2. Matt
MATT
I should leave. Walk out, lock myself in the barn, pretend this never happened.
But my feet won't move.
Mira stands there, shirt pulled up, chest bare, and I can't look away. Her skin glows under the harsh bathroom light, and her breasts are full, flushed, nipples dark and tight. A bead of white trails down her left breast, slow and deliberate.
My cock strains against my jeans, painful now.
"Matt."
Her voice cracks, and I force my gaze up to her face. Those caramel eyes are wide, pupils blown, and her cheeks burn red.
"This is wrong." My voice comes out rougher than I want. "You know that."
"It's just to help." She steps closer, and I can smell her—vanilla and something sweeter, warmer. "It's an accident. You walked in, I need help, that's all."
My jaw locks. "Mira?—"
"Please." She winces, hand hovering over her breast but not quite touching, dropping the remaining tissues clinging on her breasts. "I ache, Matt. Really bad. I forgot my pump and I—" She bites her lip, and I watch her chest rise and fall faster. "I need someone to help me."
Blood roars in my ears. Logic screams at me to turn around, unlock that door, get the hell out. But desire—thick, overwhelming, wrong—roots me in place.
"Where?" I grind out. "Where do you ache?"
She looks down at her breasts, then back up at me. Another bead of milk wells up, spills over, trails down the curve of her skin.
"Here." Her voice is barely a whisper. "They're so full it hurts. I'm leaking milk and I have this condition—galactorrhea—and I just need..." She swallows hard. "I need you to suck them."
My brain shorts out.
"Christ, Mira."
"It's not weird," she says quickly, desperately. "Doctors do it, nurses do it, it's medical, it's?—"
"Medical." I bite off a harsh laugh. "You think this is medical?"
"It can be." Her chin lifts, defiant even now, even with her breasts bare and leaking in front of me. "I'm in pain. You can help. That's all this is."
I should say no. Should walk out, find her mother, explain the situation like a rational adult.
But I don't.
I take a step forward instead, and her breath hitches. Another step, and I'm close enough to touch her, close enough to see the way her pulse hammers in her throat.
"You sure about this?" My voice drops low, dangerous. "Because once I start, I'm not stopping until you tell me to."
Her eyes flutter shut for a second, and when they open again, they're glazed with need.
"I'm sure."
"This doesn't mean anything," I warn her. "Doesn't change the fact that you're my stepsister. Doesn't make this okay."
"I know."
"And if anyone finds out?—"
"They won't." She reaches up, fingertips grazing my forearm, and I tense. "Please, Matt. I'm begging you."
I'm going to hell.
But I nod.
I growl, low in my throat, and her eyes widen.
"Get on the counter."
"What?"
"You want my help?" I step closer, crowd her back against the vanity. "Then do what I say."
She nods, quick and eager, and I grip her waist—Christ, she's tiny—and lift her onto the marble surface. She gasps as her ass hits the cold stone, legs parting automatically to make room for me between them.
Perfect.
Now her tits are right at my face, full and flushed and dripping.
"Matt—"
"Quiet." I palm both breasts, firm but careful, and she whimpers. They're heavy, warm, skin stretched tight. Milk beads at her nipples, trails down over my knuckles. "You're so damn full."
"I know, I—oh God."
I knead gently, working from the base outward, and more milk flows. It's obscene, watching it pour from her, soaking my hands, dripping onto her thighs. Her head falls back against the mirror, mouth open, panting.
"Does that hurt?"
"No." Her voice breaks. "Feels good. Feels so good."
I massage harder, thumbs circling her areolas, and she moans. The sound goes straight to my cock. I'm so hard it's painful, jeans cutting into me, but I ignore it. Focus on her. On the way her body responds, the way her nipples stiffen under my touch, the way milk keeps flowing and flowing.
"Fuck, Mira."
"Please." She grabs my shoulders, nails digging in through my shirt. "Please, Matt, I need?—"
I lean in and seal my mouth over her left nipple.
She cries out, back arching, and I suck hard. Milk floods my tongue, warm and sweet, richer than I expect. I swallow and suck again, kneading her breast with one hand while the other grips her hip, holds her still.
"Oh my God, Matt, yes?—"
Her taste is incredible. Creamy, faintly sweet, with a warmth that spreads through my chest. I work her breast, sucking and kneading, draining her, and she trembles against me. Her thighs squeeze my hips, and I feel the heat of her even through her pants.
I switch to the other breast, latch on, and she whimpers. Her fingers tangle in my hair, pulling me closer, and I growl against her skin. This is wrong, so fucking wrong, but I can't stop. Don't want to stop.
