Sara slid her mouth down again, sucking hard and fast, begging with her eyes for me to relax, to come, to keep this moment alive somehow, but how the bloody hell was I supposed to fuck her mouth with our infant daughter crying in the other room?

The hungry cry, Sara once told me. “Do you hear it?” she’d asked. “How different it sounds?”

I knew without having to even ask that her breasts were growing heavy and uncomfortable.

This time, when I stepped back, she let me.

I ran the pad of my thumb from her temple down across her cheek to rest on her full, wet bottom lip. “Petal. Go on.”

With an apologetic grimace she took my hand and stood. She looked so fucking beautiful in front of me: topless, wearing her tiny lace pants, legs toned and smooth. She stretched and kissed me once, soft and slow, trapping my cock between us.

Her ass, when she turned and stepped into the nursery, was sublime. And then she bent, picked up our baby, and walked to the rocking chair.

Instead of sitting at her feet like usual, I went down the hall into the bedroom to let my body come down.

Twenty minutes later I felt Sara crawl into bed behind me. Her hand was warm when it slid around my chest. Her mouth was soft and wet on the bare skin of my shoulder.

“You awake?” she whispered, letting her hand run down my stomach to where I was naked under the covers. My body began to respond when she gripped me, but I was so fucking close to sleep, so exhausted. I took her hand in mine and pulled it up to my chest, wordlessly telling her we’d find another time.

“Good morning, sunshine.” Will was sitting in my chair, his feet perched on my desk.

I glanced at him and then shut my office door behind me. “Comfortable?”

“My office is better,” he said in response. “How was the epic shagfest?”

His playful expression dimmed at my probably-too-honest answer and he sat up, planting his elbows on his knees. “What happened?”

I dropped my laptop bag near my office closet and sat across from him. “George was good, it was just a lot of updates, a lot of mishaps at the restaurant, and then the sex that never quite happened after.”

“Alfredo on the trousers, water dumped on the mix, Sara’s breasts leaking through her dress, the valet scraped my car. You know, the usual date night.”

Will held up a hand. “Her breasts and the dress and the what now?”

I sighed. “William. Sometimes you disappoint me with your predictability.”

But he was already shaking his head. “I’m honestly curious. They . . . leak?”

I felt my brows pull together. “Well . . . yeah. ’Course they do. You do realize where milk comes from, right? What they’re actually for? That they weren’t created simply for you to enjoy.”

“Do not blaspheme, Max,” he said, holding out a single finger in warning. He looked a little dazed. “And they leak like, constantly?”

“Not constantly, you bleeding idiot. Just when she hasn’t fed Anna in a few hours or if she hears her cry . . .” I winced, meeting his eyes. “Or another baby cry, apparently. I didn’t really anticipate that one, to be honest.”

I didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t that I felt like I was betraying Sara’s privacy in talking about this; it was more that I felt I had access to a secret room in the man tavern and I really shouldn’t hand over the password to Will until it was his time. Let him suffer a bit.

I gave him my most condescending smile. “Lots of things happen with the female body that even you haven’t seen.”

“Why?” I clucked my tongue sympathetically. “It brings me such joy.”

Will tilted his head, and seemed to consider whether or not to tell me something. His blue eyes narrowed and a little smile took over one half of his mouth.

I waited it out until I knew he couldn’t stand it anymore. The staring contest continued for at least ten seconds longer.

“Fine,” he said on a bursting exhale. “I’ve been with a pregnant woman before.”

I regarded him with mild disgust. “Okay, given that I know you’ve never impregnated anyone yourself, I’m just going to say it: that’s slightly fucking weird.”

“Yeah . . . I did a lot of shit then that I wouldn’t do now. But I’ve never been with a woman who . . .” He glanced down to his chest and looked back up at me, brows raised.

“Right,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck. Will was such a notorious breast man, it occurred to me that it was strange that he hadn’t seemed to think about this perk of motherhood before now.

“What does it taste like?” he said, like a crack in the air.

“Maximillian. Don’t even try to pretend like you haven’t tasted it.”

I remembered the conversation Sara and I had about it the first week we were home. We were in the newborn haze, with dishes piled in the sink and in the same clothes we’d worn the day before. Sara was in pain, and I did what I could to help relieve it: with my hands, my mouth. She’d watched, eyes wide and grateful, her nails gently scratching my scalp and asked me how it tasted.

I blinked back over to Will. “It’s . . . sweet,” I admitted.