The full, pendulous, heavy breast — freed from the linen blouse at some point during the proceedings, the fabric having been moved aside with the practical, matter-of-fact efficiency of a woman who was assisting at something and had identified the relevant geography — warm in her palm, the nipple already stiff from the involuntary physiological response of a woman whose body was receiving input even if her mind was not cooperating with the receipt of it.
Helviana kneaded.
Slowly. The long, thorough, fingers-sinking-deep motion of someone who had learned from a man who knew how bodies worked and had applied those lessons to the body in front of her.
The milk.
It ran.
Not the forceful, spray-arc milk of a woman mid-orgasm — the slow, warm, continuous run of a woman whose body had stored too much for too long and was releasing what it had accumulated, the thin white stream running from the stiff nipple across Helviana's fingers and dropping to the sheets below.