Her milk flows faster now, filling my mouth faster than I can swallow. It spills down my chin, over her skin, and I lick it up, greedy for every drop.
"Matt—" Her voice is high, desperate. "Matt, I?—"
I suck harder, teeth grazing her nipple, and she gasps. Her whole body tenses, thighs clamping around me, and I feel her shake apart. Not quite an orgasm, but close. Close enough that I know she's gone somewhere else, lost in sensation.
Good.
I keep going, draining her other breast, kneading and sucking until the flow slows. Until her whimpers turn soft, dazed. Until she's sagging against the mirror, boneless and spent.
I pull back just enough to switch breasts again, and Mira whimpers. Her nipple slips from my mouth, glistening and swollen, and I watch another drop of milk well up before I lean in and lick it away.
"Matt—"
I don't answer. Just seal my lips around her other nipple and suck deep, and she gasps. Her fingers tighten in my hair, pulling hard enough to sting, but I don't care. The taste of her floods my mouth again—warm, sweet, perfect—and something primal roars to life in my chest.
Mine.
The thought slams into me, irrational and fierce. This woman, her body, her taste—all mine. My cock throbs against my zipper, thick and aching, and I grind against the counter without thinking. Need friction, need relief, need more of her.
I knead her breast harder, working the milk down, and she arches into my touch. Her thighs squeeze my hips, and I feel the heat of her core even through her pants. She's soaking wet. I know it without looking.
"God, Matt, please?—"
Her voice breaks, and I growl against her skin. I can't get enough. Every swallow makes me hungrier, every whimper from her lips makes my cock pulse. It's like her body's calling to mine, some deep animal recognition that I can't fight.
Don't want to fight.
I switch breasts again, sucking hard, and she cries out. Her hips roll forward, seeking friction, and I grip her thigh with my free hand. Hold her still while I drain her, while I take everything she's offering.
"Matt, I—" She gasps, trembling. "I need?—"
"What?" I pull off her nipple with a wet sound, and milk drips down her breast. I lick it up, slow and deliberate, watching her face. "What do you need?"
Her eyes are glazed, pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed dark. She looks wrecked. Looks perfect.
"I'm aching." Her voice comes out thin, desperate. "Between my thighs. I'm aching there now and I?—"
She doesn't finish. Just rocks her hips forward again, grinding against nothing, and I feel my control snap.
"Fuck."
I capture her mouth, swallow her gasp, and she tastes like vanilla and need. Her tongue meets mine, eager and clumsy, and I grip her jaw to angle her deeper. She moans into my mouth, and I swallow that too.
My cock presses against her through our clothes, and she grinds down on it. The friction makes me see stars.
"Please." She pants against my lips. "Matt, please, I need?—"
"Need what?" I bite her lower lip, not hard, just enough to make her whimper. "Say it."
"I need you to touch me." Her voice cracks. "Down there. I'm so wet and I ache and I just—please?—"
I pull back enough to look at her. Really look at her. Chest heaving, nipples dark and swollen, milk still beading at the tips. Pants damp between her thighs. Face flushed with desperation and desire.
This is insane. Crossing every line. But I don't care anymore.
"Spread your legs wider."
She obeys instantly, thighs falling open, and I press my palm against her through her pants. The fabric's soaked through, warm and slick, and she cries out.
"Jesus, Mira. You're drenched."
I kiss her like she's the only thing keeping me alive.
Her mouth opens under mine, hot and eager, and I devour her. Tongue deep, tasting every inch, swallowing her gasps. She clings to me, nails scratching down my back through my shirt, and I grip her ass to yank her closer.
"Off." I tear my mouth away, panting. "Get these fucking clothes off."
Her hands fumble with her pants, shaking, and I help her. Yank the button open, drag the zipper down, and shove the denim down her thighs. She kicks them off, and I'm already hooking my fingers into her panties—soaked through, clinging to her—and pulling them down too.
She's bare now. Completely naked on the counter, thighs spread, pussy glistening and swollen.
"Christ."
I can't look away. Her cunt is perfect—pink and plump and dripping. I can see how wet she is, slick coating her inner thighs, and my mouth waters.
"Matt—"
I don't let her finish. I palm her breasts again, kneading hard, and she arches into my hands. Milk wells up, spills over, and I lean down to catch it with my tongue.
"Fuck, yes?—"
I latch onto her nipple and suck deep. Her milk floods my mouth, warm and sweet, and I groan. Can't get enough. I knead her other breast, working the milk down, and it sprays across my hand. Drips onto her belly. I lick it off her skin, then switch breasts and suck again.
She's shaking now, gasping, fingers tangled in my hair.
"Please, Matt, I need?—"