Novel Full Chapter 842: Feeling of a Mother, Peter’s Denial
Chapter 842: Feeling of a Mother, Peter’s Denial
Her nipples have darkened. And there—beading at the tip—a single drop of pearl-white liquid, catching the golden light.
The areolas have widened, flushed a deeper rose, crinkled and sensitive; the nipples themselves stand thick and proud, longer now, glistening as another bead forms and trembles, heavy with promise, ready to fall.
"My body remembers," she whispers. "Even across the veil. It remembers nursing you. Feeding you. Giving you the first taste of divinity before the world demanded you forget."
Another drop forms.
Falls.
Lands on my lip.
The taste explodes—honey and starlight and belonging and purpose and every answer to questions I haven’t learned to ask.
"Drink, my beloved," she says. "Take what was always yours."
She lifts her breast—a sacred offering—and brings her nipple to my lips. The tip brushes my mouth first, warm velvet against my lower lip, smearing a thin trail of sweet milk that makes me shiver.
Then she presses forward gently, insistently, and the thick bud slides past my lips, filling my mouth with soft, heated flesh.
I latch.
Milk floods my mouth—warm and thick and overwhelmingly perfect. Tears spring to my eyes from the sheer rightness of it.
Like every cell in my being recognizes this as home.
The flow is slow at first, then stronger—rich cream laced with honey and something brighter, something that sparks along my tongue and down my throat like liquid sunlight. Each swallow sends warmth radiating through my chest, my belly, pooling low and heavy between my legs where my cock throbs in slow, helpless rhythm.
"Yes," she breathes, and her voice layers—multiple tones, like a choir. "That’s my perfect boy. My prince. Drink deep."
Her hand cradles the back of my head, holding me to her breast.
Protective. Possessive.
Her fingers thread through my hair, then slide down to cup the nape of my neck, thumb stroking the sensitive skin there in slow circles that make my hips shift restlessly against the sheets.
"You came from here," she whispers. "From this body. This milk. This love that transcended reason. I loved you with a ferocity that terrified my world’s Council. And when you were born..."
She shudders, trembling against me. The tremor travels through her breast into my mouth; her nipple stiffens further against my tongue, another warm gush of milk rewarding the suction.
"When you were born, you were the most beautiful thing existence had ever created. Perfect. Impossible. Mine."
The milk keeps flowing—endless, abundant. My hands come up without thought, holding her breast, kneading gently, and she moans.
A low, ruined sound escapes her throat—half maternal sigh, half raw need. My fingers sink into the impossibly soft flesh, feeling the weight shift and yield, the golden veins beneath pulsing faster in time with my heartbeat. I squeeze gently and another thick spurt fills my mouth; she arches slightly, pressing deeper, offering more.
"I couldn’t keep you," she continues, voice breaking. "The old gods would have destroyed you. Divine and human. Too much of both and not enough of either."
Her fingers tighten in my hair.
"So, I hid you. Gave you to a human woman who raised you as if you were hers. I ’died’ in childbirth because your divinity was too much for my mortal flesh. Then I made you forget. Made the world forget."
I suck harder, and she gasps.
Her free hand drifts down her own body—slow, reverent—tracing the curve of her hip, the swell of her abdomen, as though remembering the place I once grew inside her. The motion makes her thigh brush mine, warm and silken, the heat between her legs radiating against my side like an open flame.
Her other hand finds my face, thumb brushing where milk escapes my mouth. She collects the stray droplet on her thumb, then brings it to her own lips, tasting it—tasting us—her mismatched eyes darkening with something ancient and ravenous.
"Then the systems found you. Not by accident. They’re fragments of something older. They recognized what you were before you did. They gave you power because that power was already yours."
She lifts me slightly so I can see her face while still latched.
Her nipple slips free for a heartbeat—wet, shining, swollen darker than before—before she guides me back, pressing me to the other breast this time.
The fresh nipple meets my tongue, already leaking, eager; I take it deep and she sighs my name like a prayer and a curse at once.
