Chapter 16: The Obsession
The taste of milk lingered between us for days. It became a secret, a thread running underneath the ordinary rhythms of work and life. He’d kiss me in the morning and his tongue would seek the faint, sweet trace before he left for the office. I’d catch him staring at my chest during dinner, his gaze distant, calculating the fill of my breasts beneath a sweater. It was unnerving. It was a drug.
My body was no longer just my own. It was a communal project. The baby’s kicks were now strong enough to ripple the fabric of my dress, a visible earthquake. My back ached with a deep, persistent thrum. And my breasts were a relentless, leaking reminder of the future, soaking through pads and shirts with humiliating indifference.
I came home from the firm one Thursday, my feet swollen in their flats, a dull pain tightening around my lower spine. I’d spent the afternoon defending my design for the lake house extension to a new, skeptical client. My confidence, once so solid, felt porous. He’d questioned the load-bearing aesthetics of my cantilevered section, and for a terrifying moment, my mind had gone blank, wiped clean by a wave of sheer fatigue.
The apartment was silent. Seungcheol was working late, finalizing a merger. I dropped my bag and portfolio by the door, the thud satisfyingly final. I needed to turn my brain off. I needed to not be an architect, or a vessel, just for an hour.
I ran a bath, pouring in too much of the clary sage oil the midwife recommended. I submerged myself, the hot water a shock that melted into relief. I closed my eyes. The baby rolled, a slow, tectonic shift. My hands went to my stomach, mapping the hard curve of a foot or an elbow. “I know,” I whispered to the water. “I’m tired, too.”
I must have dozed off. The sound of the front door closing, the familiar tread of his Oxfords on hardwood, pulled me back. The water was lukewarm. Twilight had turned the bathroom indigo.
“In here,” I called, my voice echoing on the tiles.
He appeared in the doorway, a silhouette blotting out the hall light. He loosened his tie as he took in the scene: me in the cooling water, my hair piled messily, the swell of my belly breaking the surface like a sleeping island.
“Rough day?” he asked, coming to kneel by the tub.
“The client was an idiot. My back feels like it’s made of shattered glass. And I cried in the supply closet because someone ate the last lemon muffin.”
A smile touched his lips. “A comprehensive catastrophe.” He reached into the water, his hand skimming my knee, my thigh. “Want me to wash your hair?”
I nodded, words too heavy. He shifted, rolling up his sleeves with efficient gestures. He gently tipped my head back, his fingers massaging my scalp with shampoo. It was a tender, utilitarian act. He rinsed me with a handheld spray, the warm water coursing over my temples. His touch was clinical, soothing. Then his fingers stilled. He was looking down, the spray forgotten in his hand.
A stream of milk, pale and opaque, had leaked from my breast into the bathwater, curling like a ribbon before dissolving. In the quiet room, the sound of his breath catching was loud.
“It just does that now,” I said, a defensive weariness in my voice. “No invitation needed.”
He didn’t reply. He put the spray down. His wet hand trailed from my hair, down my neck, to circle the tight, dark nipple. He swiped the bead of moisture gathering there with his thumb. He brought his thumb to his mouth, his eyes holding mine, and sucked it clean.
Something sharp and hungry flashed in his gaze, erasing the gentle caretaker of a moment before.
“Out,” he said, his voice low.
“What?”
“Out of the tub. Now.”
A thrill, immediate and primal, cut through my fatigue. I stood, water sluicing off me. He grabbed a large towel, wrapping me in it roughly, absorbing the droplets. He led me, not to the bedroom, but to the living room. The leather couch was cool under my thighs as he sat me down.
“Stay.”
He walked to the windows, drawing the curtains halfway, leaving us in a dim world of blurred city lights and deep shadow. He came back to me, his movements deliberate. He pushed the towel aside. He knelt on the floor before the couch, his hands on my knees, pushing them apart. The air was cool on my wet skin.
He just looked, his eyes traveling over the vast landscape of my pregnancy. The stretch marks like silvery trails on my hips. The profound curve. The heavy, veined breasts. His expression wasn’t just desire; it was a stark, acquisitive hunger.
“You look like a fucking fertility goddess,” he muttered, more to himself than to me. “Mine.”
He leaned forward and buried his face between my legs. His tongue was insistent, parting my folds, licking into me with a single-minded focus that left no room for gentleness. I cried out, my hands flying to his hair. He ate at me like a man starved, his nose pressing against my clit, his tongue fucking deep. The orgasm built quickly, a tight coil from the base of my spine, amplified by the surreal detachment of watching his suited shoulders work between my splayed thighs.
I came with a sharp gasp, my hips bucking against his mouth. He didn’t let up, drinking me in until I pushed his head away, over-sensitive and trembling.
He rose, his face glistening with me. He unbuckled his belt, the sound harsh in the quiet. He shoved his trousers and briefs down just enough to free his cock, already thick and straining. He didn’t undress. The contrast of his formal shirt, his suspended trousers, against his naked arousal was brutally erotic.
“Come here,” he growled. He sat back on the couch, pulling me with him. He guided me to straddle him, my knees sinking into the soft leather on either side of his hips. My belly was a firm, warm globe pressed between us. He positioned himself at my entrance, his hands gripping my ass.
“Take me,” he said. “Slow. I want to feel every fucking inch.”
I sank down onto him. It was an intense, stretching fullness, deeper in this position, the angle perfect. A low groan ripped from his chest. His head fell back against the couch, his eyes closed for a second in sheer sensation. Then they opened, blazing up at me.
“Move.”
I rocked, a slow, grinding rhythm. His hands slid from my ass to my hips, guiding me, then up under my damp hair to grip the back of my neck. He held me there, our faces inches apart, forcing me to watch him watching me.
