His eyes lower to my chest.
I already know what he’s going to say before he says it.
“Youneed some relief?”
The way he says it carries an additional layer that isn’t about being drained but being fulfilled. I feel the answer before I speak it: The pressure behind my nipples. The dampness between my legs. The ache everywhere.
“Yes.”
Wade stands slowly, walking toward me with all his swagger out in full force, dark t-shirt straining across his chest.
“I’ll take care of you,” he says and lifts his chin. “Come upstairs.”
***
My room is small and clean. I made the bed and rested my bag in the corner. I didn’t bring much with me. Just a change of underwear, a spare tank, and a toothbrush in case I’d have to stay overnight. It still smells like someone else’s soap in here.
Wade closes the door behind us. He looks at me for a long moment like he’s trying to decide how this should go, his jaw working. Then he steps closer and peels my shirt up slowly like he’s done it a thousand times and it’s perfectly natural to see his stepsister’s breasts after breakfast. I lift my arms and he strips the shirt over my head.
I’m not wearing a bra, and when I look down, a trickle of milk is already leaking from one side.
He cups both breasts, thumbs brushing my curves,assessing. It feels clinical in a way, but tender too. “Still sore?”
I nod.
He leans down, latches onto one nipple, andsucks. The relief is instant, sharp and sweet, making me gasp. His hands hold me firmly as the milk flows faster this time, as though my bodyremembershow much greedier he is.
He groans, his rough hand squeezing my hip, and I tip my head back, surrendering to how good he makes me feel. But this time, he does more than just milk me.
His hand drops lower, cupping my ass, squeezing tentatively like he’s waiting for me to object. I don’t. The pressure feels good and knowing a man like Wade, so big, strong and in control, wants me this way does funny things to my insides. I can’t hide from him like this. My body is bared to him. What we’re doing is as intimate as any kind of sex. My previous orgasm, intentional or not, splintered any kind of boundary between us.
Still roaming, his hand slips between my thighs, palm firm against the soft fabric of my white cotton panties. His heat sears through, awakening my clit. I gasp again, louder, and his responding groan vibrates against my nipple. This is so much more than relief of a biological problem—but even though doubt flickers through me, my body craves what I know he can give me.
His fingers press against my panties, testing. Then they tease at the edge of the fabric, meeting slick flesh, slipping inside where I’m warm and wet. Embarrassingly wet.
And he knows it.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, his tongue trailing the underside of my nipple. “All cream and honey.”
I grip his shoulder with one hand, the edge of the dresserwith the other. He sucks harder. His fingers work deeper. The ache is unbearable. The pleasure is worse.I’m not just a body responding to his hands. I’m a woman craving what I haven’t had in too long, aching for attention, comfort and connection.
But this is wrong. He’s my stepbrother. This is a job I desperately need, and now I’m coming apart under the expert touch of a man who’s supposed to be giving me a second chance. I’m risking everything.
My body gives up before my mind does.
I don’t mean to come. Not like this with his mouth still drawing milk and his fingers stroking that deep spot that makes mecryout, but I do. It tears through me in a rush, making my hips jerk and my milk let down faster, thighs clenching around his wrist. I hear myself moan his name from a distant plain where harps play softly and stars flicker in a midnight sky.
Wade keepsfeedingwhile I fall apart.
Only when I go soft against him, boneless and panting, does he finally pull back. Wipes his mouth. Straightens.
His eyes are dark and satisfied.
“You taste better than anything, Joelle, and I meananything!”
I laugh, flushed and dizzy, flushing harder as he sucks the fingers one by one that were moments ago between my legs.
I’m trembling, my knees weak as I steady myself against the furniture, my pussy pulsing hard around nothing. The front of his jeans is tented but he gives no other indication that he’s seeking satisfaction of any kind, and I don’t understand why. Doesn’t he want me? Is this really about him helping me relieve my littleproblem? Wade never struck me as a man overflowing with altruism.
