2. IVAN
IVAN
I push open the door and guide Iris toward my bedroom with a hand at the small of her back. The heat of her through the flannel—my flannel—sears into my palm.
The second I saw her at the wedding last year, I was done for.
She'd stood beside her mother in that champagne-colored bridesmaid dress, the fabric clinging to curves she tried to hide under cardigans and oversized clothes, and when those wide amber eyes met mine across the aisle, something in my chest locked into place.
Her hair had been swept up, exposing the graceful line of her neck, and I'd spent the entire ceremony imagining pressing my mouth to the pulse point there.
The reception had been torture—watching her nibble her bottom lip while she talked to guests, the way she'd fidget with her earring when she got nervous, how she'd pushed those glossy dark curls behind her ear every time I caught her staring.
She likes me. I know she does.
She won't admit it—too scared of what it means, too caught up in what's "right" or "wrong" or whatever bullshit rules built around us because we're stepsiblings.
But I see it in the way her breath hitches when I stand too close, how she tenses when I touch her, the flush that creeps up her throat when I tease her.
This thing with Nate? It's a lie she's telling herself because she's too stubborn to face the truth.
But I'll use it. I'll play along with her little "crush" until she can't deny what's between us anymore.
I close the bedroom door behind us, and Iris stands in the middle of my room, clutching the hem of my flannel like a lifeline.
Her curls cascade over her shoulders, bouncing with every nervous shift of her weight.
She's drowning under my flannel, jeans that are probably two sizes too big cinched with a belt—but I can still see the outline of her body, the soft curve of her hips, the way her breasts press against the layers.
And they're full. Leaking.
My jaw tightens.
"Sit on the bed," I tell her, my voice rougher than I intend.
She hesitates, chewing that bottom lip again, and I want to bite it myself.
"I won't bite," I add, softer. "Unless you ask nicely."
Her eyes widen, and color floods her cheeks. "Ivan?—"
"Relax." I move closer, and she tilts her head back to look at me. God, she's small. Delicate. The top of her head barely reaches my shoulder. "This is a lesson, remember? You want to loosen up so your little crush notices you."
She flinches at crush, and satisfaction curls low in my gut.
I cup the back of her neck, feeling her pulse race under my thumb. I'm going to make you feel good, Iris. Better than good. And when I'm done, you won't be able to think about anyone else. Not Nate. Not any other guy. Just me.
Her lips part, breath coming faster, and I can see the war in her eyes—the fear, the curiosity, the want she's trying so hard to bury.
"Sit," I murmur, guiding her backward until her knees hit the mattress.
She sinks down, staring up at me with those impossibly wide amber eyes, and I make myself a promise.
I'll ruin her for anyone else. I'll be the only one who touches her, tastes her, makes her come apart. I'll use every excuse she gives me—every mention of Nate, every claim that this is just a lesson—until she finally admits the truth.
Until she's mine. Because she already is, she is just afraid to admit it to herself.
I reach for the flannel first, my fingers brushing against the damp fabric clinging to her chest. She sucks in a breath, hands flying up to clutch the edges closed.
"Don't." I catch her wrists, gentle but firm. "I need to see what we're working with."
Her pulse hammers against my fingertips. "Ivan, I?—"
"Trust me." I ease her hands down to her sides, holding her gaze. "This is just a lesson, right? You need to learn how to be comfortable with someone touching you. How else are you going to handle it when your crush makes his move?"
The lie tastes bitter, but it works. Her fingers uncurl, releasing their death grip on the flannel.
I slip the buttons free one by one, peeling the soaked fabric off her shoulders. The shirt underneath is plastered to her skin, two dark wet spots spreading across her chest. My mouth goes dry.
"Lift your arms."
She obeys, and I tug the shirt over her head, exposing a pale pink bra darkened with milk. The cups strain against her breasts, and I can see the outline of her nipples through the thin, wet cotton.
Christ.
"Ivan..." Her voice cracks, and she crosses her arms over her chest. "This is?—"
"Normal." I catch her wrists again, lowering them. "You're beautiful, Iris. Stop hiding."
Color floods her face, spreading down her throat. I reach behind her, fingers finding the clasp of her bra. She tenses, eyes squeezing shut.
"Breathe," I murmur.
The clasp releases, and I ease the straps down her arms. Her breasts spill free, fuller than I'd imagined, nipples dark and tight. A bead of milk pearls at the tip of one, and hunger claws through me.
