Page 87 of My Big Fat Daddy Issues

I learn this because her knees buckle.

"Whoa —" I catch her, one arm hooked under her ass, the other bracing the shelf. A box of lens filters rattles overhead. "Easy."

"Don't you easy me." She's already scaling me, one leg wrapped around my hip, her belly tight and warm between us. The babykicks. Square into my stomach. Hard enough I feel it through my shirt.

"Your son has opinions."

"My son can wait." She scrapes her teeth across my bottom lip. "Daddy's busy."

Five years. Five years of that word in her mouth and it still fires straight down my spine into my cock.

I've loved every minute of our life. After she got her undergrad, we moved into the bigger house here I'd been building for a year. It's set back on ten acres, no neighbors, five bedrooms and I'm thinking of adding on.

Her mother…my ex is, well, let's just say we have a quiet truce. She comes to holidays, loves the grandkids and has remarried and lives five hours away.

It works.

"What does Daddy's girl need that couldn't wait until Nora's nap was over?"

"Daddy's girl needs to come on something thicker than a highlighter, which is what I was eyeing upstairs when the endocrine system got boring."

"You were going to fuck yourself with a highlighter."

"The chisel-tip kind. The thick one." She rolls against my thigh and her breath trips. "I made a responsible choice and came to find you instead. You should be thanking me."

"Now, that's my good girl." I bunch the flannel at her lower back and pull it taut, watching the fabric strain across her belly, her breasts, then unbutton it because I need her now.

"Grant. Forty minutes until Nora's nap ends and the monitor —"

"Is in my back pocket. I know." Her breasts hang heavy, laced with blue veins, the nipples dark and beading with milk. The first time this happened, I wasn't prepared for what her milk would do to me. I'd like to claim it was tender and some soft reverence of her new motherhood role. It wasn't. Something in my hindbrain went feral and never came back. "Get on the table."

She hoists herself up, and parts her thighs pregnant and bare and wet, splitting herself open for me in the middle of our studio at two in the afternoon because she has never once in her life known how to be anything less than catastrophically honest.

I step between her legs and palm her belly. My son rolls under my hand, shifting. I press my mouth below her navel and feel him move against my lips.

Then drag my eager mouth upward.

The first pull of her nipple floods my tongue, and Wren's fist knots in my hair. "Oh fuck." Her hips buck. "I love that you found this kink."

I seal tighter. Milk, sweet and warm, and the sound out of her, this furious, wrecked little moan that has zero delirium in it, punch straight into my hard-on.

She yanks my hair. "The other one is leaking. It's jealous."

I switch. The second my mouth closes over her left nipple I draw deep and that familiar haze comes over me.

I'm milk drunk.

I slide my hand between her thighs and she jolts the second my fingers land. She whimpers against my temple when I push two fingers in and curl, and she clenches around my knuckles.

"Please, Daddy." She rocks into my hand. "I've been thinking about you all morning. Couldn't focus. Kept rereading the same paragraph about glucocorticoids and picturing your cock."

"What about it?"

"That I want it." She bites my earlobe. "That I always want it. That being this pregnant turns me into someone who can't sit through a chapter without squeezing her thighs together and it's going to tank my GPA."

"I'll write you a note." I curl my fingers, press my thumb to her clit, and she cries out, grabbing the table's edge. "Dear Professor, please excuse Wren's grades. Her Daddy keeps fucking her stupid and she can't retain information about the endocrine system."

"I love you. God, right there — don't stop —"