Warm. Immediate. The let-down reflex of a woman's body doing what it was designed to do when presented with the appropriate stimulus — and she 'cried out', the sound of it breaking into the garden air with the specific, overlapping register of sensation that had nowhere clean to go.
"'WAIT—'" Her voice. The formal diction gone entirely, pure panic underneath. "'Leave something — leave something for my child — please—'"
He pulled off the nipple.
Looked at her.
His mouth curved.
He thrust.
PAAAH!
"'AAANGHH~!!'"
The milk jetted — the force of the thrust driving the let-down, the thin, warm spray of it catching the moonlight — and he put his mouth back and took what came.
"'Isn't that,'" he said, against the nipple, his teeth grazing the base, "'my child too.'"
The sound she made at those words was the sound of a woman who has had something said to her that her body found interesting and her mind found catastrophic and neither could agree on the response.
