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The apartment building smelled like old carpet and faint bleach most days, but when Aaliyah opened her door that first night, the air changed. Warm vanilla from whatever candle she’d been burning mixed with the clean coconut scent of her skin and a deeper, musky trace of her arousal that hit me before I even stepped inside. It was unmistakable—sweet and heavy, like ripe fruit left too long in the sun.

She wore those same tight black yoga pants from the laundry room, now riding low under the swell of her belly, and a thin gray tank top stretched so tight across her breasts that I could see the dark outline of her areolas through the fabric. No bra. Her nipples were already peaked, straining against the cotton like they’d been waiting for attention all day. When she pressed against me in the doorway, I felt the firm heat of her pregnant stomach against my abs, the slight give of it, alive and moving faintly with her breathing—or maybe the baby shifting inside her.

Her mouth tasted faintly of spearmint gum and something sweeter underneath, like she’d been sucking on hard candy earlier. Her tongue was aggressive, sliding against mine with wet, hungry strokes while her small hands yanked at my hoodie zipper. The sound of it rasping down filled the quiet hallway before she kicked the door shut behind us.

Inside, the living room was dim—only a single lamp with a amber shade glowing on the side table. Shadows played over the curve of her cheekbones, the glossy sheen on her full lips. She pulled back just long enough to peel the tank top over her head. Her breasts spilled free—heavy, round, veined faintly under smooth dark skin. They swayed with the motion, nipples thick and almost black, already glistening at the tips with tiny beads of colostrum. The sight made my mouth water instantly.

“Touch them,” she said, voice low and rough, almost a growl.

I cupped both breasts, thumbs brushing those wet nipples. They were hot to the touch, velvet-soft skin over firm fullness. When I rolled one between my fingers, a thin trickle of sweet milk leaked out, sliding down the underside of her breast. The scent hit me—warm, faintly sugary, like fresh cream. I lowered my head and latched on without thinking. She gasped, loud and sharp, fingers digging into my scalp. Her milk hit my tongue—thin, warm, surprisingly sweet with a creamy aftertaste that coated the roof of my mouth. I sucked harder and she moaned deep in her throat, the sound vibrating through her chest into mine.

“Fuck… yes, drink it,” she panted. “Been leaking all day thinking about you.”

Her other hand shoved down the front of my jeans, wrapping around my cock with no preamble. Her palm was surprisingly cool against my overheated skin, fingers strong as she stroked me root to tip, thumb smearing the bead of precum already leaking from the slit. The wet sound of her hand moving filled the room, obscene and perfect.

I walked her backward until her calves hit the couch. She sat, legs spreading wide, yoga pants stretched so thin I could see the plump outline of her pussy lips and the dark wet spot blooming at the crotch. She hooked her thumbs in the waistband and shoved them down, kicking them off. No panties. Just bare, swollen, glistening flesh. Her outer lips were puffy, dark plum colored, inner folds flushed deep rose and slick-shiny. Her clit stood out, engorged and glistening like a small ripe berry. The scent of her hit me full force now—musky, tangy, feminine, intoxicating. Pregnancy had made everything fuller, riper, wetter.

I dropped to my knees between her thighs. The carpet was rough against my shins. Her skin was fever-hot when I gripped her hips. I spread her wider with my thumbs and dragged my tongue from her entrance to her clit in one long, slow stroke. She tasted sharp and sweet, like sea salt mixed with honey. Her hips bucked, smearing her wetness across my lips and chin. I sucked her clit between my lips, flicking the tip of my tongue over it fast and light the way she liked. Her thighs trembled around my ears, soft inner skin brushing my cheeks. Every time I hummed against her, she cried out—high, broken sounds that echoed off the bare

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