Milky For My Possessive Daddy Dom (Milky Fertile Fantasies #1)

1. Dusty

DUSTY

The window gives with barely a creak, and I slip through, my worn sneakers silent on the polished hardwood. My heart hammers against my ribs so hard I swear the whole neighborhood can hear it.

"Clear," Lena whispers behind me, her breath warm on my neck as she follows.

Mack's already scanning the room, his eyes darting from corner to corner, cataloging exits. I force myself to focus, to remember why we're here. Elias wants five grand by Friday. Five grand or?—

My gaze snags on the portrait above the fireplace.

Oh.

The man staring down at me steals every coherent thought from my head, leaving me frozen like a deer caught in headlights.

Dark hair that looks like someone just ran their fingers through it—thick and wild and perfectly disheveled in a way that makes my fingers itch to smooth it back.

The kind of hair that probably smells like expensive cologne and success, not the cheap drugstore shampoo I steal when I'm lucky.

Stubble shadows a jaw so sharp it could cut glass, giving him this dangerous edge that makes my breath catch in my throat.

But it's his eyes that pin me in place like butterflies under glass—slate gray, intense and burning with an intelligence that makes me feel naked, like they see straight through the painted canvas and into something deeper, something real.

Something I'm not sure I want him to find.

He's got this confidence radiating from the set of his broad shoulders, this quiet, commanding power that fills the entire room even though it's just a painting.

The kind of presence that probably makes boardrooms fall silent and makes people straighten their spines when he walks by.

It makes my stomach flip and twist in ways I don't understand, makes me want to both run and step closer at the same time.

There's something magnetic about him, something that pulls at me like gravity, and I hate how breathless it makes me feel.

He's beautiful. Not pretty-boy beautiful, but rough and real and?—

"Earth to Dusty." Lena's elbow digs into my side. "You gonna steal something or just drool?"

Heat floods my cheeks. "I'm not?—"

"That's Damian Kensington," Mack mutters, rifling through a desk drawer. "Tech billionaire. Owns half of Brooklyn."

My chest tightens. Right. Billionaire. I'm standing in his house, about to rob him, and I can't stop staring at his portrait like some lovesick kid.

"He's hot," I whisper before I can stop myself.

Lena snorts. "Sure, babe. And when's the wedding?"

"I didn't say?—"

"You got that look." She taps her nose ring, grinning. "All glassy-eyed and stupid."

"He's like... ten years older than you," Mack adds without looking up. "And lives in a mansion. You live in a squat with broken windows."

The words land like fists to my gut. I know he's not trying to be cruel—Mack never is—but the truth cuts deep anyway.

Different worlds. Different lives. I'm a street thief stealing to survive, and he's... him.

Untouchable. Probably surrounded by women who know which fork to use at dinner and don't smell like unwashed clothes.

"I know that," I snap, tearing my eyes away from the portrait. My hands shake as I move toward a side table, scanning for anything valuable. "I'm not an idiot."

"Clock’s ticking," Mack warns. "Elias says our time is limited because of the security codes he gave us—the ones he got while working on Kensington’s security team. We’ve got maybe ten minutes before the loop resets."

Right. Elias. Five thousand dollars. The memory of his cold eyes and nicotine-stained fingers crowding my space sends ice down my spine. We're three grand short, and if we don't deliver?—

I grab a silver picture frame, then a crystal paperweight that catches the light. Lena's already stuffing jewelry into her jacket pockets, moving fast and efficient. My pulse thrums in my ears.

Focus. Survive. That's all that matters.

The kitchen gleams under soft pendant lights, all marble counters and stainless steel appliances that probably cost more than I've stolen in my entire life. But it's not the fancy fixtures that stop me cold—it's the smell.

Fried chicken. Golden and crispy, still warm on a platter. A chocolate cake sits untouched on the counter, thick frosting swirled in perfect peaks. A pot of soup on the stove sends steam curling into the air, rich and savory.

My stomach clenches so hard it hurts, growling loud enough that I slap a hand over it. When was the last time I ate? Yesterday morning? The day before?

"Guys," I call out, my voice cracking. "Get in here."

Footsteps behind me, then Lena's low whistle. "Holy shit."

