Victor’s mouth began leaving more than milk behind.
The first bite appeared the next morning after the kitchen island. Jennie stood in front of the bathroom mirror, nightgown pulled down to her waist, inspecting the faint purple ring encircling her left areola—small, crescent-shaped indents where his teeth had pressed just hard enough to bruise without breaking skin. The mark throbbed faintly when she brushed her fingertip over it. Milk beaded instantly at the n****e, faster than usual, a thin white trail sliding down the curve of her breast. She stared at the bruise in the glass, breath shallow, and felt the familiar ache bloom low in her belly. She didn’t cover it. Didn’t want to.
She stopped wearing bras entirely at home after that.
The house became her private territory. Loose cotto
