Chapter 2

Panic shot through me. I covered myself instinctively, but a sharp throb of pain from my swollen breasts made me flinch. "Y-You…" My brows knit together. The ache was so bad I could barely speak. "You're a man. How can you just pull off a woman's clothes? You creep!" I said, raising my voice anxiously. He waved his hands frantically, looking as if I had completely misunderstood him. "Lactation mastitis needs proper massage technique. Look, if you don't trust me, at least trust my grandma. She's the one who sent me over because she's worried about you and your baby." Seeing how flustered he looked, I bit my lip. He had a point. Eleanor and I had known each other for years. If he were really unreliable, she would never have sent him. Moreover, he was her grandson. Still, I found it uncomfortable letting another man see my body. If word got out, what would my in-laws think? What would David think? How would I live with that? As I wavered, Ethan's weak cry broke the silence. Hunger had drained the color from his tiny face. His small hands flailed weakly, his cries weak and raspy. After a few seconds, he gave up, and tears just slid down his cheeks in silence. The sight broke my heart. "You should think about your son," the man said gently. "He's so young, and if he keeps starving, he could really…" Before he finished his sentence, I clenched my teeth, steeled myself, and lay back down on the bed. I lifted my tank top myself and felt the cold air brushing my skin. Looking at his intense gaze, my face flushed. "If you're nervous, you can close your eyes." Hearing that, I squeezed them shut. Then his hands were on me. They were warm, surprisingly soft, with no trace of rough calluses. His touch was methodical, working in slow, firm circles. A jolt went through me, a strange current that spread from the point of contact all the way to my fingers and toes. My breath hitched, coming in ragged, audible gasps. A tremor ran through my whole body. As his pressure increased, a small, choked sound escaped me. Humiliation washed over me. I went rigid, wishing the floor would swallow me whole. "It's okay," he said calmly. "This is normal. Don't be ashamed." After a beat, his words dropped to a near-whisper, close to my ear. "Besides, I think women look even better after giving birth. They're prettier than college girls." His breath was warm against my skin. A shiver raced down my spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake. My muscles seemed to melt, tension dissolving into a strange, liquid warmth. Under his skilled, knowing hands, my face grew impossibly hot. I gripped the bedsheet so tightly until my knuckles turned white. Another helpless, throaty noise slipped out. I kept my eyes sealed shut, cheeks flushing. No one had ever touched me with such deliberate gentleness. I bit down hard on my lower lip, the metallic tang of blood a sharp counterpoint to the waves of deep, almost shocking pleasure. My body, neglected for so long, was traitorously responsive. My entire pregnancy had been chaste, and my husband had left for work almost as soon as our son was born. It had been ages since I'd felt any kind of touch. But now, under this stranger's ministrations, I was burning up. The man noticed my arousal, let out a muffled groan, and increased the pressure of his massage. A final thread of resistance snapped, then a soft, unbidden moan escaped my lips.