Milky & Fertile for My Stepbrother & His Big Daddy (Milky Fertile Fantasies #5)

1. Rue

RUE

I press my palm against my chest, feeling the damp warmth seep through the thin fabric of my bra.

Again. My body doesn't care that I'm standing in a pristine hallway of some luxury mansion of this city, doesn't care that I've never been pregnant or had a baby.

Stress does this now—turns my body into a traitor.

I yank the oversized hoodie tighter around myself, praying the thick cotton will hide the spots.

You've done this before, I tell myself, staring at the door. This is just another mark. Just another job.

Except it's not.

This is Reed Carson. My stepdad. Sort of. Technically.

I've never even met the man.

Mom vanished when I was sixteen, left Dad and Kurt and me without a word, without a backward glance.

Just gone. We found out later she'd been lying to some rich guy, told him she was single, no kids, no baggage.

Played house with him for two whole years while Kurt got sicker and sicker and Dad couldn't afford the prescriptions.

Then she came back six months ago a day after my eighteenth birthday with a check and a smile, spinning some story about how she'd done it all for us.

Sold a property she got from Reed after faking a pregnancy, after making him believe she'd lost his baby.

He'd divorced her the second he found out the truth.

Dad took her back. Of course he did. She had money.

My stomach twists.

Kurt needs this. Kurt, who's twelve and so pale his veins show through his skin like blue rivers. Kurt, who tries to joke even when he's too tired to sit up in that hospital bed. Kurt, who asked me yesterday if the doctors were going to stop coming around.

I can still hear Dad's voice from this morning, low and urgent in the kitchen. "If you want your brother to keep getting his meds, Rue, you do exactly what we tell you. No questions."

Mom's voice, sharper: "Reed owes us. He's got more money than he knows what to do with. You get in there, pose as a maid, make him feel sorry for you, and you get what we need, the money."

They gave me this address and told me to knock.

Another wet warmth spreads across my chest. I bite down hard on my lower lip, twist a curl around my finger until it hurts.

This is for Kurt. This is for Kurt. This is for?—

I knock.

Three sharp raps that echo down the hall, too loud, too final. My hand shakes as I drop it back to my side, fingers curling into the frayed hem of my hoodie.

Footsteps on the other side. Heavy. Deliberate.

My heart hammers so hard I taste copper on my tongue.

The lock turns.

The door swings open, and I forget how to breathe.

Oh no.

Dark eyes lock onto mine—charcoal, nearly black, with a kind of intensity that pins me in place.

He's huge, at least six-three, with shoulders that fill the doorframe and a jaw that looks carved from stone.

Thick black hair falls in messy waves around his face, the kind of effortless chaos that probably takes no work at all but looks like sin anyway.

A hint of stubble shadows his clean-shaven jaw, and when his gaze drops from my face to sweep down my body, I feel it like a physical touch.

My chest burns. Tightens. Another warm leak spreads across my bra, and I want to die.

This has to be Roman. Mom mentioned him this morning, threw out the detail like it didn't matter. "Reed's stepson. Twenty-six. He lives there too, so don't be surprised if you run into him."

She didn't say he looked like this. Didn't warn me that he'd have olive skin stretched over muscles that look like they've been sculpted by hand, or that his left arm would be covered in the most detailed tattoo I've ever seen—roses and thorns and architecture winding from shoulder to wrist in dark, perfect ink.

A thin scar cuts across his right collarbone, pale against the tan.

He wears a fitted black t-shirt and dark jeans, barefoot, and somehow that makes it worse. More real. Like I've interrupted him in the middle of his actual life.

"Can I help you?"

His voice is low, rough-edged, and it does something to my stomach that I absolutely cannot afford right now.

I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.

His eyes narrow slightly, flick down again, and this time they catch on the damp spots I know are showing through the hoodie. My face goes nuclear. I cross my arms over my chest, bunching the fabric tighter, but it's too late. He saw.

Of course he saw.

The wetness spreads faster now, like my body's betraying me on purpose. My nipples tighten and ache, and I feel another warm trickle soak into the already-damp fabric. It's getting worse. Why is it getting worse?

My thighs press together on instinct, but that just makes me aware of the other problem—the slick heat building between my legs, warm and insistent and completely mortifying.

I'm wet. Not just my chest. Down there too, where I absolutely should not be reacting to some stranger in a doorway, stepbrother or not.