She tries to cover herself again, but I guide her back, pressing her shoulders until she's lying flat on my bed. Her dark curls fan across my pillow, and those wide amber eyes stare up at me, terrified and wanting all at once.
I cup her breasts in my hands, feeling the weight and heat of them, and she gasps. The sound goes straight to my cock.
"Relax," I tell her, thumbs circling the soft flesh. "I've got you."
She whimpers, back arching off the bed as I massage her breasts, working my way toward the nipples. More milk flows, coating my fingers, and the sight of it—her body responding to my touch, leaking for me—makes something primal snap loose in my chest.
I lower my head and close my mouth over her nipple.
"Ivan—"
Her hands fly to my hair, fingers tangling in the strands, and I don't know if she's trying to pull me away or hold me closer. I suck hard, and warm, sweet milk floods my tongue. Christ. She tastes like honey and cream, and I groan against her skin, kneading her breast to coax more flow.
Her hips buck, thighs pressing together, and I can see the flush spreading down her chest, her stomach trembling with every breath.
I switch to the other breast, tongue circling the nipple before I latch on and suck. Milk streams into my mouth, and I drink hungrily, fingers digging into the soft curve of her waist to hold her still.
"Oh God," she whimpers, head thrashing on my pillow. Her eyes are squeezed shut, lips parted, and she's panting like she's drowning.
I pull back just enough to speak, milk glistening on my lips. "You like this?"
Her eyes fly open, glazed and unfocused.
"You like your stepbrother sucking your tits?" I rasp, thumb brushing over her wet nipple. "Tell me, Iris."
"I—" Her voice breaks, hips rolling against nothing. "Y-ye—no."
I laugh, low and rough, and she flushes darker.
"No?" I pinch her nipple lightly, and she cries out. "Should I stop, then?"
"Don't you dare."
Fuck. The raw desperation in her voice nearly undoes me.
"That's what I thought." I dip my head again, taking her nipple between my teeth before sucking hard. She keens, back bowing, and her nails scrape against my scalp.
I can't get enough. The taste of her, the way her body responds, the broken sounds spilling from her lips—it's everything I've wanted since the moment I saw her. I knead her other breast, milk spilling over my fingers, and she's trembling beneath me, thighs clenched tight.
I switch breasts again, sucking and licking until her nipple is swollen and red, until she's writhing on my bed and sobbing my name.
"Please—"
I pull off with a wet pop, chest heaving. Milk drips down her skin, pooling in the hollow of her throat, and I drag my tongue up to catch it. She tastes like mine.
"Please what?" I murmur against her ear, hand splayed across her stomach. "What do you need, sweetheart?"
She shakes her head, curls wild around her face, and I can see the tears clinging to her lashes. She's wrecked. Beautiful. Mine.
I lower my mouth to her breast again, drinking deep, and even if she told me to stop—which she won't—I couldn't. I'm addicted. To her taste, to the sounds she makes, to the way her body yields to me like it was made for this.
For me.
I can feel her writhing beneath me, hips rolling in small, desperate movements she probably doesn't even realize she's making. Her thighs press together, seeking friction, and the sweet scent of her arousal mingles with the milk on my tongue.
She's so ready for me. So wet. So innocent, milky, and fertile for me. I can see it in the flush spreading down her chest, feel it in the way her body trembles, hear it in every broken sound spilling from her lips.
I pull back, chest heaving, and meet her glazed amber eyes. Milk glistens on my lips, and I drag my tongue across them slowly, watching her pupils dilate.
"Next lesson," I rasp, voice rough with need. "Fucking."
The word hangs between us, raw and filthy, and I watch her process it through the haze of arousal. Her eyes widen, breath hitching, and some of that fog clears as reality crashes back in.
"What?" Her voice cracks. "Ivan, no. We can't?—"
"Can't?" I cup her breast, thumb circling the swollen nipple, and she whimpers despite herself. "You want to loosen up for your little crush, don't you?"
God, I hate saying it. Hate pretending this is about that boy when every cell in my body is screaming that she's mine. But it's the only card I have right now. The only excuse that'll get past her walls.
"I—" She bites her lip, conflict warring across her face. "I'd be a hypocrite if I said no, but..." Her hands press against my chest, trembling. "We're taking this too far. You are my stepbrother and a lot older than me. And you'll get me pregnant. I'm fertile right now, Ivan. I'm ovulating, and?—"
"Then we'll take it slow." The words tear out of me before I can stop them. "If you're not ready to give me your virginity."