3. Hallie
HALLIE
The sheets cling to my thighs, stiff and damp. My fingers brush against the fabric, and I feel something… sticky.
My breath catches, heat flooding my cheeks.
He was here.
I sit up slowly, my body humming in ways that make my pulse quicken. My tank top is gone, tossed somewhere on the floor, and so are my panties.
My stomach flutters. He touched me. And I—God, I let him. No, I wanted him.
And not just down there. My hands drift to my chest, fingers pressing against the soft swell of my breasts. They're lighter. So much lighter. The pressure that's been building for days is gone, the ache replaced by a strange, hollow satisfaction.
He milked me. The thought sends a shiver down my spine, my nipples tightening despite the warmth of the room.
What does he think of me now? Does he see me as some kind of... freak? A woman leaking milk like a cow, her body betraying her in the most humiliating way?
My throat tightens. I've wanted to hide it. And now here I am, dripping for him, begging for his touch in my sleep.
But then another thought slithers in, dark and forbidden. What if it's not disgust he feels? What if it's... something else? What if he likes it?
The idea makes my skin prickle, my breath coming faster. I've heard of men who get off on this, on the idea of a woman's body leaking.
I bite my lip, my fingers tracing idle circles over my stomach. Stop it. I shouldn't be thinking like this. I should just ask.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, the cool air hitting my skin like a slap. My panties are a lost cause, so I grab a fresh pair from my drawer. The fabric clings to my thighs, still damp from my arousal, and I press my lips together.
What will he say? How far did we go last night?
The thought makes my stomach twist, but not with shame. With anticipation.
I pull on shorts and a loose sweater, the soft cotton brushing against my sensitive nipples, and take a deep breath.
Time to face him. Time to see if there's more to last night—or if it's just my sleep-addled brain playing tricks on me.
The scent of coffee and bacon grease hits me the second I step into the dining room. My stomach growls, but the sound is swallowed by the awkward silence hanging over the table.
My mother sits there, her fingers wrapped around a mug like it's the only thing keeping her grounded. Heath's at the head of the table, his broad shoulders rigid, his steel-blue eyes locked on his plate.
My mother's head snaps up when I'm closer. "Hallie! You're up early." Her voice is too bright, too forced. Like she's trying to pretend everything's normal when we all know it's not.
I slide into my usual seat, keeping my gaze down. "Yeah. Slept early."
Heath doesn't look at me. But I feel his attention like a physical weight, pressing down on me, making it hard to breathe. My fingers tremble as I reach for the coffee pot, the ceramic warm against my skin. I pour too fast, the dark liquid sloshing over the rim and pooling in the saucer.
"You okay, sweetheart?" My mother's voice is softer now, laced with something that might be concern.
I force a smile. "Just tired."
Heath finally speaks, his voice low and rough. "You should eat."
I glance at him, but his eyes are still on his plate. His jaw is tight, the muscle there jumping like he's grinding his teeth. My pulse spikes.
I swallow hard and reach for a piece of toast, my fingers brushing against the crust. My mother chatters about some work thing, her voice a distant hum in my ears.
I nod along, but I'm not listening. I'm too busy watching Heath's hands, big, calloused, as they grip his fork. The way his knuckles whiten just slightly.
I shift in my seat, my thighs pressing together. The fabric of my bra is becoming damp, clinging to me in a way that makes my skin burn. I can feel his gaze on me now, heavy and unrelenting.
My mother's phone buzzes on the table. She glances at it, her lips thinning. "Oh. I have to take this." She stands abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. "Excuse me."
The second she's out of the room, the air thickens. My breath hitches.
Heath's voice cuts through the silence, low and dangerous. "You're leaking again."
The toast turns to ash in my mouth.
I set it down, my fingers curling into my palms.
"So… last night."
He raises an eyebrow.
"What happened?"
His smirk is slow, deliberate, like he's savoring the way my pulse jumps at the base of my throat. "Didn't cross any lines. Just made you feel good."
The words coil tight in my stomach, heat flaring between my thighs.
His gaze drops to my chest, where my nipples press against the thin fabric of my sweater. "I also relieved the pressure. You were hurting. And since it seemed a shame to let it go to waste…" His tongue darts out, wetting his lower lip. "I drank it. Sweetest damn thing I ever tasted."
