Milked by My Bully (Forbidden Milky Tales #3)

Chapter I

The trick is timing.

My body started keeping secrets six months ago, and I've spent every single morning since making sure it keeps them.

I wake up every day the same way: full, aching, milk already leaking from both nipples by the time my alarm goes off, my breasts so heavy and tight against the cups of my bra that I have to grit my teeth just sitting up.

By five AM it's bad. By five-thirty I'm soaked through and praying the stains don't show.

So I've built a system. Alarm at five-forty.

Into the en suite before the day starts and the roommate or a 'friend' of hers walks in on what I'm doing.

Twenty minutes, door locked, milking myself into a towel until the pressure's gone and my breasts feel almost normal again.

Then I strap it all back down — the specialised nursing bra that costs more than my weekly grocery budget, the kind that compresses and contains and hides — pull on the oversized hoodie, and I'm just Chelsea Marsh again.

Scholarship girl. Invisible girl. The one with her nose in a book who doesn't speak unless spoken to and is mostly not spoken to, which is fine, which is exactly how she likes it.

The campus and everything in it is quiet at five-forty. That part I love.

Whitmore University doesn't do quiet at any other hour.

It's that kind of place—the kind where the hallways smell like expensive perfume and the dining hall serves eggs benedict on weekdays, where girls wear their parents' credit cards like jewellery and the guys all have that particular confidence that comes from never once having to worry about anything.

I got here on a full academic scholarship, the only one awarded in my faculty this year, and I found out about it in a letter I had to read three times because I was sure I'd misunderstood.

My mum cried. My nan made a cake. I sat in my childhood bedroom with a map of the campus on my laptop and felt the specific terror of someone who has been given something they're not sure they deserved.

That was four weeks ago.

Now I know: I didn't misunderstand. I earned it.

That's the thing about being the girl who's had her head in books since she was seven—you're actually quite good at the thing books prepare you for.

What the scholarship letter didn't cover was everything else.

The casual luxury of it. The way the others in my corridor already seemed to know each other, or at least to know how to perform friendship with strangers in a way that looked effortless.

The way they looked at me the first day—not unkindly, at least a few of them, but with just that particular blankness that meant they took one look and decided I wasn't worth the effort

I told myself it was projection. I'm self-aware enough to know I do that. I walk into rooms already braced for exclusion and sometimes I manufacture it before anyone gets the chance. I know that about myself. I'm working on it.

But Jake Edmund is not projection.

Jake is real, concrete, specifically targeted.

We've had four encounters in four weeks and each one has landed like a hand around my throat.

The first was orientation—he was behind me in the registration queue and said something to his friend about the girl with the 'library card energy' that made the whole group laugh, loud enough that I was supposed to hear it and quiet enough that I couldn't do a thing about it.

The second was the dining hall—he slid his tray into the space next to mine, looked at my plate, looked at me, and said careful, scholarship , like gaining weight was a condition of my funding.

The third was outside my seminar room, close enough that I could smell his cologne, close enough that it felt like a message.

By the fourth I'd started taking alternate routes and he'd either noticed or it was a coincidence that he kept appearing on all of them.

I don't believe in coincidences anymore.

He's the kind of beautiful that makes it worse.

That's the unfair part. Six-two, built like someone designed him for the specific purpose of taking up too much space, dark-blonde hair that looks deliberately careless and definitely isn't, blue eyes that are cold until they're not, and even when they're not you don't trust it.

His family has a building named after them on the east side of campus.

I found that out in my first week, the way you find everything out here—overhearing a conversation that wasn't meant for you.

The Edmund Sports Complex. Of course. He's here on a football scholarship the same way I'm here on an academic one, except his family donated the facility the team trains in, so the scholarship is essentially his father signing a cheque to himself.

He doesn't need to be here the way I need to be here.

He'd land fine anywhere—prep school, pro team, some corner office handed to him like everything else has been.

That's the difference between us, and he knows it and I know it and the knowing is the thing he uses.

