The Consultant’s Postpartum Trap - Chapter 1: Chapter 1
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"Your breasts are severely engorged... this could cause permanent damage..."
I lay facedown on the bed, stripped bare and burning with feverish heat, as the lactation consultant pinned my legs beneath him. His expression darkened with something primal—something far from professional.
He'd promised this would be a therapeutic massage to relieve my engorgement. But this? This wasn't in any medical handbook. Humiliation and thrill twisted together in my chest.
Sophia Laurent had just become a mother.
Everyone showered me with congratulations, but no one knew the agony I endured. My milk refused to flow properly. Every time my newborn latched on, white-hot pain shot through me, leaving me trembling. Sometimes, there was even blood.
When my best friend found out, she insisted I see her lactation consultant.
"His hands are magic," she swore. "Fixed me in one session."
Desperate, I booked a home appointment immediately.
The swelling had become unbearable. My breasts were rock-hard, throbbing with every heartbeat. Even the brush of fabric against my skin made me gasp. Getting dressed felt like torture.
Two days later, at exactly 3 PM, the consultant arrived.
I opened the door—and froze.
I hadn't expected a man.
Early thirties, sharp features, dressed in crisp white linen. Younger than I'd imagined. More... attractive than I'd expected.
Doubt prickled at me. Could a man—this man—really know what he was doing? And the intimacy of it... A stranger touching me there? The thought alone was scandalous.
He must have seen the hesitation in my eyes. With a calm, practiced smile, he said, "Don't worry, Mrs. Laurent. I'm fully certified. Twenty years of experience. I guarantee relief."
Then, almost too casually: "Of course, if you're uncomfortable, we can cancel. But the deposit is non-refundable."
My jaw tightened. I let him in.
Private lactation consultants didn't come cheap. That deposit alone was a small fortune. If I hadn't already tried—and failed—with three other specialists, I wouldn't have called him.
But my best friend had raved about him like he was some kind of miracle worker. If he were shady, she wouldn't have recommended him.
I exhaled slowly. Maybe pregnancy had made me paranoid. My husband kept saying I'd become overly cautious.
The consultant—Ethan Roscente—slipped on disposable slippers without being asked.
"Where would you prefer, Mrs. Laurent?"
He didn't elaborate. He didn't need to.
Logically, I'd already decided to trust him. But now, faced with the reality, my pulse quickened.
My husband was at work. Only the baby and I were home—and she was sound asleep in the nursery.
I hesitated between the bedroom and the living room.
Living room. Definitely the living room.
Ethan might look polished, but I wasn't taking chances. Out here, if anything felt off, I could bolt for the door.
He simply nodded, unfazed.
After laying a sterile pad on the couch, he washed his hands meticulously.
"Please lie down, Mrs. Laurent."
I took a shaky breath, kicked off my shoes, and lowered myself onto the pad.
My best friend swore this man could help me.
But as his hands hovered near my bare skin, one question burned in my mind—
Was he really here to heal me... or to take advantage?
I lay facedown on the bed, stripped bare and burning with feverish heat, as the lactation consultant pinned my legs beneath him. His expression darkened with something primal—something far from professional.
He'd promised this would be a therapeutic massage to relieve my engorgement. But this? This wasn't in any medical handbook. Humiliation and thrill twisted together in my chest.
Sophia Laurent had just become a mother.
Everyone showered me with congratulations, but no one knew the agony I endured. My milk refused to flow properly. Every time my newborn latched on, white-hot pain shot through me, leaving me trembling. Sometimes, there was even blood.
When my best friend found out, she insisted I see her lactation consultant.
"His hands are magic," she swore. "Fixed me in one session."
Desperate, I booked a home appointment immediately.
The swelling had become unbearable. My breasts were rock-hard, throbbing with every heartbeat. Even the brush of fabric against my skin made me gasp. Getting dressed felt like torture.
Two days later, at exactly 3 PM, the consultant arrived.
I opened the door—and froze.
I hadn't expected a man.
Early thirties, sharp features, dressed in crisp white linen. Younger than I'd imagined. More... attractive than I'd expected.
Doubt prickled at me. Could a man—this man—really know what he was doing? And the intimacy of it... A stranger touching me there? The thought alone was scandalous.
He must have seen the hesitation in my eyes. With a calm, practiced smile, he said, "Don't worry, Mrs. Laurent. I'm fully certified. Twenty years of experience. I guarantee relief."
Then, almost too casually: "Of course, if you're uncomfortable, we can cancel. But the deposit is non-refundable."
My jaw tightened. I let him in.
Private lactation consultants didn't come cheap. That deposit alone was a small fortune. If I hadn't already tried—and failed—with three other specialists, I wouldn't have called him.
But my best friend had raved about him like he was some kind of miracle worker. If he were shady, she wouldn't have recommended him.
I exhaled slowly. Maybe pregnancy had made me paranoid. My husband kept saying I'd become overly cautious.
The consultant—Ethan Roscente—slipped on disposable slippers without being asked.
"Where would you prefer, Mrs. Laurent?"
He didn't elaborate. He didn't need to.
Logically, I'd already decided to trust him. But now, faced with the reality, my pulse quickened.
My husband was at work. Only the baby and I were home—and she was sound asleep in the nursery.
I hesitated between the bedroom and the living room.
Living room. Definitely the living room.
Ethan might look polished, but I wasn't taking chances. Out here, if anything felt off, I could bolt for the door.
He simply nodded, unfazed.
After laying a sterile pad on the couch, he washed his hands meticulously.
"Please lie down, Mrs. Laurent."
I took a shaky breath, kicked off my shoes, and lowered myself onto the pad.
My best friend swore this man could help me.
But as his hands hovered near my bare skin, one question burned in my mind—
Was he really here to heal me... or to take advantage?
End of The Consultant’s Postpartum Trap Chapter 1. Continue reading Chapter 2 or return to The Consultant’s Postpartum Trap book page.