He sounds so sure that some tiny part of me believes him. Just enough to rest my body against his, for one long moment, and let someone else hold the weight of the world.
“I can help you.” He strokes my hair, and I shudder with another sob. “But the only way to release the pressure without a pump is manually.”
My body freezes. Logic in my mind packs up and leaves on vacation. My legs want to move, but my feet disagree as my stomach flips.
“What do you mean?” I whisper, glancing up at him, already suspecting I know, but rejecting the thought out of hand.
His gray eyes don’t leave mine. “I mean you’re hurting. And I know how to make it stop.”
There’s no smirk. No glint of cocky arrogance. Just certainty, like this is a task he’s handled before without ceremony. Something totally natural like milking a cow.
But I’m not some animal in his barn.
I’m a woman.
A mother.
A visitor in what used to be my home but hasn’t been for years. Technically, still his stepsister.
Pain spreads through my chest, as sweat trickles down my back.
My throat tightens. “That’s not—”
“It’s up to you,” he interrupts, gently but firmly. “I’m not gonna touch you unless you ask.”
That sliver of choice, the recognition of my agency, is unexpected from a gruff, no-nonsense cowboy like Wade.
My body feels like it’s buzzing, every part of me strung too tight. My breasts throb. Even standing here, I can feel the slow, hot drip soaking into my bra, the pressure so intense it’s dizzying.
I close my eyes and breathe in, trying to calm the storm inside me. My sweet boy is too far from me for any relief, and walking out right now will end my hope of getting this job. I can’t risk getting sick. I have no medical insurance and no savings, and the nearest hospital is miles away.
What other option do I have?
This is insane. But I’m already here, and Wade’s being unexpectedly kind. I’m an idiot for putting myself into this position, but I’m handling life by myself, and it’s tough when you don’t have a momma around to advise you.
I step back as Wade releases me, and I study the broadness of his shoulders and the way his jeans cling to his hips. God knows his masculinity is impossible to ignore. But it's the steadiness in his eyes that anchors me. He’s the same Wade I remember from all those years ago. Quiet, capable, always doing what needed to be done, even when no one thanked him for it. He carried more weight than anyone should’ve, looking after the ranch when his father was sick, keeping things moving when everyone else fell apart. I’d catch glimpses of him through the window sometimes, sweating under the sun, muscles straining as he hauled feed or repaired fences, never stopping, never complaining.
That’s the kind of man he is. Trustworthy. Loyal. A rockwhen it counts. Tough and no-nonsense.
If anyone could handle this without twisting it into something dirty or shameful, it’s Wade. This is a biological process. Nothing more. And this man is a farmer. He’s more familiar with the workings of nature than most men.
That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
I can do this as a one-off until I can work out what else to do.
Fuck.Am I really going to do this?
They’re just breasts, I think, even though my whole body is trembling. My nipples are really leaking now, no longer damp but actively dripping, tiny rivulets running down the curve of my breast beneath my bra. My shirt is soaked. I can’t hide it anymore. Desperation overwhelms me.
“Okay,” I say, barely audible. “Just to make this stop.”
That’s all it takes.
Wade reaches out slowly, palms up like he’s approaching a spooked mare. His eyes scan the horizon, then he nods in the direction of the door. “Let’s get you inside.”
A wave of relief hits me as we step from the porch back into the kitchen. I must be red as a beet, and my heart is pounding in my ribcage. Every nerve ending in my body has hit max awareness.
Wade eyes my chest, removing his hat and placing it on the table. “Take off your shirt.”
