Chapter II #2
I hear him before I see him — the particular weight of his footsteps in the hall outside, unhurried in a way that feels deliberate, like he's making me wait on purpose.
When the door opens he's not in the team training kit he usually is in at this time.
Instead, he's in jeans, a black shirt, like he came from somewhere that wasn't the gym, and his hair's damp at the edges, and he looks at me standing there in the thin shirt like he already knew I'd be wearing it.
"Good girl," he says, and it's the first time he's ever called me that, and my whole body responds to it before I can decide whether I'm allowed to like it.
He shuts the door behind him. Locks it. He's never locked it before.
"It's not full yet," I say, which is not what I mean, which is not anything close to what I mean.
"I know." He crosses the room slow, unbothered, like he has all night and intends to use every minute of it. "I knew I won’t be able to wait until morning."
I stand there in the thin shirt that hides nothing, and by the time he reaches me my nipples are already hard and visible right through the fabric, dark and tight, and his eyes go straight to them like he can't help it.
"You wore it," he says.
"It was the first thing in the closet, plus you literally told me to."
"Didn't think you'd actually—" He stops himself, jaw tight, like he's annoyed at how much that does to him. His hand comes up and drags one knuckle down the side of my throat, slow, and I shiver so hard I have to lock my knees to stay standing. "Jesus, Chelsea."
"It's just a stupid shirt."
"It's not just anything anymore." He says it low, almost angry, like the admission costs him something.
Then his hands are at the hem and he's pulling it up and off in one motion, no hesitation, no asking this time, and I let him, arms lifting on instinct, and then I'm bare to the waist in front of him with my breasts already heavy and full and his eyes dark and fixed on them like he's starving.
He doesn't move right away. He just looks — at my bare chest, at the milk already beading at one tip from nothing more than the cold air and his own stare, like his eyes alone are enough to set me off. "Christ," he says, low, almost to himself. "I could just look at you for an hour."
"You don't have an hour."
"No," he agrees, and finally moves. He backs me toward my bed instead of kneeling, hands on my waist, and I go because my legs aren't arguing with him tonight, because some part of me has been walking toward this exact moment since the door opened.
The back of my knees hit the mattress and I sit, and he's right there, crowding into the space between my thighs, and for a second neither of us moves, just breathing, just looking.
"I want more than the morning thing," he says. His voice has dropped into that rough, stripped-down register I've only heard once before. "I want all of it. I want you."
"You already have me. Every morning."
"Not like this." His hand slides up my thigh, under the hem of my sleep shorts, and I forget how to breathe. "I want to be inside you when it happens. I want to feel you milk for me while I'm fucking you."
The words land somewhere low and molten and I make a sound I don't recognize as mine. "Jake—"
"Tell me no." His fingers find the edge of my underwear, hook into it, wait. "If you don't want this, tell me right now, because I am about thirty seconds from not being able to stop."
I should say something cautious. Something smart.
Six months of careful, of hiding, of making myself small enough not to be noticed — and somewhere underneath all of it, the absurd, traitorous fact that this is Jake Edmund, the boy who spent four weeks making my life hell for the crime of existing near him, and I am about five seconds from begging him to take my clothes off.
The only thing I can manage is reaching for him, fingers digging into his shoulders, pulling him down onto me.
"Don't stop," I breathe. "Please don't stop."
That's all it takes. He strips my shorts and underwear off in one rough pull, and then his own clothes are gone too, shirt over his head, sweats shoved down — and I see him properly for the first time, and every thought I have empties out at once.
He's big. Bigger than I let myself imagine in the handful of times I told myself not to imagine it, thick and flushed dark at the tip, curving up hard against his stomach like it's been waiting all day for permission.
I don't mean to stare. I stare anyway, helpless, my whole mouth going dry, and he watches me do it, watches the exact moment it registers on my face, and something satisfied and a little smug moves through his expression even now, even wrecked as he is.
"Like what you see?" he says, voice rough, and I don't even have the dignity left to deny it.
"Shut up," I manage, which isn't a no.
He settles between my thighs, and the weight of him alone — bare skin, hard everywhere, pressing in close — makes my whole body ache in a way that has nothing to do with milk at all.
"Tell me you've thought about this," he says, voice wrecked, hand fisting at the base of his cock, dragging the head through where I'm already soaked for him. "Tell me it's not just me."
"It's not just you." It's barely a whisper. "God, Jake, it's not just you."
He pushes in slow, one inch at a time, watching my face the whole way like he needs to see exactly what he's doing to me, and the stretch of him has my back arching off the mattress, a moan tearing out of me that I don't even try to hold back.
He doesn't stop until he's fully inside me, hips flush against mine, and then he goes still, breathing hard, forehead dropping to my shoulder.
"Fuck. Fuck, Chelsea." His voice is shaking. "You feel—"
"Aghh! AAAH!" I don't let him finish. I roll my hips up against him, desperate, and that breaks whatever control he had left.
He starts moving, slow at first and then not, hard, deep, one hand braced by my head and the other sliding up to close around my breast, thumb finding my nipple right as the first wave of pressure builds behind it.
The drag of his cock and the ache of fullness in my chest hit at the same time, twin pressures cresting together, and I'm clawing at his back, legs locking around his waist, pulling him deeper.
"Gonna milk you while I fuck you," he grits out, hips snapping harder, "gonna watch it happen, gonna taste you while you come on my cock—" His hand tightens on my breast, thumb circling rough now, no patience left in it.
"Been thinking about this since this morning.
Since I saw you in that chair. Wanted exactly this. "
Some distant, still-functioning part of my brain notes that Jake Edmund has apparently been thinking about this in the middle of football practice, which under any other circumstances would be the single funniest thing I've ever learned about him.
That part of my brain does not get to weigh in right now.
His mouth closes around my nipple and the first pulse of milk lets go right as he drives in deep, and he makes a sound against my skin like it's been knocked out of him — low, broken, pained in the best way — and I feel him twitch hard inside me, like the taste alone nearly finished him.
"Fuck, you're spiking already," he groans, mouth still working, "I can feel it building before it even comes—" and the double sensation — his cock filling me, his mouth pulling hot and insistent at my breast, milk surging onto his tongue while he groans against my skin — short-circuits something in my brain entirely.
I'm not thinking anymore. I'm just feeling, just sound, my hips meeting every thrust, my nails scoring down his back, the pleasure building so fast and so hard I can't separate one source of it from another.
"Jake — Jake, I'm —"
"I know. I feel it." He doesn't slow down. If anything he goes harder, deeper, his mouth never leaving my breast, drinking me down in long pulls timed to every thrust like he's found the exact rhythm that's going to break me apart. "Let go. I've got you. Let go."