4. Clara
CLARA
Three days. Seventy-two hours of avoiding Callum's gaze across the breakfast table, taking the bus to campus, locking my bedroom door at night.
Three days of pretending nothing happened in his room, that I can't still feel the ghost of his fingers inside me, his tongue on my clit, his mouth sucking the milk from my breasts.
Three days of lying to myself.
The library is supposed to be safe. Quiet. Anonymous rows of study carrels where I can disappear into my biochemistry textbook and forget that my stepbrother made me come so hard I cried. That I fled his room with my pussy still clenching from the orgasm he'd ripped from me.
The ache starts during page forty-three.
At first it's familiar—the gradual swelling, the pressure building behind my nipples. I shift in my seat, press my forearm subtly against my chest. Twenty minutes until the end of my study block. I can make it twenty minutes.
Page forty-seven. The pressure intensifies, hot and urgent. My breasts feel enormous, straining against my bra. I glance down and my stomach drops. Two small wet spots darken the fabric of my pale blue t-shirt, right where my nipples press against the cotton.
No. Not here.
I grab my biochem textbook and hold it against my chest, angling my body away from the handful of other students scattered through the stacks. My pulse hammers. I need to get to a bathroom, need to express the milk before?—
The sensation hits without warning. A sudden, overwhelming let-down—that's what the internet called it.
My milk releases in a hot rush, flooding through the fabric of my bra, soaking through my shirt in spreading dark patches that I can't hide, can't stop.
Within seconds the front of my shirt is drenched, clinging wetly to my breasts, the outline of my nipples visible through the sodden cotton.
"Oh god—" The whisper tears from my throat.
I press the textbook harder against my chest and bolt from my seat, head down, moving fast toward the exit. Milk continues to leak in steady streams, warm and wet, and I can feel it beginning to soak through the waistband of my jeans. My face burns. Someone will see. Everyone will see.
"Hey, Clara!"
No.
I recognize the voice—Brett, the guy from the bus stop, the one Callum pulled me away from. He materializes in the aisle ahead of me, blocking my path with that easy smile that probably works on most girls.
"I've been meaning to catch you. You're always rushing off?—"
"Not now." I try to step around him, but he shifts with me, oblivious.
"Come on, just give me two minutes. There's a party this weekend and I thought?—"
"Move." My voice cracks. The textbook slips slightly and I clutch it tighter, praying he can't see the disaster happening beneath it. Fresh warmth trickles down my stomach. I'm going to start dripping onto the floor.
His expression flickers with confusion, maybe a touch of offense. "Jesus, I'm just trying to?—"
I shove past him and run.
The library doors burst open under my hands and I stumble into the bright morning sunlight, gasping. Students mill across the quad. I need to get to my car, to somewhere private, anywhere but here?—
A black Porsche idles at the curb directly in front of the library entrance.
Callum's car.
The passenger door swings open before I reach it. I dive inside and yank it shut, my textbook falling to the floor, both arms crossing over my soaked chest. The wet fabric clings obscenely. I can't breathe.
"Drive," I choke out. "Please just drive."
The engine purrs. Callum pulls away from the curb smoothly, one hand on the wheel, and doesn't speak. Doesn't ask. He just drives, taking us away from campus, away from the students who might have seen, away from the humiliation burning through my veins.
I press my face against my raised knees and try not to sob.
"Clara."
His voice is quiet. Steady. Not pitying.
"How did you know?" I whisper. "I didn't call you."
"I was already on my way." He turns onto a narrow road that winds up through the hills overlooking the city. "I've been parking near campus the last few days. Watching."
I should be angry. Should accuse him of stalking, of being a controlling creep. But all I feel is overwhelming relief that he was there, that I didn't have to face this alone.
"It just—it happened so fast. I couldn't stop it."
"I know." His hand moves to my knee, warm and solid. "We're almost there."
There turns out to be a secluded overlook halfway up the hillside, a small dirt pullout surrounded by eucalyptus trees that screen us from the road. He parks and kills the engine. Silence settles, broken only by my ragged breathing and the distant sound of traffic below.
"Backseat," Callum says gently. "Come on."
I should protest. Should maintain some shred of dignity. But my breasts ache with vicious intensity, swollen to the point of pain, and when I glance down I can see fresh milk still beading at my nipples through the wet fabric.
