His Creamy and Fertile Neighbor (Creamy and Fertile #1)

Chapter One

Charlotte:

I sit cross-legged on the grass, the blades tickling the backs of my thighs.

It’s barely seven in the morning, but the sun already has some heat to it.

The lake in front of me is like a sheet of glass, reflecting the sky.

I love this. I love waking up early, sneaking out of the house before the day really begins, and coming down here to the water’s edge.

It makes me feel closer to Grandma. She always said the best part of living by the lake was the quiet mornings, and she was right.

I inherited this house from Grandma, along with everything in it.

It hurts to think about her being gone, but it helps to be here, surrounded by her things.

I’ve been living here the last couple of weeks, since I finished college, but the thought of leaving it all behind in the fall to go back to the city and find a job feels...

wrong. I could stay here forever, just me and the lake.

The rhythmic thud of footsteps on the path makes me look up. And my breath hitches.

It’s Noah.

He’s jogging toward me, shirtless. The sun glints off the sweat slicking his chest and arms, making his muscles look like they’ve been carved from bronze.

He’s all hard planes and wiry strength, and I feel a blush creep up my neck and onto my cheeks.

I’ve seen him around, of course. He’s my only neighbor, living in the only other house by the lake.

We’ve exchanged polite hellos, and I’ve even managed a few stilted conversations with him.

But I’ve never seen him like this. Not that I keep tabs on him or anything, but he usually goes for his run later in the morning.

He must have decided to come out earlier than usual today because of the temperatures that have been forecast for the day.

He slows as he gets closer, and I quickly look down, picking at an imaginary loose thread on my denim shorts.

I’m suddenly hyper-aware of what I’m wearing - or what I’m not wearing.

Just a bikini top and these tiny shorts.

Maybe I would have worn something less revealing if I’d known I was going to bump into him.

Or maybe I wouldn’t have.

“Morning, Charlotte,” he says, and his voice is deep and a little gravelly from the exertion. It sends a shiver down my spine, even in the growing heat.

“Good morning, Noah,” I reply, trying to sound casual and failing miserably.

I risk a quick glance up at him. His hair is dark with sweat, sticking to his forehead, and those chocolate-brown eyes of his are fixed on me.

I can feel my blush deepening. He’s just so...

much. Big and tall, and broad. So incredibly masculine.

Compared to him, all the guys at college seem like little boys.

He doesn’t say anything else, just drops down to sit beside me and takes a long drink from his water bottle.

I watch the way his throat works as he swallows, a drop of water escaping the corner of his mouth and tracing a path down his jaw.

I have to look away before I do something stupid, like reach out and wipe it away with my thumb.

Or maybe lick it up. I stare out at the lake instead, watching a dragonfly skim across the surface.

“So,” I say, desperate to fill the silence. “How’s the new book coming along?”

He twists the cap back onto his water bottle. “Slowly. The killer is being stubborn.”

I can’t help but smile. “I’m sure you’ll get him to cooperate. You always do.”

“You’ve read some of my books?” he asks, and there’s something in his tone I can’t quite decipher. Surprise, maybe?

“I couldn’t resist once I found out I would be living next door to a real-life author,” I say, trying to keep my voice light.

What I don’t tell them is that I’ve obsessively read every single one of his stories over the last two weeks, staying up late into the night, devouring the words he’s written.

While I don’t usually enjoy reading mysteries, there’s something about reading his books that makes me feel like I’m getting a glimpse into the man behind the words.

He grunts, which I’m learning is his version of a laugh. “Just a guy who spends too much time staring at a blank screen.”

“You’re being modest,” I say, and I mean it. “They’re really good. Complex. The way you weave everything together...” I trail off, feeling a little foolish, like a fangirl.

He doesn’t say anything to that, just gives me a long, unreadable look.

He’s so much older than me, with a world of experience I can’t even imagine.

He’s a published author, for God’s sake.

