The fire had burned down to glowing coals, but neither of them felt the cold.
Caleb was still buried deep inside his mother, exactly where she had guided him an hour ago. He hadn't come yet; neither had she. They had simply stayed joined, trembling, breathing each other in while the snow kept falling and the world stayed mercifully silent.
Elena's palms moved in slow circles over his back, the same soothing pattern she'd used when he had nightmares at four, at seven, at twelve. Only now her bare breasts were pressed to his chest, her legs wrapped loosely around his hips, and her son (her sweet, perfect boy) was filling her in a way that made tears slide endlessly from the corners of her eyes into her hair.
"Mommy," he whispered against her neck, voice cracking. "I'm scared I'm dreaming."
"You're not dreaming, baby." She kissed his temple, his cheek, the corner of his trembling mouth. "Mommy's right here. Feel me?"
He nodded, then gave the tiniest, experimental roll of his hips. They both gasped. She was so wet that the slow drag of him lit every nerve inside her like soft lightning.
"Like that?" he asked, shy even now.
"Exactly like that," she breathed. "Slow and gentle. Just love me, sweetheart. Love Mommy the way you always have, only deeper."
Another slow thrust, deeper this time, and Elena's back arched off the mattress. Her fingers threaded into his hair, cradling his head to her breast again.
"Open your mouth for me, darling," she murmured.
He obeyed instantly. The moment his lips closed around her nipple, the ache that had been building for days sharpened into something almost unbearable. A bead of milk (impossible, yet real) welled at the tip. Caleb made a broken sound and suckled harder, hips moving in the same steady rhythm, in and out, in and out, like waves on a shore that belonged only to them.
Elena felt the first flutter of climax low in her belly. She didn't chase it; she welcomed it the way she had welcomed every one of his firsts (first steps, first words, first heartbreak). She let it rise gently, naturally, until her whole body was trembling around him.
"That's it," she whispered, rocking him, "give Mommy everything. Let it happen inside me. I want all of you, baby. Every drop you've ever saved for me."
Caleb's rhythm faltered. He lifted his head from her breast, eyes wide and wet.
"Mommy, I'm— I can't—"
"You can," she soothed, cupping his face. "Look at me. Look at Mommy while you come home."
Their gazes locked. She felt the first hot pulse deep inside her, then another, and another, until he was shaking apart in her arms, spilling years of secret longing into the very place he'd come from. The sensation pushed her over too; her walls fluttered around him, milking every last shudder from his body while she kissed his tears and his lips and his eyelids.
When it passed, he collapsed onto her, heavy and boneless. Elena wrapped arms and legs around him, holding him exactly where he was (still inside, still hers).
"Stay," she whispered into his hair. "Don't ever leave me. Not tonight. Not… ever."
"I won't," he promised, voice muffled against her skin. "I'm yours, Mommy. Only yours."
Outside, the storm howled louder, sealing them in.
Inside, Elena stroked her son's back and felt him soften slowly but never slip out; even spent, his body wanted to remain inside hers. She smiled through quiet tears and reached for the quilt, pulling it over them both.
"Sleep, my sweet boy," she murmured, rocking him gently the way she had when he was brand new. "Mommy will keep you warm all night. And when you wake up, I'll still be right here… still holding you inside me."
Caleb made a small, trusting sound and let sleep take him, cheek against her breast, hips flush to hers.
Elena stayed awake a little longer, feeling the slow throb of him nestled deep, feeling the warmth of his seed safe where it belonged. She pressed a kiss to the top of his head and whispered into the dark:
"Welcome home, baby.
Mommy's never letting you go again."
And somewhere before dawn, while the fire settled into embers and the snow kept falling, Elena felt him harden again inside her (young and eager and entirely hers). She smiled, shifted her hips in gentle welcome, and guided her sleeping son into a second slow, dreamy joining that lasted until the pale light of morning crept through the frosted windows and found them still moving together, still whispering "I love you," still one.
The first thing Caleb felt when he woke was warmth.