I push the thought down and focus on the present: five-forty-two, bathroom free, twenty minutes, done.

That's the plan, anyway.

I've had the room to myself for four days now.

My previous roommate — Portia, about to become a sophomore, all highlights and horse-riding posture, who spoke to me exactly twice since I settled into the room and spent both conversations looking slightly past my ear — moved out the second the mandatory first-year dorm requirement was up, into a private flat her parents rented for her two streets from campus.

Didn't say goodbye. Left a vanilla candle and a half-empty bottle of something expensive on the windowsill, which I think was either a gift or an oversight.

I've been enjoying the quiet either way — the extra space, the luxury of leaving my washbag on the bathroom shelf without hiding what's in it. Four days of breathing room.

I'm on my second page of reading notes when the knock doesn't come—just the door swinging open, a duffle bag dropping onto the bare mattress across the room, and Jake Edmund filling the doorframe like he was built specifically to make spaces feel smaller.

He looks at me the way he always does — like I'm a mildly interesting problem he hasn't decided whether to bother solving.

"No."

"Housing office said 412." He holds up the card without looking at it, eyes still on me. "That's this room."

"That's their mistake. Not mine. Go fix it."

He tilts his head. "It's five-forty-five AM."

"Then stand in the hall."

"I'm not standing in the hall." He says it like I suggested something genuinely stupid, like stand in the hall is the funniest thing he's heard all week.

He steps inside. Doesn't ask. Doesn't wait. Just moves through the room like it's already his — clocking the desk, the wardrobe, the bare mattress — and drops his bag on it like he's planting a flag.

"Bradley's girl is moving in," he says, sitting down, elbows on his knees.

"I got bumped. Housing cocked it up." He glances around the room, then back at me.

That almost-smile again — the one that means he's already thought of something and is deciding whether to say it.

He says it. "Look, I won't touch you, nerd.

You've got my word on that." He spreads his hands, mock-generous.

"Can't promise the same about other girls, heard a few hotties live down the hall. So I can’t promise I'll keep it down either.

" His eyes drop to my desk, my notes, my three colour-coded highlighters. "Might be hard to concentrate."

"You're not staying here."

The corner of his mouth pulls up. Not quite a smile — something worse than a smile. "Already am, scholarship."

***

He stays.

Of course he stays. The housing office opens at nine and by nine-fifteen it's confirmed: administrative error, both assignments valid, resolution pending, please allow five to seven working days.

Five to seven working days. I sit across from the woman at the desk with my hands folded in my lap and my nursing bra doing its best and think about what five to seven working days means for my five-forty AM routine, and I smile and say thank you and walk back to the room I now share with Jake Edmund.

He's asleep when I get back. Flat on his stomach across his bed, one arm hanging off the mattress, taking up every inch of it the way he takes up every other space — completely, without apparent effort or apology. I sit at my desk and open my laptop and do not look at him.

That's day one.

I adapt. That's what I do — I've been adapting my whole life, fitting myself into spaces that weren't built for me, making myself small enough not to inconvenience anyone.

I move my alarm to five-twenty. I keep my supplies in my washbag, locked in my shower caddy, tucked under two towels.

I am in and out of the bathroom before Jake's alarm goes off at six-thirty, bra back on, hoodie up, invisible. The system holds.

What I don't adapt to is him.

He's loud in the mornings — not aggressively, just constitutionally, the way people are loud when it has never once occurred to them to be quiet for someone else's benefit.

His alarm is a full-volume football chant.

He showers with the door propped an inch open and sings, badly, without embarrassment.

He comes back from morning practice with his kit bag and his water bottle and the particular smell of someone who has been exercising hard, and he drops both on the floor directly between my desk and the door, which means I have to step over them, which means I have to be aware of him, which is exactly what I'm trying not to be.

"You could put that somewhere else," I say on day three, nodding at the kit bag.

He looks at the bag. At me. Back at the bag like he's genuinely considering it.

"Yeah, I could," he says, and goes back to his phone.

I step over it.