The words spill out before I can stop them, sharp and breathless. "Have you… have you done this before? Drink breast milk, I mean. Is it some kind of fetish?"
Heath's fork clatters against his plate. His head snaps up, those steel blue eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that steals the air from my lungs. For a long moment, he just stares at me, his chest rising and falling in slow, controlled breaths.
Then, quietly, "No."
My pulse hammers in my throat. "No?"
His jaw tightens. "Never thought about it. Never wanted it." His voice drops, rougher now. "Until you."
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. My nipples tighten beneath my sweater, aching, begging. I shift in my seat, my thighs pressing together as heat pools between them. "Oh."
He leans back in his chair, his gaze never leaving mine. "Should I return the key, Hal?"
The nickname sends a shiver down my spine. I swallow hard, my fingers twisting in the hem of my shorts. "I… I don't know."
A muscle ticks in his jaw. "Is it a one-time thing or do you want me to use the key again?"
My breath catches. I should say no. I should tell him to forget the whole thing, to burn the note, to pretend last night never happened.
But the words die on my tongue, choked out by the idea of his mouth on me, the way his hands had gripped my hips, the way he'd drank from me like I was something precious.
I lift my chin, meeting his gaze. "Keep it."
His eyes darken. "You sure about that?"
I nod, my heart pounding so hard I'm sure he can hear it. "I'm sure."
A slow, dangerous smile curls his lips. "Good." He pushes his chair back, the legs scraping against the floor. "Because I'm not done with you yet."
The door swings open before I can reply.
My mother breezes back in. "Sorry about that," she says, flashing a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "I've got to head out before lunch. Probably be back tomorrow."
The chair legs scrape against the floor as my mother settles back into her seat. Her smile is too wide, too practiced, like she's trying to convince herself everything's fine. I know that look. It's the same one she wears when she's about to disappear again, chasing some new distraction.
Another man. Another empty promise.
I stab at my toast, the fork clinking against the plate. It seems Heath doesn't notice.
How will he react when he finds out?
And how can he do what he did yesterday when he's married to my mother?
Maybe they've fallen out of love.
I want to ask… but I don't want to hear his answer.
And I don't want this to stop.
"So," my mother says, her voice bright and brittle, "what are you two up to today?"
I swallow the dry lump in my throat. "Probably just hanging out. Maybe watch a movie or something." My fingers tighten around my fork, my knuckles turning white.
"Work," Heath replies.
My mother nods, already distracted. She checks her phone, her thumb scrolling absently. "I'm jealous. You're lucky you both get to stay at home."
I force a laugh, but it comes out sharp and hollow. "Yeah. Why don't you do the same?"
She doesn't even flinch. Just tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and reaches for her coffee. "You know how it is. Work's been crazy, and I just need a little time to unwind."
Unwind. Right. Isn't that what she's doing when she stays out all night long.
The scrape of Heath's chair against the floor makes my shoulders jump. He stands, his towering frame casting a shadow over the table.
"Gotta make a call," he rumbles. His fingers brush my shoulder before he walks out. The heat of his touch lingers like a brand.
The second he's gone, the air in the room shifts. My mother exhales like she's been holding her breath, her fingers tapping restlessly against her mug. "He seems to be in a good mood today."
I don't answer. I can't. My throat is too tight, my pulse still hammering from when he touched me.
She sighs, leaning back in her chair. "But he's still the same. All work, no play." A pause. Then, quieter, "You two getting along?"
The question hangs between us, heavy and wrong. I force a laugh, but it sounds brittle even to my own ears. "Yes. Why wouldn't we?"
She studies me for a long moment, her eyes narrowing just slightly. Then she shrugs, like she's dismissing the thought entirely. "Just checking. You know how he is."
My mother's phone buzzes again. She glances at it, her lips curling into a secret smile. "Oh, shoot. I'm going to be late. I'll just grab some things before heading out." She stands. "You have a good day, okay?"
I nod as she exits the kitchen.
As I eat, the toast tastes like nothing. I chew, swallow, repeat. My fork clinks against the plate, too loud in the empty kitchen.