“I can’t stop seeing it,” he admitted, his voice hoarse. “The way you move now. The weight of you. The way your body’s changed for this.” His gaze dropped to my chest. “Let me.”
He leaned forward, his mouth capturing a nipple. He suckled hard, drawing a long, pulling stream of milk. The sensation was electric, a direct line of pleasure-pain to my core. My rhythm faltered, a broken stutter of my hips.
“Don’t you fucking stop,” he commanded, his words muffled against my skin. One hand slid between our bodies, his thumb finding my clit, rubbing harsh, tight circles.
I obeyed, riding him harder, driven by his mouth on my breast and his hand on my clit. The sounds were obscene: the wet slap of skin, his greedy swallows, my ragged pants. Juice slicked his thighs beneath me. The leather creaked in protest.
“You’re gonna make me come,” he warned, his eyes locked on the sight of my belly rising and falling with each desperate thrust. “Seeing you like this… swollen… fucking milking for me…”
“Come for me,” I whispered, my own climax coiling again, tighter, hotter.
He threw his head back, a cord standing out in his neck. His grip on me turned bruising. “Fuck!” His release pulsed inside me, hot and endless, his hips jerking up to meet my downward grind. The feeling of him coming, of his seed spilling deep, tipped me over the edge. My own orgasm tore through me, a silent, blinding white-out that clenched around him, milking him dry.
We slumped together, a sweaty, trembling heap. He was still inside me, softening. He nuzzled the wet spot on my breast, then rested his forehead against my sternum, his breath gusting hot on my skin. For a long time, we just sat there in the darkening room, fused together.
“I want to watch you do that every day,” he murmured finally, his voice raw. “Just like this. Heavy with my child. Coming on my cock. Mine.”
A week later, the independence I’d clung to met its match. It happened in the firm’s main presentation room. I was walking a client through a 3D model, my pointer hovering over a ventilation schematic. A sharp, vise-like pain seized my lower belly. It wasn’t a kick. It was a deep, compressive ache that stole my breath and turned my vision grey at the edges. My knees buckled. I grabbed the edge of the table, my knuckles white.
“Are you alright?” The client’s voice sounded far away.
I managed a nod, forced a smile. “Just… a strong one.” I rubbed the spot, waiting for it to pass. It did, after an eternity of thirty seconds, leaving a dull throb in its wake.
But it happened again two hours later at my desk. And once more in the elevator down to the lobby. Braxton Hicks, my rational mind supplied. Practice contractions. Normal.
But the clutch of fear in my gut wasn’t rational. It was the ghost of the earlier scare, cold and whispering. I called Seungcheol from the back of a taxi, my hand pressed to my hardening stomach.
“It’s probably nothing,” I said, hearing the tremor I couldn’t suppress.
“Where are you?” His voice was instantly flat, all business.
“In a cab. Heading home.”
“I’m leaving now. Go straight to bed. Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars.” A weak attempt at a joke that fell absolutely flat.
He was there when I arrived, still in his suit, having broken every speed limit. His face was a mask of controlled panic. He helped me to bed, his hands careful, his eyes scanning me for damage.
“Call the doctor,” he said, not asking.
“Cheol, it’s too early. It’s just—”
“Call. Now.”
I made the call. The doctor, calm and reassuring, said it sounded like normal pre-labor practice. But given my history, she advised caution. Rest. Hydration. Monitor. If they become regular, or if there’s any bleeding, come in.
Seungcheol listened to my side of the conversation, his jaw so tight I could see the muscle jumping. When I hung up, he paced the length of the bedroom like a caged animal.
“You’re stopping work,” he stated. It wasn’t a question.
The fear in me crystallized into something else. “No. I’m not.”
“You almost collapsed today. Twice. This isn’t a debate.”
“It is a debate!” I pushed myself up on my elbows. “You heard her. It’s normal. My body is preparing. I can’t just… stop being a person because I’m pregnant.”
“You’re not just a person, you’re carrying our child!” he shot back, his voice rising. “Why is this so hard for you to understand? Your job is a stress you don’t need. That we don’t need.”
“My job is my job!” Heat flooded my face. “It’s the last thing that’s still completely mine. I need it. For after. For my sanity.”
He stopped pacing, looming over the bed. “And what if your ‘need’ costs us this baby?” The words hung in the air, cruel and devastating.
I flinched as if struck. Tears sprang to my eyes, hot and immediate. “That’s not fair.”
Seeing my tears, some of the fury drained from him, replaced by a desperate frustration. He sank onto the edge of the bed, his shoulders slumping. “I can’t lose this,” he said, his voice cracking. “I can’t watch you in pain again. I can’t stand the thought of something happening and me being across town in a fucking boardroom.”
He wasn’t trying to control me. He was terrified. The realization cooled my own anger, leaving a sad, weary understanding.
“Nothing is going to happen,” I said softly, but the words felt hollow.
He took my hand, his grip almost painful. “Promise me. Promise you’ll be careful. That you’ll listen to your body. That you’ll stop before you push too hard.”
I looked at our joined hands, then at the cradle in the corner. It was no longer a symbol of promise, but of terrifying responsibility. My fierce independence warred with a new, more powerful instinct.
“I’ll be careful,” I whispered. It wasn’t the surrender he wanted, but it was a concession. A truce.
He brought my hand to his lips, kissing my knuckles. “That’s all I ask.” He lay down beside me, still in his suit, and pulled me into the curve of his body, his hand spread wide over the place that had contracted with pain. We lay there in silence, listening, waiting for the next tremor, hoping it wouldn’t come. The city lights outside our window seemed colder now, the future not a warm glow, but a dark road we’d have to feel our way down, blind and clinging to each other.