3. Selena
SELENA
I can’t sleep.
Every time I close my eyes I feel the phantom weight of Soren’s hands on my waist, the heat of his chest against my leaking breasts, the low command in his voice when he told me he was taking care of it.
All of it.
The words keep looping in my head until the sheets feel too hot and my breasts ache again, already starting to fill despite the pumping I did earlier.
I slip out of bed a little after midnight, bare feet silent on the hardwood.
The house is dark and quiet.
Mom and Dad’s door is shut in front of mine. Soren is staying in the guest room just down the hall.
I tell myself I’m only going to confront him. Clarify. Set boundaries.
Tell him what happened in the kitchen was a one-time thing, that we can’t let it go any further, that I’m his stepsister and this is already too close to something dangerous.
I stop in front of the guest room door.
My hand lifts, hovering over the wood, but I can’t make myself knock. My heart is pounding so hard I’m sure the whole house can hear it. I’m constantly rehearsing my script inside my head.
You’re my stepbrother and our age gap’s not something I can just pretend doesn’t matter.
Then, I realize it. This is ridiculous. Walking into his room in the middle of the night after what already happened is the opposite of setting boundaries.
I drop my hand and turn to leave. But with just a few steps, I already see someone’s shadow not far away.
Soren is standing at the top of the stairs.
He’s barefoot, wearing only dark sweatpants that sit low on his hips, a glass of water in one hand.
The fabric does nothing to hide the thick, heavy outline of his cock.
His abs are hard and defined even in the low light, the kind of body that makes my mouth water.
He looks so hot it almost hurts to look at him.
The soft hallway light catches on the tattoos that wind up his forearms and spreads more under the muscle of his shoulders.
His two-toned eyes find me instantly and something pleased settles in his expression.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” His voice is quiet.
I freeze. “I was just?—”
He doesn’t wait for the rest of the excuse. He sets the glass on the small table against the wall, closes the distance in three long strides, and wraps his fingers around my wrist. The touch is warm, deliberate, and final.
“Come with me.”
He doesn’t take me to the guest room. He leads me up the third floor, on our way to the old bedroom he used when he first moved into this house.
“Why are we goin?—”
“Quiet. They’ll hear us.”
He doesn’t slow down. His fingers stay wrapped around my wrist as he leads me toward the narrow staircase at the end of the hall. The steps creak softly under our weight as we climb.
“Cupping your breasts isn’t enough,” he says once we’re halfway up, still not looking back. “You’re getting something better.”
Blood rushes straight to my cheeks. My stomach flips but I keep following him anyway. I almost trip on the next step.
We reach the room. The room has sat mostly unused since then.
Dust coats the baseboards. The walls still show the faint outlines where posters once hung.
An old twin mattress rests on the floor in the corner, the quilt faded and slightly musty.
Boxes of seasonal decorations and forgotten things are stacked along one wall.
It needs renovations he never stayed long enough to start.
He pulls me inside, shuts the door, and locks it.
There’s a long, dusty table against the far wall.
Soren walks over, sweeps his forearm across the surface in one hard motion, sending a cloud of dust into the air, then turns back to me.
Before I can speak, he lifts me by the waist and sets me on the edge of the table.
My thighs part around his hips as he steps in close. The wood is cool under my bare legs.
Moonlight filters through the single window. Soren turns to face me. His gaze drops to the front of my thin sleep shirt. It’s already damp in two dark circles where my nipples press into the fabric.
“See?” he says, quiet but certain. “You’re full again.”
I swallow. “I came to talk. To tell you we can’t?—”
“You came because you need relief.” He steps closer until the heat of his bare chest brushes the front of my shirt. “And because you already know the pump isn’t enough anymore.”
The words settle heavy in my chest. Maybe he’s right.
For a second, the thought of his big, warm palm closing over me again, the slow firm squeeze that actually empties the ache instead of just teasing it, makes my nipples tighten even harder into the damp fabric. I hate how much I yearn for it again.
“That’s not why I came,” I try, but my voice comes out weaker than I want. “I came to set boundaries. What happened in the kitchen… it can’t happen again. This is already too close to something we can’t take back.”
Soren doesn’t move away. He just watches me with those mismatched eyes, calm and unreadable.
“You finished?” he asks.
I open my mouth, then close it again. The script I rehearsed in the hallway feels useless now that he’s standing between my thighs.
“I mean it,” I whisper. “We have to stop before it goes any further. I need to leave.”
His hands grip on my waist. Not letting me move a foot. Thumbs stroke once along the soft skin just above my sleep shorts.
“You know what? I don’t believe you. You're leaking through your shirt while you say that,” he says, voice low and certain.
I hate how true it feels. The ache in my breasts is constant, heavy, almost sharp.
Every breath makes the damp fabric pull against my nipples.
I want the relief so badly it scares me.
At the same time, the shame sits thick in my throat.
I’m sitting on a dusty table in the middle of the night with my stepbrother between my legs, and the only thing I can think about is how good his mouth would feel on me.
Slowly this time, he lifts the hem of my sleep shirt. Not in one quick motion. He gathers the fabric in his hands and pulls it up inch by inch, giving me every chance to stop him.
I don’t.
My arms stay locked at my sides as the cool air hits my stomach, then the underside of my breasts, then finally my bare nipples.
He pulls the shirt the rest of the way over my head and drops it on the hard floor.
Cool air hits my swollen breasts. Milk immediately beads at both nipples and starts to trail down.
I should cover myself. Instead, my arms stay where they are.
The way his eyes move over me sends a sudden, sharp pulse between my legs that I’ve never felt around him before. Not like this. Not ever.
