He could feel the slight tremor in her limbs, a fine vibration like a plucked string.
He didn’t loosen his hold. If anything, he tightened it, his forearm a firm band across her ribs, his face buried in the wild dark tangle of her hair. He breathed her in. Sex. Lavender. Her.
Slowly, the world outside the bed began to reassert itself. A bird called. The golden light through the curtains shifted, deepening to a molten orange. He felt her consciousness return, the moment her breathing hitched, the subtle stiffening of her spine against his chest. The reckoning.
She didn’t pull away. She simply lay there, letting the reality of what they’d done, what she’d said, settle over them both like ash.
When she finally spoke, her voice was ravaged, barely a whisper. “Satoru.”
“Don’t,” he murmured into her hair. His own voice was rough, used. “Don’t take it back. You can’t.”
“I have to.” But there was no force behind it. It was a reflex, the last automatic protest of a mind that knew the rules but had forgotten how to follow them.
He shifted then, turning her in his arms until she was on her back and he was looming over her, his weight braced on his elbows. He looked down at her face—the flushed cheeks, the swollen lips, the green eyes clouded with a storm of shame and a dark, undeniable want. He saw it. He knew he did.
“Why?” he asked, the word simple and devastating.
Tears escaped the corners of her eyes, tracing slow paths into her hairline. “Because I’m supposed to be… I was supposed to keep you safe. From everything. Especially from this. Especially from me.”
“You think this isn’t safe?” He lowered his head, brushed his lips against the damp trail on her temple. “Where else in this entire goddamn world could I possibly be safer than right here? Inside you?”
She made a sound, a half-sob, and turned her face away. He let her. His gaze traveled down her body, over the sharp line of her collarbone, the gentle swell of her small breasts, the flat plane of her stomach marked faintly with the memory of his grip. The sight of her, laid bare and marked by him, sent a fresh, possessive heat straight to his groin. His cock, spent just minutes before, began to stir again against her thigh, thick and insistent.
Her eyes snapped back to his, feeling the change. A flicker of something like awe crossed her face. “Again? Already?”
“It’s always been like this for me,” he said, his voice dropping to a low confession. “Every day. Since I was fifteen. Waking up hard, going to bed aching. All of it for you. Thinking about you in the shower. Watching you move around the kitchen. A fucking glimpse of your neck was enough. You have no idea.”
He watched the confession land, saw it strip another layer of pretense from her. Her hand came up, not to push him away, but to touch his face. Her fingers traced the line of his jaw, a gesture so familiar, so maternal, it made his heart clench and his cock throb in conflicting agony.
“My boy,” she whispered, and the words were a curse and a caress.
“Not a boy,” he growled, but he nuzzled into her palm, turning his head to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to its center. He moved then, shifting down her body. He urged her legs apart and settled between them, but he didn’t position himself to enter her. Not yet.
Instead, he lowered his head to her chest.
He pressed his face against the soft, pale skin between her breasts, inhaling deeply. Then his mouth found her left nipple. It was a small, pale pink bud, soft in its un-aroused state. He took it gently between his lips, suckling softly, his tongue lapping at the tip. He felt it tighten, pebble into a hard, sensitive peak against his tongue. A sharp gasp hissed from above him. He suckled harder, drawing more of her into his mouth, his tongue flicking relentlessly.
His hand came up to cup her other breast, his thumb circling the nipple there, mirroring the work of his mouth. He kneaded the firm, modest weight of it, learning its shape, committing its feel to a memory already overflowing with her.
“Used to think,” he mumbled against her skin, his voice thick and distorted, “when I was a stupid kid, that I liked big tits. Porn, magazines… all that shit.” He switched his attention to her right breast, lavishing it with the same hungry devotion, nipping lightly at the hardened tip before soothing the sting with broad, wet strokes of his tongue. She arched beneath him, a silent plea.
He released her breast with a soft, wet pop and looked up, his blue eyes blazing. “But these. Fuck, Megumi. These are perfect. Just enough to fill my hand. Just enough to fit in my mouth. They’re mine. They were always meant for this. For me.”
The raw, filthy poetry of it broke her. A tear slipped free, but a soft moan followed it. Her hands flew to his head, her fingers tunneling into his snow-white hair, not to guide him, but to hold him there. To anchor herself.
He latched on again, suckling with a deep, rhythmic pull that sent jolts of electric pleasure straight to her core. He was relentless, worshiping each small breast in turn, biting, licking, sucking until they glistened under a sheen of saliva in the dying light, reddened and exquisitely sensitive.
“You’re nursing me,” he whispered, the words a hot breath against her wet skin. He looked up at her, his eyes wide, pleading, and hungry. “Aren’t you? Your baby boy. You’re keeping me alive.”
The perversion of it, the twisting of a sacred bond into something profane and desperately needed, shattered the last of her resistance. Her face softened, a profound, aching tenderness washing over the shame. She looked down at him, at this beautiful, monstrous young man she had built her life around, and something in her fractured and re-knitted itself.
“Yes,” she breathed, her voice a hoarse melody. Her thumb stroked his temple. “My good boy. My beautiful, hungry boy.”
A broken sound escaped him. He buried his face between her breasts again, his body shuddering. He was fully hard now, his erection a rigid, throbbing bar pressed against her inner thigh, leaking onto her skin. He ground himself against her, a slow, desperate rhythm, but he didn’t try to seek entry. This was its own pinnacle. This need, being fed by her, acknowledged by her.
His hips jerked. “Megumi…”
“Shhh,” she cooed, still carding her fingers through his hair. Her other hand slid down his back, over the tense muscles, and cupped the hard curve of his ass, pressing him harder against her. “Take what you need. Drink your fill.”
He cried out then, a raw, ragged sound, and his hips lost their rhythm, grinding against her in frantic, abortive thrusts. His mouth worked at her breast, suckling fiercely as his whole body tensed. He came like that, still fully clothed from the night before, his release hot and sudden against her thigh, soaking through the fabric of his boxers and painting her skin in stripes of possessive heat. It was a climax born not from penetration, but from submission, from a twisted, perfect fantasy granted.
He collapsed upon her, his body heavy and spent, his face still buried in the sanctuary of her chest. His breath came in hot, ragged gusts against her sensitive skin.
For a long time, they lay like that. The room darkened around them. Finally, her voice, soft and impossibly weary, broke the silence.
“We can never go back.”
He lifted his head. His eyes, in the gloom, were clear and certain. He wiped at the mess on her thigh with a reverence that made her shiver.
“Good,” he said.