"Yes," he said. Against her breast. Calm.
"You—" She was shaking. The full, 'my body is processing several things simultaneously and cannot manage them all' trembling of a woman who was angry and overwhelmed and aroused and somewhere past both. "You did that 'without asking'—"
"I wanted to make sure." He lifted his mouth from her nipple. The milk ran freely down her breast without his mouth to catch it. "That when the time came, you would be ready fast enough."
She turned her face toward him.
Her eyes — wet, flushed, the 'I cannot decide which emotion is winning' expression of Eliantra Westing at the complete end of her capacity for composure — looked at him from three inches away.
"Ready for 'what'—"
"For this." His hand moved down her belly.
Found the hair between her thighs.