What could he possibly want with a twenty-one-year-old who has nothing to show for her life but a college degree and no idea what to do with it?

And then there’s... the lactation thing.

I hate it. It’s weird and embarrassing, a physical manifestation of all the stress and grief I’ve been bottling up since Grandma passed a few months ago.

My doctor said it’s not completely unheard of, that sometimes extreme emotional distress can trigger it, but that doesn’t make me feel any less like a freak.

What kind of guy would want to get involved with that?

Noah shifts, pushing himself up from the grass. “I should get back to it. That killer isn’t going to catch himself.”

He turns to face me as he stands, and I watch as his eyes drop from my face to my chest. His brow furrows, a confused look crossing his face as he lowers himself back to the ground. My own gaze follows his.

Oh God, oh God, oh God.

The two triangles of fabric that make up my bikini top are dark, soaked through.

Two distinct wet patches surround my nipples.

I must have been so wrapped up in him that I didn’t even notice the letdown.

I feel a hot wave of humiliation wash over me, so intense it makes me dizzy.

I instinctively cross my arms over my chest, trying to hide the evidence.

“I’m so sorry,” I stammer, my voice shaking. “I... I should go. Back to the cabin. I need to... clean up.” The words tumble out, clumsy and panicked.

But as I scramble to my feet, a large, warm hand closes around my arm.

He pulls me back, and I lose my balance, falling sideways.

Instead of hitting the ground, I land in his lap.

The sudden movement knocks the air from my lungs in a little gasp.

He’s warm and solid beneath me, all muscle and strength.

And I can feel him, hard and insistent, pressing against my bottom through the layers of our shorts.

My body responds instantly, a deep, throbbing ache starting between my legs.

“Is that... is it milk?” he asks, and his voice is lower than before.

I can’t look at him, so I just stare down at the grass while I nod my head.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “It’s a... a weird thing.

My doctor says it can sometimes happen when you’re under a lot of stress.

It’s from... from my grandma. Grieving, I guess.

” The confession hangs in the air between us, heavy and shameful.

Oh God, this is the moment when he’s going to push me off his lap, make some excuse to get away from me, and then I’ll never see him again.

Instead, he shifts slightly, his other arm coming around my waist to hold me more securely. His gaze is still fixed on my chest, on the damp fabric clinging to my skin. He doesn’t look disgusted or freaked out. He looks... fascinated.

“Does it hurt?” he asks.

The question is so unexpected that I actually answer it without thinking. “It can. When I get... full. Like I am now. It gets uncomfortable.”

What the hell is wrong with me? I should not be telling him this. I should not be sitting in my hot, shirtless neighbor’s lap talking about my lactating breasts. This is insane. I can only assume that being this close to him, surrounded by his warm, spicy scent, has completely fried my brain.

He licks his lips, a slow, deliberate swipe of his tongue. The sight of it, combined with the way he’s looking at my chest, pulls a soft whimper from my throat. My whole body feels tingly and too hot.

His eyes finally lift from my breasts to my face. The look in them is dark and intense, sending a jolt straight to my core. “Let me help you with that,” he says. “Let me relieve your discomfort.”

My mind goes blank. All I can do is stare at him, at the desire I see swirling in those chocolate-colored depths. It’s a look no one has ever given me before. A look that says he wants to devour me.

“You want to...?” I can’t even finish the sentence. It’s too absurd, too much to hope for.

His thumb rubs a circle on the bare skin of my back, a small touch that makes me feel like I might melt into a puddle right here on his lap. “I do. I want to taste you, Charlotte.”

Oh. My. God.

The thought of him, of Noah, putting his mouth on my breast and drinking from me...

it’s a fantasy so forbidden that I’ve barely even let myself think about it in the privacy of my own bed at night.

And now he’s offering it to me like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

I feel a fresh gush of wetness between my legs, soaking into my shorts.

“Yes,” I breathe out, the word barely more than a whisper.

This is crazy, but I don’t care. I want this more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my entire life.