The cherry on her left breast — his teeth found it. Bit through. The juice, sweet and dark, ran from the corner of his mouth and landed on the curve of her breast, trailing down the soft inner slope where fabric didn't cover.
He followed it with his tongue.
The trail of cherry juice, down the inside curve, to where the bra cup ended and her skin began — his tongue pressing flat against her flesh there, following the juice with the thorough, unhurried attention of a man who does not believe in wasting things.
She made a sound.
Not the compressed, controlled sound she'd been making until now.
The actual sound. The sound from the place below the composure, below the maternal dignity, below all of it — the raw, involuntary, helpless sound of a woman being eaten by something that knows exactly what it's doing.
"Hngh~—"
"The porridge," he said, without lifting his mouth from her chest.