I climb over the console into the backseat. He follows, his large frame filling the space, making everything feel smaller and more intimate. The tinted windows turn the sunlight dim and amber.
His hands move to the hem of my soaked t-shirt. "I need to take this off."
I nod mutely. He peels the wet cotton up and over my head, and I'm left in just my bra—also soaked, the white fabric translucent and clinging. My milk has leaked so much that it's pooled in the cups. I look down at myself and humiliation crashes over me in a fresh wave.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. "This is so disgusting?—"
"Stop." The command in his voice makes my head snap up. His blue eyes pin me in place, fierce and certain. "Don't ever apologize for this. You're not disgusting, Clara. You're perfect."
My throat tightens. "How can you even say that? I'm leaking everywhere like some kind of?—"
"Like a woman whose body is doing something completely natural." His fingers move to the clasp of my bra. "And like a woman who needs relief. So let me help you."
The bra falls away. My breasts spill free, heavy and swollen, the nipples dark and beaded with milk. A fresh trickle runs down the curve of my left breast and I watch Callum's gaze follow it, his jaw tightening.
"Lean back," he says quietly.
I ease back against the leather seat. He shifts closer, his body angled over mine, and cups both breasts in his large hands. The first squeeze makes me gasp—relief and ache all tangled together. Milk streams from my nipples, running over his fingers in warm rivulets.
"That's it," he murmurs. "Let it go."
He works with steady, rhythmic pressure, his palms and fingers kneading my swollen flesh, coaxing the milk out in steady flows.
It's methodical at first, clinical even, but as the pressure eases and pleasure begins to seep through the relief, everything changes.
His thumbs brush across my nipples deliberately. His breathing deepens.
"You have no idea," he says, voice rough, "how it feels to see you like this. To know I'm the only one who gets to do this for you."
"Callum—"
"The only one who touches you. Takes care of you." He squeezes harder, milk spurting against his palms. "Mine to look after."
The heat in his eyes, the possessive edge in his voice—it makes my thighs clench. Makes my pussy flutter with remembered sensation. I shouldn't want this, shouldn't let my stepbrother's hands on my breasts feel like foreplay, but god help me, it does.
His right hand moves to my left breast, and he lowers his head.
"No—" But my protest dies when his mouth seals over my nipple.
The first pull of suction makes my back arch. He drinks in deep, steady draws, his tongue working my nipple, and the pleasure is so intense it borders on pain. I grip his hair with both hands—not sure if I'm pulling him away or holding him there.
He pulls back just long enough to rasp, "You taste so fucking sweet," before switching to my other breast.
"Ahh—god—" The moan tears from me unbidden.
He drinks and drinks, one hand cupping the breast he's suckling, the other moving down to grip my hip, holding me in place. My milk flows freely into his mouth and he groans against my skin, the vibration shooting straight to my clit.
By the time he finally lifts his head, both breasts are soft again, emptied. His lips glisten. My breathing comes in shallow pants.
"Better?" His thumb strokes along my jaw.
I can't speak. Can only nod.
He reaches into the front seat and retrieves a black t-shirt from the passenger side—one of his, by the size. "Put this on."
I pull it over my head. The fabric is soft, worn, and smells like him. It hangs nearly to my knees.
The drive back is quiet. Callum's hand rests on my bare thigh beneath the hem of his shirt, and I don't push it away. When we pull into the garage at home, I realize I've been leaning against him, my head on his shoulder.
Inside, the house is empty—our parents at work. I mumble something about needing a shower and flee upstairs before he can respond. Under the hot spray I scrub my skin, trying to wash away the memory of his mouth on me, his hands, the dark satisfaction in his eyes when he'd said mine.
It doesn't work.
The rest of the day passes in a fog. I attempt homework. Scroll mindlessly through my phone. Eat dinner with the family when our parents get home, conscious of Callum across the table, his gaze sliding to me whenever my mom isn't looking.
By the time I climb into bed that night, every nerve in my body feels raw and restless.
I can't sleep.
At midnight I give up, throw off my covers, and sit on the edge of my bed. The house is silent, everyone else asleep. I should try again—close my eyes, count sheep, whatever—but instead I find myself standing, padding barefoot across my room in my oversized sleep shirt, opening my door.
The hallway stretches dark and still. Callum's door is closed but there's light visible in the crack beneath.
Don't do this. Go back to bed. You already let things go too far.
But I'm already moving. My hand lifts and knocks softly.