Accidentally Milked & Pregnant By My Big Stepbrother (Milky Fertile Fantasies #2)

1. Mira

MIRA

I pound on the heavy oak door, my knuckles stinging with each hit. Sweat beads down my spine despite the cool evening air, and I shift my weight from foot to foot, trying to ignore the damp warmth spreading across my bra.

Not now. Not again.

My jaw clenches as I press my forearm against my chest, praying the pressure will somehow stop the leak. Six months of this nightmare, and it only gets worse when I'm wound up—which I am, because Mom guilt-tripped me into coming here instead of letting me spend spring break literally anywhere else.

The wetness spreads anyway. Of course it does.

I yank my denim jacket tighter across my tank top, grateful I wore dark colors.

My fingers tremble as I button it up, and I bite down hard on my lower lip.

The doctors found nothing wrong. My hormone levels came back normal.

But nobody warned me that stress makes it worse, that my cycle turns me into a leaking faucet right around ovulation.

Which is now. Perfect timing.

The heavy oak door swings open with a soft creak of hinges, and suddenly the entire world seems to tilt on its axis.

Everything stops. My heart, my breath, the anxious fidgeting with my jacket buttons—all of it freezes in place like someone hit pause on my entire existence.

Even the evening breeze dies away to nothing, leaving only the sound of blood rushing in my ears and the distant hum of crickets somewhere in the darkness behind me.

The guy in his thirties standing in the doorway is...

I can't even form a coherent thought. He's huge—not just tall, but built like he could snap a tree in half.

Dark eyes lock onto mine, framed by thick lashes and a brow with a thin scar cutting through it.

His short beard traces a sharp jaw, and when he shifts his weight, the porch light catches on the black ink covering both massive arms.

My mouth goes dry.

"Hey." His voice rumbles low and warm, and a smile breaks across his face that makes my knees weak. "You must be Mira."

I blink. Words. I need words.

"I—yeah. Hi."

Smooth, Mira. Real smooth.

He extends one huge, calloused hand, and I take it on autopilot, my brain still struggling to process the vision of masculinity standing before me.

His grip completely swallows mine, firm and rough with years of hard work, the contact sending an unexpected jolt of heat straight up my arm and settling somewhere low in my belly that makes my breath catch.

"Matthew." That smile deepens, transforming his entire face and showing a flash of perfectly white teeth against his tanned skin.

The way he says his own name is casual, confident, like he's completely unaware of the effect he's having on my nervous system.

"Matthew Caldwell, your stepbrother. You can call me Matt. "

The words hit me like a bucket of ice water dumped over my head.

My smile drops so fast it probably looks cartoonish. My hand goes completely limp in his massive grip, all the warmth and electricity from seconds before replaced by a cold, sinking dread in the pit of my stomach.

"Stepbrother," I repeat, the word coming out flat and hollow, like I'm testing how it sounds in my own voice. Like maybe if I say it differently, it won't be true.

"Yeah." He releases my hand with what seems like reluctance, his fingers trailing against my palm for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary before he steps back to create space for me to enter.

The loss of contact feels strangely acute.

"Sorry I missed the wedding—I was in Europe on some contract job that ran longer than expected. Just got back a few weeks ago."

Right. The stepbrother Mom mentioned in passing during one of our rushed phone calls, her voice distracted as she rattled off details about her new life.

The mysterious thirty-four-year-old son who was conveniently absent when she married Richard, just a name dropped casually into conversation along with mentions of the farm and how happy she was.

And of course he's gorgeous. Of course the first guy to make my pulse race in months is completely, entirely off limits.

My jacket feels too tight. My bra is definitely soaked through now, and I cross my arms over my chest as I step past him into the foyer. His scent hits me—clean sweat, soap, something woodsy and masculine that makes my head spin.

I hate everything about this.

"Mom here?" I ask, not looking back at him.

"In the kitchen with Dad."

Dad. Right. His dad. My stepfather. We're family now.

I swallow hard and head toward the voices, my wet bra chafing with every step.

This is going to be a long visit.

I barely make it three steps into the kitchen before Mom's arms wrap around me, pulling me into one of her signature too-tight hugs that makes my chest ache in all the wrong ways.

"Oh, honey! I'm so glad you made it safely." She pulls back, hands on my shoulders, beaming like I just came home from war instead of a four-hour drive. "Richard, come say hello to Mira."

