4. Jessica #2
"Fuck," he mutters. "You're so full."
I am. My breasts are heavy and tight, the skin stretched taut, and I can already feel the faint dampness where the milk's started leaking.
It's uncomfortable and embarrassing and—God help me—arousing in a way that makes zero sense and all the sense at once.
His hands cup my breasts fully, those huge palms scorching against my fevered skin, thumbs already dragging slow circles over the swollen, leaking undersides.
The pressure makes fresh beads of milk well up at my nipples, trickling warm and sticky down the curves, and a broken whimper claws its way out of my throat before I can stop it.
“I know,” he murmurs, voice low and gravel-rough, like he’s talking to something sacred instead of my aching, overfull tits. “I’ve got you, baby girl. Just breathe.”
He lowers his head, black stubble scraping deliciously against the sensitive underside of one breast, and then his mouth closes over my left nipple—hot, wet, perfect suction sealing tight around the aching peak.
The first hard pull rips a sharp cry from me. Relief explodes outward, so sudden and sweet it borders on pain, like every tense knot of pressure in my chest is melting into liquid heat that pools low in my belly.
My hands fly to his shoulders, nails digging into the thick muscle there through his shirt as he works me with long, rhythmic sucks, his tongue flicking and swirling over the hypersensitive bud while his other hand kneads my right breast with just the right amount of roughness.
“Jordan—” His name fractures on my tongue.
He hums in response, the deep vibration shooting straight down my spine and detonating between my thighs. My back arches hard off, pushing more of my tit into his greedy mouth.
He switches sides without warning, lips shiny with my milk as they latch onto the right nipple now, sucking harder, hungrier, like he’s starving for me.
The ache dissolves completely into something filthy and molten, a needy throb that has nothing to do with medical bullshit and everything to do with the way his stubble rasps red tracks across my pale skin, the way his free hand is sliding higher up my bare thigh, rough fingertips dragging over trembling flesh, claiming every inch like he owns it.
Like he’s feeding from me because he needs this—needs the taste of me on his tongue, the weight of me in his hands—not because I’m broken and leaking and desperate.
I’m soaked. My pussy is drenched, slick arousal coating my inner thighs, the scent of it sharp and sweet in the air between us.
His fingers creep closer, brushing the crease where leg meets cunt, and my hips jerk involuntarily, chasing that touch while fresh milk spurts across his tongue.
“Please,” I whisper, the word cracking open like something fragile.
Inside my head, a storm rages—this is insane, this is Jordan fucking Scott on his knees between my legs drinking from me like I’m his morning protein shake, and I want more, I want him to ruin me, I want to come so hard I forget my own fucked-up life.
I don’t even know what I’m begging for anymore, just that I’ll die if he stops.
He pulls off my nipple with an obscene, wet pop, lips glistening, pupils blown so wide his gray eyes look black. A thin string of milk stretches between his mouth and my breast before it breaks. “Please what?”
My face burns, but I hold his stare, chest heaving, nipples shiny and red and still leaking slow trails down my ribs. “Touch my pussy.”
His mouth curves—not quite a smirk, something darker, more territorial, like I just handed him the keys to every locked part of me. “Good girl.”
His hand slides between my legs immediately, thick fingers finding me drenched and swollen, parting my slick folds with zero hesitation.
I cry out at the first firm stroke over my clit, the sound raw and needy. He circles it with his thumb—slow, deliberate, maddening—while his mouth returns to my breast, sucking deep pulls that match the rhythm between my thighs.
Pleasure and relief and too fucking much crash through me like a Category Five, every nerve lighting up at once.
“That’s it,” he growls against my wet skin, the words vibrating straight into me. “Let me take care of you, baby girl. Let me make you feel good.”
I’m already trembling, thighs shaking around his broad shoulders, hips rocking shamelessly into his hand. His fingers slide inside me—two thick ones stretching me open in one smooth thrust—and I clench hard around the intrusion, velvet walls fluttering as he works me wider.
The wet, filthy sounds of his fingers pumping into my soaked cunt fill the room, louder than my gasping breaths.
“So tight,” he mutters against my nipple, almost to himself, voice wrecked with something like awe. “So fucking perfect for your stepdad.”
He curls those fingers, and I come with a shattered scream of his name, nails raking down his shoulders, body seizing as the orgasm rips through me in sharp, pulsing waves that seem to go on forever.
