Still refusing myself the orgasm I desperately crave. Once out of the shower, I dry my hair and put on a simple lace teddy. It has already gotten dark outside at only 4:45 in the afternoon. But it is also one of Meghan's favorite things, making love in a candle lit room. Who can blame her though? It is pretty romantic. The sound of keys at the door let me know she is home, which sends a rush of excitement deep into my core. She takes no time and comes straight to the room, where I'm on the bed, ready to relish in my wife. I want to taste every inch of her body, to make her so overwhelmed in lustful need of me. “Well, hello there, good looking. How you doin'?” I say it with my thickest New York accent, which sounds so incredibly cheesy, but it makes her smile every time. “You, you're such a tease! Do you know how hard it is to work knowing your wife is at home ready to pounce you the moment you get home?” “Aw, does someone have an ache that needs to be caressed?” Kneeling up, I move. I wondered why she paid for formula rather than feeding herself. A few moments later I smacked my forehead in stupidity. Of course she couldn’t feed the baby — she wasn’t getting enough to eat and drink herself. She had precious few clothes for the baby, so I resolved to buy at least one item until such time as I could persuade her to come with me and choose what she wanted. I also noticed that most of her bags were things for the baby. Virtually nothing for herself. I didn’t have much in the house, having been away, but I did have eggs and cheese. I went back into the sitting room to ask if that would be OK for her, and stopped short with my cheeks flaming. She obviously fed the baby as much as she was able and used formula to supplement her meagre supply. Clever girl. My reddened cheeks came as a result of her baby latched onto the most perfect swell of B-cup I had ever seen in my life. I immediately turned and quietly went back to the kitchen. When I came back with the omelette.
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