Heated days and nights

The days after our return blurred into a rhythm of baby cries, feedings, quiet coos… and craving. Ethan and I couldn’t keep our hands off each other. Even in the exhaustion of new parenthood, the pull between us grew stronger, not weaker. There was a hunger in him — in both of us — that surged in the quiet hours when the world slowed down.

Our son, baby Ethan, nestled contentedly in his bassinet. When he’d finished nursing and drifted to sleep, Ethan would watch me with a fire in his eyes, one hand trailing slowly over my still-sensitive breasts, the other slipping to my waist, pulling me closer with wordless need.

“I’ve missed you,” he’d whisper low against my skin, as if we hadn’t made love just hours earlier. But it wasn’t just love — it was raw, driven, deeply connected.

His lips would find mine, and everything else melted away. Every kiss turned hungrier. Every caress bolder. My breasts, heavier and more sensitive than ever, responded to even the slightest brush of his tongue, the suction of his mouth bringing waves of pleasure that made my body arch beneath him.

He worshipped every part of me — not just tenderly, but thoroughly. Like he needed to prove just how much he desired this version of me: curvier, milk-rich, primal with new motherhood and still so completely his. Sometimes he whispered praises; other times he said how hard he’d love to fuck me and he would, his fingers digging into my hips, grounding himself in the moment.

He didn’t rush. Our fucking was drawn out, lasting well into the night, until we collapsed together — bodies tangled, soaked in sweat, trembling from the heat we’d stoked.

Some nights, I didn’t even make it out of my nursing sundress before he had me pressed against the nearest surface. The fabric barely covered me anymore, clinging to my full breasts that often leaked between feedings. He never minded. In fact, he relished it. He’d suck gently, sometimes teasing, sometimes fervent, claiming what my body was so willing to give.

“You’re everything,” he told me more than once. “The mother of my son, my wife, my obsession.”

When he said things like that — with his mouth on my skin, his hands claiming every curve of me — I felt it in every nerve ending.

Even when we were exhausted, we found each other. On the couch. Against the wall. Bent over the kitchen island while a bottle warmed. The heat didn’t fade — it just evolved, fueled by love, lust, and something far deeper.

We were parents now. But behind the lullabies and midnight rocking sessions, we were still each other’s — wildly, desperately, unapologetically.