Milk spurts from my breasts in time with every contraction, coating his chin, dripping onto his jersey, but he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow.
His mouth stays latched, sucking harder, while his fingers keep fucking me through it, drawing out every last shudder until the first climax barely fades before he’s building another—faster, meaner, more relentless—until I’m sobbing, shaking apart in his arms, falling so hard I don’t know if I’ll ever hit the ground.
When he finally pulls away, I'm boneless. Wrecked. My chest is damp, my thighs are trembling, and Jordan is looking at me like I just gave him something priceless.
"Better?" he asks.
I laugh—a breathless, ragged sound. "Yeah."
He stands, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and I watch him, my heart still pounding, my body still buzzing, and I think: now.
"Have time for a quick dip?" I ask.
His eyes narrow. He knows. I can see it in the way his jaw tightens, the way his gaze drops to my mouth and lingers.
"Practice can wait," he says.
We walk through the penthouse in silence—past the open kitchen, past the floor-to-ceiling windows, past the living room where the city spreads out below like a circuit board.
I'm wearing the T-shirt again, nothing underneath. Jordan's beside me, his hand at the small of my back, not guiding, just there, and I'm hyperaware of every step.
This is happening.
The glass doors to the pool area slide open, and warm, humid air wraps around us. The pool glows blue in the morning light, the water still and smooth, surrounded by glass walls that make it feel like we're floating above the city. Private. Enclosed. Perfect.
I pull the T-shirt over my head and drop it on a chair. Naked. No hesitation.
Jordan stares.
"You coming?" I ask, and my voice is steady even though my heart is trying to break out of my ribs.
He strips in three seconds flat—shirt, pants, boxers—and then he's in the water, moving toward me with the controlled physicality of a man who's spent his life being faster and stronger than everyone else.
I step into the pool. The water is warm, almost hot, and it rises around my thighs, my waist, my chest as I wade deeper. Jordan catches my hand, pulling me toward him, and the distance between us disappears.
His hands go to my hips. Mine go to his shoulders.
"Jessica," he says, and there's a question in it.
I answer by kissing him.
His lips part under mine.
For one second, neither of us moves—just the press of mouths, the heat between us, the water lapping against our chests. Then his hand slides up my spine and anchors at my nape, and the kiss deepens.
His tongue sweeps into my mouth, slow and thorough, tasting me like he has all the time in the world. I kiss him back, matching his rhythm, my fingers threading into his wet hair. He tastes clean, faintly like mint, and something underneath that's just him.
When he pulls back, his pupils are blown wide, his breathing ragged.
"You sure?" he asks.
"Yes."
He searches my face. Whatever he finds there satisfies him, because he nods once and lifts me, carrying me through the water to the shallow end where steps descend into the pool. He sits on the top step, water lapping at his hips, and positions me on his lap, my knees bracketing his thighs.
His cock presses against my stomach—thick, hard, impossible to ignore.
"You're in control," he says, hands steadying my waist. "Take as long as you need. Tell me if it hurts."
I nod, my heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat. I reach between us, wrapping my fingers around him. He's big, hot and velvet-soft over steel, and a flicker of nerves sparks through me.
"Easy, baby girl." His thumbs stroke circles on my hipbones. "We'll make it fit."
I position him at my entrance, the blunt head nudging against me, and start to sink down.
The pressure is immediate. My body resists, too tight, and I gasp as the stretch intensifies, burning at the edges. I stop, breathing hard.
"Breathe," Jordan murmurs. "You're doing so good. Just breathe."
I force air into my lungs and sink another inch. The burn sharpens into pain—a tearing sensation that makes me flinch—and then something inside me gives. He slides deeper, filling me in one slow, overwhelming push.
I cry out, my nails digging into his shoulders.
He freezes. "Jessica?—"
"I'm okay." My voice cracks. "I'm okay."
He holds still, buried halfway inside me, his jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jump. "You feel perfect," he says roughly. "So fucking perfect, baby girl. You're taking your stepdad so well."
The praise melts something inside me. I sink lower, working myself onto him inch by inch, until he's fully seated and I'm so full I can't breathe.
The pain is still there, a dull ache layered under something else—pressure and heat and the startling intimacy of being connected to him like this.
"There you go," he breathes. "All of me. Fuck, you're tight."
I sit there, adjusting, my thighs trembling. His hands roam my back, my sides, soothing and grounding me. Then his gaze drops to my chest, and his expression darkens.