Mack appears in the doorway, eyes going wide. "Is that?—"

"Fried chicken," I breathe. My fingers twitch at my sides. "And cake. And?—"

"We're already robbing the guy." Lena's already moving toward the platter, grabbing a drumstick with both hands. "Might as well."

My mouth floods with saliva. I should feel guilty.

Should feel something other than this desperate, clawing hunger that makes my hands shake as I reach for a piece of chicken.

But the first bite sends flavor exploding across my tongue—crispy skin, juicy meat, seasoning that makes my eyes want to roll back—and I can't remember the last time anything tasted this good.

Mack grabs a fork and digs straight into the cake, not bothering with a plate. Lena's already moved on to the soup, ladling it directly into her mouth. We eat like animals, like street kids who never know when the next meal's coming, because that's exactly what we are.

The chicken disappears in minutes. The cake's half gone before I come up for air, frosting smeared on my fingers. I lick them clean, savoring every bit of sweetness.

"Okay." Lena wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, grinning. "That was worth it."

My stomach's full for the first time in days, warm and heavy in a way that makes me want to curl up and sleep. But we're not done.

"Back to work," Mack mutters, pushing away from the counter.

I nod, forcing myself to move. We still need two grand. I glance back at the empty platter, at the mess we left behind, and something twists in my chest.

Sorry, I think toward the portrait in the other room. Sorry for all of it.

But when I pass the portrait again, I can't help one last glance. Those gray eyes seem to follow me, and for just a second, I let myself imagine what it would be like to be someone else. Someone who belongs in a world like this.

Then Lena hisses, "Move," and the fantasy shatters.

I slip back toward the window, clutching my stolen goods, and don't look back.

My fingers close around a decorative clock from the console table when movement catches my eye down the hall. A door stands open—just a crack—and steam curls out like fog.

My stomach drops.

No. No, he's supposed to be out.

Elias said the house would be empty. That's the whole reason we're here now, at this exact time, while Kensington's at some charity gala across town. But that steam, that sliver of light?—

I should run. Should grab Lena and Mack and bolt before whoever's in there catches us. My feet don't listen. They carry me closer, drawn like a moth to flame, until I'm standing just outside that door, heart trying to break through my chest.

Through the gap, I see him.

Oh god.

Damian Kensington stands under a stream of water in a glass-walled shower, completely bare, and every rational thought evacuates my brain.

Water sluices over shoulders so broad they block out half the bathroom, cascading down a torso carved from stone—each muscle defined like he's been sculpted by someone who believes the human body should be art.

His back flexes as he runs his hands through that wild dark hair, and I watch droplets trace the path down his spine, following the dips and ridges of muscle until they disappear lower.

He turns slightly, giving me a view of his profile, and my knees go weak.

That stubble I saw in the portrait looks even better wet, water catching in the dark shadow along his jaw.

His chest—god, his chest—is broad and solid, with a light dusting of dark hair that trails down his abs.

Each movement he makes speaks of contained power, like a wolf stretching in its den.

There's a scar cutting across his right shoulder, thick and silvery, telling stories I'll never know.

He's a king. That's the only word that fits. Standing in his palace, naked and commanding even when he doesn't know anyone's watching. Everything about him radiates control, confidence, the kind of raw masculine energy that makes something deep in my belly clench and twist.

I'm nothing. A street rat stealing scraps from his table.

But I can't look away.

His hands move over his body—soaping his chest, his arms—and I bite my lip so hard I taste copper.

What would those hands feel like on me? Would they be rough or gentle?

Would he look at me with those intense gray eyes and see something worth keeping, or would I just be another pretty thing to use and discard?

Daddy.

The word floats through my mind unbidden, and shame burns through me hot and fast. I don't even know where it came from—this ache, this desperate wanting for someone strong enough to take care of me, protect me, make all the hard decisions so I don't have to. Someone who'd look at me like I matter.

He'd never want someone like me. Broken. Poor. Dirty.

Heat pools low in my belly, unfamiliar and intense, spreading through me like wildfire.

I've never felt anything like this before—this deep, aching need that makes my thighs press together without permission.

My body responds to just watching him, this stranger I'll never touch, and I feel wetness between my legs, slick and undeniable.