My stepfather rises from the farmhouse table, a broad-shouldered man with kind eyes and work-worn hands. He crosses the kitchen and extends one of those hands toward me.

"Welcome home, Mira." His smile is genuine, warm even. "We're happy to have you."

I shake his hand, forcing my lips into something that probably passes for a smile in poor lighting.

"Thanks."

Mom's still beaming, oblivious to the tension coiling in my shoulders. "Richard was just telling me about all the work you'll be doing on the farm. Isn't that wonderful? You'll learn so much."

My jaw clenches. I can feel Matt's presence behind me, a wall of heat and muscle that makes my skin prickle with awareness I absolutely cannot afford to feel.

"Thanks for the warm welcome." The words come out flat, edged with the sarcasm I can't quite swallow. "I can't wait to trade my actual life for two months of manual labor. I'm sure it'll look great on my resume, right next to 'professional disappointment.'"

The kitchen goes silent.

Richard's smile falters. Matt shifts behind me, and I hear the soft exhale that might be disapproval or amusement—I can't tell which.

Mom's face goes tight, her eyes flashing with that particular brand of maternal fury I know too well.

"Mira, sweetie." Her voice is sugar-sweet poison. "Can I talk to you outside for a moment?"

It's not a question.

She grabs my elbow and steers me out through the mudroom, past a row of beat-up boots and work jackets, onto the back porch where the evening air hits my overheated face like a slap.

The second the door clicks shut, her grip on my arm tightens.

"What the hell was that?" She hisses, eyes blazing. "You promised me—promised—you'd be polite."

"I am being polite." I yank my arm free, crossing both over my damp chest. "I said thank you."

"Don't." She jabs a finger toward my face. "Don't you dare play games with me, Mira Jacobs. You owe me. You owe Richard. You owe Matt for putting up with this."

My stomach twists, guilt and resentment warring in my chest.

"I didn't ask to be here."

"No, you asked me to keep funding your little party lifestyle while you skipped class for months.

" Her voice drops low, dangerous. "Do you have any idea how humiliating it was when the dean called me?

How stupid I felt, writing those checks while you were off doing God knows what?

You're already twenty-two, Mira—an adult.

You need to grow up, for Christ's sake."

Heat floods my face. I look away, jaw clenched so tight my teeth ache.

"So here's the deal." Mom steps closer, her tone brooking no argument.

"You want your allowance back? You want me to pay for next semester?

Then you smile. You say 'yes sir' and 'thank you' to Richard.

You do whatever Matt asks you to do on that farm without complaint.

And you keep your mouth shut about how unfair you think this is. "

My nails dig into my palms. "Two months."

"Two months of actual work, actual responsibility, and actual respect for the people who are bending over backward to help you grow up." She tilts her head, eyes hard. "Or you can go back to school right now, broke and on your own. Your choice."

I swallow hard, tasting bitterness on my tongue.

"Fine."

"Fine, what?"

My jaw aches. "Fine. I'll be polite."

"Good girl." Mom's smile returns, bright and sharp. "Now let's go back inside, and you're going to apologize."

My chest throbs, a dull ache that spreads across both breasts as wetness seeps faster through the thin fabric of my bra. I can feel it soaking into my tank top now, cold and mortifying against my skin.

"I understand." The words come out sharp, clipped. "Can I go now?"

Mom's eyes narrow, but before she can launch into another lecture, I spin on my heel and yank open the door.

"Mira—"

"I said I understand." I don't look back, my voice tight with barely controlled rage. "I'll be good. I'll smile. I'll do whatever Matt or Richard wants. Happy?"

I storm through the mudroom, past the kitchen where Richard and Matt are probably still sitting in awkward silence, and down the hall. My hands shake as I search for a bathroom, any bathroom, anywhere I can lock myself away from this nightmare.

Ever since Dad died, everything fell apart. Mom couldn't wait to move on, to play house with Richard and his perfect farm and his perfect son. She didn't even pretend to grieve—just packed up our old life like it was trash and dove headfirst into this new one.

And I'm supposed to what? Be grateful? Smile and nod while she erases everything we had?

I find a small bathroom tucked under the stairs and slam the door behind me.

My reflection stares back from the mirror above the sink—flushed cheeks, wild curls, eyes bright with unshed tears. I look away fast, yanking off my jacket and then my tank top.

The damage is worse than I thought. Two dark, spreading stains mark the front of my gray sports bra, and when I peel it away from my skin, fresh drops bead at my nipples.