Page 215 of Yearn
I began sucking gently, my pierced tongue pressed flat against the underside of her breast, coaxing that first hesitant stream of sweetness into my mouth.
Yes. Yes.
Her body yielded to my hunger, pulsing slightly with each pull.
Her skin was fever-warm against my lips, but the milk was cool—almost cold—as more hit my tongue.
The delicious contrast made me shiver.
Soft breast.
Firm nipple.
The ridged texture of her areola against my upper lip.
Her pulse thrumming beneath the surface.
The cool air from the vent hitting my bare back while her body heat wrapped around my front.
Every texture.
Every temperature.
Every point of contact erotically catalogued and stored.
“Oh!” She gasped, her fingers tangling in my hair, urging me closer.
The milk came and dear God, the taste of that loving liquid was sweet on my tongue and driving me wild.
Sacred nectar.
All my senses were heightened, focused solely on her.
My cock throbbed against my stomach ready to be inside her pussy.
And I understood what obsession meant—not sickness, not danger, but a deep obsessive holiness for her biology. It should have frightened me, how deep it ran now—the need to constantly be around Teyonah, the fixation on her breasts, milk, scent, stomach, stretchmarks, and pussy.
But fear had burned away months ago.
What was left was clarity.
My medical journals and psychology textbooks would say this wasLimerence. Obsessive attachment disorder. Pair-bond reinforcement.
The experts called itmaladaptive, a feedback loop of dopamine and oxytocin that blurred identity and boundary until one became the other. They claimed that this would result in my mind confusing her breath for oxygen, her scent for safety, her pulse for home.
They claimed that men who reached this point lost themselves.
They were right.
And I didn’t care.
Because in that surrender, I’d never felt more whole. Every cell in my body had recalibrated around Teyonah.
And now her pregnancy wasn’t just creation—it was evidence that my chemistry had permanently rewritten itself.
When she changed, I changed.
Her heartbeat determined mine. Her body’s new rhythms—hormones rising, skin warming, blood thickening—were music I could feel beneath my ribs.