Oh God.

I'm in the middle of my cycle. I know I am.

I tracked it this month because I had to, because missing a period when you're trying to survive means one more thing to worry about, one more disaster waiting to happen.

I'm fertile. Right now. Standing here leaking from both ends like my body's decided to stage a full revolt.

My face burns so hot I'm surprised the air doesn't shimmer around me.

Roman's still watching me, those dark eyes cataloging every detail, and I want to sink through the floor and disappear. His gaze lingers on my crossed arms, on the way I'm hunched over myself like I can hide, and then?—

He smiles.

Not a smirk. Not a leer. A real smile, slow and easy, with a hint of something warmer underneath. It softens the hard angles of his face, makes the corners of his eyes crinkle just slightly, and I almost melt. My knees go weak. My breath catches.

Stop it. Stop it right now.

I dig my nails into my palms through the hoodie sleeves, use the pain to drag my brain out of whatever hormone-soaked fog it's drowning in. This is not the time. This is never the time.

"Ah, you're the new maid."

It's not a question. His voice carries recognition now, like something just clicked into place.

He steps back slightly, opens the door wider, and the movement makes his t-shirt pull tight across his chest. I see the edge of another tattoo peeking out from the neckline—dark ink against olive skin—and my traitorous body reacts again.

Another leak. Another pulse of heat between my thighs.

I'm going to die. Right here. Death by humiliation.

"Yes."

My voice comes out smaller than I want, barely more than a whisper. I clear my throat, try again. "Yes. I'm—I'm the new maid."

The lie tastes bitter on my tongue, but I force it out anyway. That's what I'm supposed to be. That's the cover story Mom and Dad drilled into me this morning. Act grateful. Act desperate. Make them feel sorry for you.

Roman steps aside, gestures me in with a tilt of his head. "Come on."

I hesitate for half a breath, then force my legs to move. The entryway swallows me whole—polished marble floors that probably cost more than our entire house, a crystal thing hanging from the ceiling that catches light and throws it everywhere. My sneakers squeak against the stone.

The door clicks shut behind me, and I flinch.

"I've been expecting you." Roman moves past me, easy and confident, like he owns the space. Which I guess he does. Sort of. "Read your resume this morning. You've got experience with housekeeping?"

My brain scrambles. Resume. Right. Mom said she'd send one ahead, some fake work history she threw together to make me look like I actually know what I'm doing. I don't. I've cleaned our tiny house, sure, but this place looks like it needs a staff of ten just to keep the dust from settling.

"Yes." The word comes out steady this time. "Housekeeping. I can do that."

He nods, doesn't press. "My dad's your employer. Reed Carson. He's not home right now—tied up with work. He runs a real estate company, spends most of his time managing properties and deals. He'll be back later, though. You'll meet him then."

Not bragging. Just facts, delivered in that low, rough voice that does things to my spine I wish it wouldn't. He's just telling me the lay of the land, employee to employer's son, nothing more.

I swallow hard, nod again. Keep my arms crossed tight over my chest.

Roman leads me deeper into the house, through rooms that blur together in a haze of expensive furniture and floor-to-ceiling windows.

He points things out as we go—living room, dining room, kitchen that's bigger than our entire first floor back home.

Everything gleams. Everything smells like lemon polish and money.

"You'll handle the usual," he says, glancing back at me over his shoulder. "Dusting, floors, laundry. We've got a service that comes in for deep cleaning twice a month, so you're mostly maintaining between visits. Shouldn't be too bad."

I trail behind him, trying to take it all in, trying to memorize the layout. My chest aches, the damp fabric of my bra chafing with every step. Another warm trickle leaks out, and I bite my lip hard enough to taste copper.

Please don't notice. Please don't notice.

He doesn't say anything. Just keeps walking.

We climb a staircase—curved, wide, the kind you see in movies—and head down a hallway lined with doors. He stops at one near the end, pushes it open.

"This is yours."

I peek inside. A bed. A dresser. A window that looks out over some kind of garden. It's small compared to the rest of the house, but it's easily twice the size of my room back home. Clean white walls. Soft carpet under my feet.

My throat tightens.

Roman leans against the doorframe, crosses his arms over his chest. The movement makes his tattoo flex, all those roses and thorns shifting with muscle. "Get settled today. I'll grab you a list of tasks, but you can start tomorrow. No rush."

I blink at him. "Tomorrow?"