“I feel so disgusting,” I whisper, attempting to wrap my forearms around my breasts. “Walking around the house leaking, hiding it, terrified for almost three weeks. I’ve been so overwhelmed I can barely sleep. And now you’re looking at me like this and I don’t know what to do with it.”
“There’s nothing disgusting about these,” he says, voice calm. He moves my arms away with both hands so he can get a full view of my breasts. He doesn’t rush. He just looks.
Soren’s eyes stay on my chest for a long second. The moonlight catches the wet trails of milk running down my skin. His jaw flexes once.
Then he lifts one hand and cups the heavy weight of my right breast, thumb brushing just beneath the nipple.
“They’re big, soft and heavy. Just perfect,” he says.
He leans in and whispers to my ear, voice commanding, “And you’re going to let me handle them.”
The quiet praise sends a warm, unexpected rush through me. Butterflies explode low in my stomach. He reads my face as he sees my cheeks blushing again.
I can’t look away from his mouth which is already slightly parted, a faint sheen of spit on his lower lip.
A few seconds later, Soren finally leans in. He latches onto my right nipple.
The first strong pull is everything.
He sucks deep and steady, tongue working the underside while his hand gently squeezes the heavy flesh.
Thick milk floods his mouth in rhythmic pulses.
The relief is so sharp my back arches and a broken sound slips out before I can stop it.
His other arm slides around my waist, holding me firmly while he drinks.
I should push him away.
I should tell him to stop.
I should remember that he’s my stepbrother and this is already so far past the line I meant to draw.
Instead, my fingers slide into his hair and stay there.
He doesn’t answer when I whisper his name. He just adjusts the angle and keeps going, slow and thorough, as if he has all night.
Every strong draw of his mouth sends another wave of heat straight between my legs. Milk leaks from the other breast and runs down my ribs in warm streams. I can feel it dripping onto the dusty table beneath me.
He switches without hurry. His mouth is wet and glistening when he pulls off the right side. He looks at the left breast for a second, watching a fresh bead form at the tip, then latches on just as hard.
“Fuck,” he murmurs against my skin, voice unhurried. “Look at these. So full they’re leaking the second I touch them. Leaks more once my mouth works on them.”
I bite my lip hard. My hands grip the edge of the table so tightly my knuckles ache.
The shame is still there, thick and hot in my throat, but every strong pull of his mouth makes it thinner, harder to hold onto, until the only thing left is the way my body keeps answering him without my permission. My nipples tighten harder under his tongue. My thighs press closer around his hips.
I keep telling myself this is only about the pressure, only about the relief, but the way my core clenches every time he sucks makes the lie feel thinner and thinner.
He squeezes the right breast while he nurses the left. A fresh stream of milk runs over his fingers and drips onto the floor.
“Oh fuck,” I can’t help but say it.
“That’s it, baby girl. Let it come.”
I can’t stop the small, helpless rock of my hips against him. The hard length of him presses against my core through his sweatpants. The contact makes me gasp. He doesn’t thrust. He just holds the pressure there, steady and deliberate, while he keeps sucking.
A few soft moans escape my mouth. He slowly lifts his head and gives me a quiet look that tells me to be silent. Then he leans back down and takes my left nipple again, sucking harder this time.
I should say stop, but the word never comes out. Instead, my hands stay in his hair and my back arches into his mouth.
The shy, restricted feeling is still tangled up with how much I like the way he eases the pressure, how focused he is, how thorough, how he doesn’t rush or pull away even when I start to shake.
The dual sensation builds too fast. His mouth on one side. His hand working the other. The hard ridge of his cock pressing exactly where I need it. Every strong pull sends another pulse of pleasure low in my belly until the tension coils so tightly I can barely breathe.
Held tight in his arms, the steady, relentless suction of his mouth pushes me over the edge.
I come with a choked gasp against his shoulder, body shaking hard while he drinks through it, never letting up.
The orgasm rolls through me in long, overwhelming waves.
Pure relief and pure pleasure crash together at the same time.
My thighs clamp around his hips. Milk sprays harder into his mouth.
I can’t stop the broken sounds that keep slipping out even when I try to stay quiet.
This is the first time I’ve ever come. First time and already this good.
The realization hits somewhere in the middle of the waves and only makes me shake harder.
No one has ever touched me like this. No one has ever made my body feel this much.
And it’s happening because my stepbrother is nursing me on a dusty table in the middle of the night while the rest of the house sleeps one floor below.
When the waves finally ease he lifts his head just enough to look at me. His mouth is wet with my milk. His eyes are dark and focused.
“Still so full,” he says. “I’m not done yet. You’re going to let me empty these the way they need.”
He slides his arms under me, lifts me clean off the table, and carries me a few steps to the old mattress while his mouth stays latched to my left breast. I cling to his shoulders, still trembling, milk still seeping from the other side onto his chest.
He lays me down on the faded quilt, follows me down, and gathers me fully into his arms. One strong arm stays locked around my back, holding me against him. The other hand works my right breast with slow, deliberate squeezes, then switches to that nipple and sucks harder.
He’s about to remove my sleep shorts when his phone buzzes hard inside his pocket.
Soren shifts just enough to pull it out and I can’t help but glance at the screen as well.
The message is from his PA: Calling in one minute. Important.
He immediately stops and stands up. I sit there on the mattress, panties wet, chest still bare and damp from his mouth.
He reaches for my sleep shirt, hands it to me, while holding his ringing phone that he doesn’t answer yet.
While it rings, he watches me get dressed, wiping the milk from the sides of his lips, staring at me like he’s already decided I’m his. His eyes stay dark with possession.
“This changes everything, little sister,” he says before answering the call and stepping out of the room.