1. Lena #2
I tug the hem of his oversized black t-shirt down over my thighs, but it doesn’t help much.
The soft fabric keeps brushing over my nipples every time I breathe, and they’re still so damn sensitive from the cold rain and from being smashed against his bare chest. I can feel the warm, sticky leak starting again.
Two small wet spots are already blooming on the front of the shirt, right over my nipples. Darker. Obvious.
Ryker nods once, all stiff and military-sharp, then heads toward the kitchen like he needs the distance.
I watch his back as he moves: those wide shoulders, the thick muscles shifting under all that ink, dog tags catching the low light.
Water from his shower still glistens on his skin, sliding down the deep groove of his spine and disappearing into the waistband of those gray sweatpants.
The pants sit low, showing the top of his ass and the sharp V of his hips. God, he’s built like a weapon.
I follow him slowly, arms crossed tight under my breasts, trying to hide the growing wet spots. My bare feet are cold on the hardwood, but the rest of me feels way too hot.
In the kitchen he fills the coffee maker, movements precise and controlled, like everything he does is some kind of drilled procedure.
Navy SEALs probably don’t do anything halfway.
I lean against the counter a few feet away, watching the way his biceps flex even doing something as simple as grabbing mugs.
“I got back from an op two hours ago. Still in that mode. Door opened, footsteps, then I heard someone stripping in my living room. Instinct took over,” he says without turning around right away. His voice is deep, a little rough around the edges.
“I get it,” I say softly. “I shouldn’t have just walked in and… you know.”
He finally turns. Those icy blue eyes lock onto mine, and for a second everything stops.
Then his gaze drops straight to my chest. The wet spots have gotten bigger.
A slow trickle of milk is soaking through the thin cotton, making the fabric cling to the shape of my full, heavy breasts.
My nipples are hard, poking obviously against the material.
Ryker’s jaw tightens. A muscle ticks in his cheek. He stares longer than he should, dark heat flashing across his face before he yanks his eyes back up to my face.
My face burns so hot I think I might actually die. I want the floor to swallow me whole. This is so embarrassing.
He crosses his massive arms over his chest. The move makes his pecs and shoulders look even bigger, tattoos stretching across all that carved muscle. His eyes keep flicking back down to my tits no matter how hard he tries to stop. I can see his throat work as he swallows.
I ramble while the coffee brews. How Beth insisted this was the best place for me right now. How I’m drowning in student loans, can’t afford rent, and Dad’s basically useless. How I thought the house was empty and just wanted to get out of my soaked clothes.
Ryker listens quietly, nodding in the right places, but his intense stare keeps returning to my chest. Every time I move, the wet fabric shifts and his eyes follow.
The air between us feels thick, charged, like right before a thunderstorm.
I press my thighs together under the t-shirt, trying to ignore the warm ache building between my legs.
This is so fucking wrong.
But my body doesn’t care. My nipples throb under his stare. More milk leaks out, soaking the shirt further. I can smell the faint sweet scent of my milk mixing with the brewing coffee. Ryker’s nostrils flare slightly like he notices too.
When the coffee’s ready he hands me a mug, careful not to let our fingers brush. We sit at the kitchen island in heavy silence. He keeps that careful distance, arms still crossed like he’s physically holding himself back. Every few seconds his gaze drops again, darkening.
“You can stay as long as you need,” he finally says, voice low.
The rest of the evening is silent torture.
Ryker disappears into his room for a few minutes and comes back wearing a black compression shirt that molds to every ridge of muscle.
We order takeout because neither of us wants to cook.
We eat on opposite ends of the couch, some random action movie playing on the TV that he’s only half-watching.
I keep catching him glancing at me, at the way his t-shirt still clings to my chest, at my bare thighs curled under me.
By the time we say goodnight, the tension is so thick I can barely breathe.
I take a long, hot shower in the guest bathroom, trying to calm down.
The water feels good on my sore breasts, but touching them makes me whimper softly.
They’re so full. So sensitive. I gently express some milk just to relieve the pressure, watching the white streams run down my body, and I can’t stop imagining Ryker’s mouth there instead. His rough stubble. His tongue.
Stop it, Lena. He’s your stepbrother.
I crawl into the guest bed wearing nothing but one of his clean t-shirts again. It smells like him. I press my face into the fabric and squeeze my thighs together tight.
The house is quiet except for the rain still pattering against the windows.
I lie there in the dark, heart pounding wildly, replaying every second of what happened on the couch.
The way he tackled me so fast and so strong.
How completely he pinned me down. His muscle crushing me into the cushions.
His broad, tattooed chest rubbing all over my bare tits.
The heat of his skin. The way my nipples dragged against him and leaked everywhere.
And God… that cock.
I could feel how huge it was even through the towel. Thick, heavy, and half-hard, pressing right against my inner thigh. It twitches when he realizes it was me. I’ve never felt anything that big in my life. Just the memory makes my pussy clench and throb. I’m soaked between my legs, aching, empty.
I roll onto my side and press my thighs together harder, trying not to touch myself.
He’s right down the hall. Probably lying in his own bed, thinking about how fucked up this is.
He’s honorable. A man who lives by a strict code: courage, integrity, all that SEAL stuff.
He apologized like five times. He tried so hard to look away from my leaking breasts.
But he still looked. He still got hard.
I bite my lip and let out a shaky breath. My breasts feel heavy and full again, nipples tight. I cup one gently, feeling the warm wetness seep against my palm. The thought of Ryker’s icy blue eyes staring at them hungrily makes me whimper into the pillow.
This is bad. Really bad.
He’s my stepbrother. Off-limits. Forbidden. Twelve years older and built like he could break me in half without trying. A man who disappears for months on dangerous missions and probably has a hundred rules about honor and family.
But my body doesn’t care about any of that. It only remembers how it felt to be pinned under all that raw power. How his massive cock felt against my thigh. How dark his eyes got when he saw my milk leaking for him.
I squeeze my thighs together again, rolling my hips just once, chasing a little friction. A soft, needy sound escapes me before I can stop it.
This “safe place” is going to destroy me.