"You’re waking now, my love. The protection I wove is crumbling. Every woman you claim. Every boundary you cross. You’re burning through the forgetting."
Her eyes blaze with impossible intensity —the purple-white galaxy swirling faster, pulling starlight into spirals; the golden sun flaring soft and fierce at once, like desire held in perfect restraint.
"You are Peter Carter. You’re Eros Velmior Desiderion. Prince. Son of the Goddess of Sacred Union."
She strokes my hair, infinitely gentle —fingers trailing slow paths across my scalp, each touch sending faint echoes of warmth down my spine, lingering at the base of my neck, brushing the sensitive skin there until my breath catches.
"A god who will remember what it was to be human."
The milk stops flowing. Just stops, her nipple still in my mouth but suddenly dry.
The bud remains warm and soft against my tongue, swollen from my attention, the faint taste of honey lingering like a promise kept secret.
I feel the loss immediately—not just of the flow, but of the intimate connection, the way her breast had yielded so perfectly to my mouth. My lips close once more around it in quiet reverence before she begins to ease away.
"I’ll be here," she whispers. "Always watching. Every time you sleep truly, you’ll find me. In this place between waking and divinity."
She pulls away, and the loss is physical. Like something vital being torn free. Her nipple slips from my lips with a soft, wet sound; a final thin thread of sweetness stretches between us for a heartbeat before breaking. The cool air kisses the damp skin she leaves behind, making me ache in a place deeper than hunger.
"Remember the taste," she says, backing away, her body starting to fade. "Remember my love."
The golden light dims. The room becomes just a room again.
"I love you, Peter... Eros. My son. My pride."
She’s almost transparent now —her form still luminous, breasts still full and heavy in silhouette, the golden veins pulsing one last slow farewell along her skin before the glow begins to recede.
"And soon—so soon—you’ll love me back."
A loud caw shattered everything.
My eyes flew open.
The divine light was gone. Just mundane morning sun through the windows. My heart hammered with profound confusion.
What the fuck?
Madison was still asleep beside me, snuggled into my arms, pulling the sheet over herself with a soft sigh.
I was sure I’d just been— But I hadn’t. I’d been asleep which was strange that I was able to sleep here in this mansion.
And that was a dream.
Except it didn’t feel like one either.
The feeling was too real. Too visceral. The feeling of a... a feeling I never truly experienced to the fullest like today. The feeling of being a son. Being held. Being nurtured in a way that went beyond anything I’d ever experienced.
Not just by someone.
By a mother?
The most pure, unconditional love I’d ever felt. A feeling I’d never truly had.
And I could still taste it.
The phantom sweetness of the milk coated my tongue—warm honey, starlit cream, the faint salt of her skin where my lips had pressed. It lingered in the back of my throat, rich and impossible, breaking every rational thought that this had been just a dream.
My mouth watered again involuntarily, remembering the weight of her breast, the way it had filled me, completed me.
Weird.
So, fucking weird.
I shook my head, trying to dislodge the cosmic weight still clinging to me. Focused on the real world.
On Madison.
She looked peaceful. The stress lines around her eyes softened. My godly perception didn’t show desire maps now. Just... peace. Relaxed muscles.
Serenity.
Without thinking, my hand moved. I brushed a strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear.
In her sleep, she sighed—a contented sound—and leaned toward my touch. Seeking more.
My touch wasn’t for pleasure now. It was for calm. I projected peace, safety, protection. She hummed happily, burrowing into my chest.
Whatever that dream was—a message, a bleed-through, whatever the new titles were doing—it didn’t matter.
Not right now.
What mattered was this. This woman. This real, vulnerable woman in my arms who trusted me enough to be completely defenseless.
It wasn’t just about the sex, the liberation, the conquest.
It was about this. The aftermath. The quiet moments. The silent care.
Being the man who could hold them all, protect them all, and give them peace they hadn’t known in years.