He groaned.
The low, controlled, entirely un-performed groan of a man who had committed to something and was watching it through.
The warmth.
The specific warmth that was his — but different. More volume. The spreading, continuous, warm flood of it inside her that was 'more' than she had felt before, the warmth with a different quality, spreading through her and filling every space the space had.
She felt his hands.
Both of them, finding her breasts. Not gentle. The full, closed-fist grip of both breasts simultaneously — the handle grip, the complete, hard compression of both at once.
"'AANNGH—!!♡♡'"
The milk.
Both sides at once. Not the thin trickle. The compressed, simultaneous, full-pressure release of both — twin jets of it, shooting forward, hitting the far wall of the bathtub, the thin white arcs of it catching the morning light from the small high window. The spray of it across the bathwater surface, the white dispersing in the lukewarm water.
