Years ago, when our kids were little and the world revolved around the soft, demanding rhythm of a baby’s needs, I was usually too tired to even think about myself, let alone intimacy.  My body felt like a public utility, and my breasts were its most prominent feature—full, heavy, and always on call.

But one night, a strange, electric current hummed beneath my skin.  The baby was finally asleep, and instead of craving sleep, I was craving him.

I curled up next to my husband on the couch, the thin fabric of my worn-out t-shirt doing little to hide the full, heavy shape of my breasts. They were so engorged, so sensitive, and a tiny bead of milk escaped, darkening the fabric over my taut, exaggerated nipple.  I saw him notice, his gaze fixing on the wet spot with an intensity that sent a jolt straight to my core.

“I’ve got it,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through me.