Not the faint, struggling heat of the fireplace, but the living, breathing warmth of his mother wrapped around him like a second skin.
He was still inside her.
The realization came slowly, sweetly, like waking from the best dream of his life only to discover it was real. Elena's arms cradled him close, one hand resting on the back of his neck, the other splayed over the small of his back. Her thighs were soft and open beneath his hips. Their bellies pressed together, slick with the night's lovemaking. And between them, nestled deep in the place he now knew better than any other on earth, his morning erection throbbed gently inside her welcoming heat.
He made a small, helpless sound and buried his face against her breast.
Elena stirred. Her fingers threaded into his hair, petting, soothing, the way she always had.
"Good morning, my sweet boy," she whispered, voice husky with sleep and something deeper. "Did you sleep well inside Mommy?"
Caleb could only nod. Words felt too big for the moment.
She shifted beneath him (just a tiny roll of her hips) and he felt her squeeze around him, soft and deliberate. A shiver ran the length of his spine.
"Mommy's full of you," she murmured, kissing his forehead. "All night you stayed right here, keeping me warm. Such a good boy."
He lifted his head, cheeks flushed, eyes already glassy with need. "I… I woke up hard again. I'm sorry—"
"Shh." She silenced him with the gentlest brush of her lips against his. "Never apologize for wanting your mother. I woke up wet, baby. Wet and aching for my son. That's how it should be."
A bead of milk had gathered at the tip of her left nipple while they slept. Caleb stared at it, mesmerized. Elena saw where his gaze went and smiled the tenderest smile he had ever seen.
"Go ahead, darling," she encouraged softly. "Mommy made breakfast just for you."
He lowered his mouth without hesitation. The moment his lips closed around her, warm milk flooded his tongue (sweet, thin, impossibly intimate). Elena's breath hitched; her inner walls fluttered around his cock in perfect echo.
"That's it," she crooned, cradling his head. "Drink from Mommy while you love me. Slow, baby… just like last night."
Caleb began to move (tiny, shallow thrusts that never left her body, only stirred inside her). Every pull at her breast drew a soft moan from Elena's throat. Milk trickled from the corner of his mouth; she caught it with her thumb and guided it back between his lips.
"My perfect boy," she whispered over and over, hips rising to meet each gentle push. "My beautiful, perfect boy coming home again and again…"
The rhythm stayed lazy, almost dreamy. Sunlight filtered weakly through the snow-blocked windows, painting gold across their joined bodies. There was no hurry, no rush, only the slow, steady slide of her son inside the cradle of her body and the soft sounds of nursing filling the quiet morning.
When Elena felt the first flutter of climax, she didn't warn him. She simply held him tighter, legs locking around his waist, and let it wash over her in long, rolling waves. The gentle pulsing of her body pulled Caleb right along with her. He whimpered around her nipple, hips stuttering as he spilled another warm rush deep inside his mother.
They stayed like that (him drinking lazily, her stroking his hair) long after the pleasure faded into soft aftershocks.
Eventually the flow of milk slowed. Caleb released her nipple with a wet little pop and rested his cheek over her heart. Elena kissed the top of his head again and again.
"I love you so much it hurts," he mumbled, voice thick.
"I know, baby," she answered, tears in her own eyes. "Mommy loves you more than air. More than anything."
She could feel him softening slowly, but still he didn't leave her. She didn't want him to (not ever).
Outside, the snow had finally stopped. The world was silent, white, and waiting.
Inside, Elena Harper held her son close and felt the mingled warmth of milk on her breast and his seed inside her womb, and decided the world could wait forever.
"Let's stay in bed all day," she whispered. "Just like this. My baby back where he belongs."
Caleb made a small, happy sound and nuzzled closer.
"Yes, Mommy," he breathed. "Only yours. Always."
And under the heavy quilt, still connected, still nursing, still perfectly home, they drifted together into another slow, sunlit loving that had no end and no beginning (only the two of them, and the endless winter that had given them everything).