Chapter III #2
"Jake." It comes out as a whine. "Please."
"Please what." He's already working my skirt and underwear down my legs, dropping them off the side of the bed, and then he's settling over me, his weight braced on his forearms, his cock — hard, heavy, dragging against my soaked inner thigh — already lined up like he can't make himself wait either. "Tell me what you want, Chels."
"You. All of it. Please don't make me say more than that."
"I love when you're like this." He kisses the words into my jaw, my throat, working lower, his mouth closing briefly around one nipple and pulling, slow and deliberate, and the first spill of milk against his tongue makes him groan against my skin like he's the one being undone.
"So fucking desperate for me you can't even finish a sentence. "
"That's your fault."
"Yeah." He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes dark, jaw tight with the same want clawing through me. "It is."
He pushes inside in one slow, deliberate stroke, no condom, nothing between us, and the stretch of him — bare, hot, real in a way it's never quite been before even with everything we've already done — punches the air straight out of my lungs.
He goes still once he's fully seated, forehead dropping to mine, both of us breathing like we just ran somewhere.
"Okay?" His voice is wrecked, barely holding together.
"Don't you dare stop now." I dig my heels into the backs of his thighs, urging him on, and he laughs low and rough against my mouth before he starts to move.
He's slow at first, intentionally, every drag of him inside me timed to a hand at my breast — squeezing, milking, his palm working in the same unhurried rhythm as his hips.
Milk spills warm down my skin every time he presses, beading at my nipple before he catches it with his thumb, drags it to his mouth and sucks it clean like he can't help himself, like the taste of me undoes something in him every single time.
The weight in my chest starts loosening with each pull, the ache draining out of me in the same rhythm he's filling me, and I am coming apart in pieces, his name breaking out of me on every thrust, my whole body strung tight between the relief of my chest emptying and the deeper ache of him filling me, claiming me, exactly the way he just promised he would.
"Both," he says against my throat, voice gone guttural, his free hand finding my other breast and matching the rhythm, milking me from both sides while his hips drive deeper, harder, the bed knocking against the wall with how much he's stopped holding back.
Milk runs down between my breasts, over his knuckles, dripping onto the sheet beneath us, and he doesn't slow to wipe any of it away — just keeps milking, keeps thrusting, like the mess of it is the point.
"Want to feel you milk for me while I'm inside you. Want both at once."
"Jake—" My back arches off the mattress, my whole body lit up at every point he's touching me, the milk and the friction and the sheer relentless fact of him blurring into one continuous spike of feeling I don't have language fast enough to keep up with. "I'm not going to last."
"Don't last. Come for me." His thumb finds my clit between strokes, rough and sure, and the new pressure on top of everything else sends me straight over without warning, my whole body locking around him in waves, milk spilling steady from both nipples under his hands as I shake apart beneath him, his name the only word I have left.
"Fuck — feel that?" His hips stutter, just once, like the clench of me around him caught him off guard. "Feel you milking both of us at once. Christ, Chelsea." His forehead drops to my shoulder, breath ragged, like the sensation of it nearly took him with me.
He doesn't slow down. If anything he gets rougher, chasing it now, his rhythm fracturing into something less controlled, his grip on my breasts tightening just shy of too much as the last of the milk lets go under his palms.
"Chelsea." My name sounds wrecked in his mouth, almost reverent. "I'm gonna — fuck, I'm gonna come inside you."
"Do it." I pull him deeper with my heels, my arms locking around his neck, every inch of me wide open and wanting exactly this. "I want it. I want you to."
He comes with a broken sound against my throat, hips stuttering hard and deep, and I feel it — feel him spilling inside me, hot and real and nothing held back, his whole body shuddering through it like it's wrecking him just as thoroughly as it's wrecking me.
He doesn't pull out after. He stays right where he is, buried deep, his weight dropping carefully onto me like he can't make himself move yet, and I hold him there with my arms and my legs both, in no hurry to let him go.
For a long minute neither of us says anything.
His breathing slows against my collarbone.
My fingers find his hair, the back of his neck, the line of his shoulder, just touching, just confirming he's real and this happened and I'm not going to wake up back in the version of my life where Jake Edmund didn't know my name on purpose.
"Hi," he says eventually, lifting his head, looking faintly stunned, like even he didn't fully know what he was asking for until he had it.
"Hi yourself."
"You okay?" His hand smooths down my side, careful now, almost reverent in a different way.
"Better than okay." I trace the line of his jaw, still trying to catch my breath. "You really meant that. About wanting — " I can't quite finish it.
"A baby. Yeah." He eases himself up onto an elbow, looking down at me, his other hand settling flat and warm over my stomach like it belongs there.
"I meant every word. I know it's fast. I don't care.
I've never been more sure of anything in my life, and I include four years of football scholarships and a degree I haven't finished in that. "
"That's a low bar."
"You're the only thing I've ever wanted that I didn't already have handed to me." He says it simply, like it costs him nothing now that he's already said the hard part. "I had to earn this. I like that I had to earn this."
I don't have a clever answer for that. I don't try to find one. I just pull him back down to me, his weight settling over me again, still half-inside me, both of us sticky and spent and utterly unbothered by it, and let the quiet sit there between us instead of filling it.
The room is dark except for the desk lamp neither of us got up to turn off.
Somewhere outside, campus is doing whatever campus does at this hour — parties, footsteps, somebody's laugh carrying up through a cracked window — and none of it touches the two of us tangled together in a dorm bed that's somehow stopped being his or mine and just become ours.
Later, after he's finally rolled off me, after he's pulled the blanket up over both of us and tucked me into his side like that's simply where I go now, I lie there with his arm heavy across my stomach and let myself do the math one more time.
Two weeks since I stopped taking the pill.
A body that's already been keeping secrets for six months, that knows exactly how to make itself known.
I'm late. I haven't said it out loud, haven't even let myself think it in full sentences until right now, lying here with his palm resting warm over the spot where it might already be true.
I wait for the fear to show up the way it always has — the bracing, the spiral, six months of managing my body alone so nobody else would have to know.
It doesn't come. Instead my hand finds his where it rests on my stomach, fingers slotting into the gaps between his without deciding to, and I press his palm flatter, closer, like I'm helping him hold something that isn't fully here yet but will be.
That's the part that surprises me most. There's just this instead: his heartbeat steady under my ear, his hand spread protective and certain over my stomach even in his sleep, my own fingers laced through his like they belong there. Quiet, and certain, and entirely mine.
"Together," I whisper, mostly to myself, testing how it sounds.
Jake's arm tightens around me in his sleep, like even unconscious, some part of him heard and agreed.
I close my eyes and let myself believe it.
THE END
***
Enjoyed the story?
If this tale left you wanting more, I’d love to hear your thoughts! Your rating or review makes a world of difference—it not only fuels my passion for writing but also helps other readers find and enjoy these milky adventures. Thank you for being part of this journey. ??
~ Erica Royce