7. Selena
SELENA
I stare at the glowing laptop screen until the words blur.
Three pages left on the research paper. Class is at nine in the morning. The cursor blinks at the end of a half-finished sentence like it’s mocking me. My notes are scattered across the desk, highlighters uncapped, coffee long gone cold.
I should be focused. I should be typing.
Instead, every quiet second pulls my mind back to the shower.
I close my eyes and feel his mouth between my legs again, the warm rush of milk that had spilled down his face while he drank from me, the heavy thickness of him stretching my tongue, and the low, certain promise he had spoken while I was still on my knees taking him as deep as I could.
One day, I’m going to put a baby in you.
I shift in the chair as the feeling makes me press my thighs together, but it only makes the ache sharper. And then the other ache arrives, the familiar, heavy pressure in my chest that has nothing to do with arousal and everything to do with how full I’ve become again.
I glance at the clock. It's almost midnight. If I don’t deal with it now, I’ll be soaking through another shirt by morning.
I dig the new breast pump out from under the bed, peel my sleep shirt up, and attach the two flanges on both breasts. The motor starts its soft, rhythmic hum. Relief comes in short, mechanical pulses.
I keep one eye on the laptop, trying to force the last paragraphs into existence while the bottle slowly fills.
My phone lights up on the desk. I reach for it and read the message that pops up.
Soren: Finished your assignments already? Come upstairs. I’ll give you something.
I wipe my free hand on the sheet and type back with my thumb.
Me: Cannot. Due tomorrow. Besides, I'm pumping.
The three dots appear almost immediately.
Soren: What the hell? That’s a violation of my rule. I told you to forget that pump already.
I don’t answer. My fingers hover over the keyboard. The pump keeps working. Another message arrives.
Soren: Upstairs. NOW.
The tone leaves no room for argument. I switch the machine off, set the half-full bottle aside, tug my shirt back down, and slip out of the room.
The third floor stairs creak under my bare feet. My heart is already racing when I push the door open.
Soren stands in front of the window with his back to me, shoulders rigid under a dark shirt, hands braced on the sill, looking angry. The room is lit only by the small lamp on the nightstand. He doesn’t turn when the door clicks shut.
“What is it that seems so important?” I ask, voice quieter than I mean it to be.
“Are you having hesitations again?”
“No,” I answer right away. “I’m not.”
Silence. He still doesn’t look at me.
“Are you mad about the pump?” I ask.
I cross the space and wrap my arms around him from behind, pressing my cheek between his shoulder blades. His body is warm and solid. I feel the tension running through him.
“Of course I’m not having second thoughts about us again,” I murmur behind him. “It was just a quick pump so I could return to my assignments faster. Besides, we’re not always beside each other. Don’t be mad anymore. Please.”
He doesn’t answer, but the rigid set of his shoulders softens a fraction. I rest my forehead on his back for another second, then glance past his arm toward the bed.
A bouquet of fresh flowers lies on the edge of the bed—dark red roses, still dewy, wrapped inside a black wrapper and tied with a simple cream ribbon. A small card rests on the stems.
I let go of him and walk over.
“You bought me flowers?”
I lift the bouquet carefully and bring it to my face. The scent is clean and sweet. My name is written on the card in his sharp, controlled handwriting. Something bright and unexpected blooms in my chest. I’ve never been given flowers before. Not once. Not from anyone.
“I didn’t know someone as cold as you would be this romantic,” I say, smiling, unable to hide how very touched I feel.
His voice comes low and flat from the window. “Put it back. I regret buying it.”
I set the bouquet gently on the nightstand instead of the bed and return to him, sliding my arms around his waist again from behind.
“Come on. Stop sulking. I’m here already.” I rest my cheek on his back. “Soren. Face me.”
A beat of silence.
“Talk to me,” I add softly. “Please.”
He turns slowly, reluctantly. He’s so tall that I need to raise my heels to kiss him on the cheek.
“Thank you for the flowers. They’re beautiful. No one’s ever given me any before. Not even for birthdays. You didn’t have to, but I’m really glad you did.”
Something in his shoulders finally loosens. He turns slowly, reluctantly. The moment his two-toned eyes drop to my chest they darken. The front of my thin sleep shirt is already damp again, two dark circles spreading where milk has soaked through.
“You’re leaking again.”
I look down, then back up at him, a small, teasing smile tugging at my mouth even though my face feels hot.
“I know. It's heavy… Leaking… And needs your help.” My voice drops. “Only yours.”
His expression shifts. Frustration gives way to that quiet, possessive heat I’ve started to recognize.
His voice drops into the low, controlled tone that always makes my stomach flip.
“On the bed.”
I climb onto the mattress without another word. He follows, stripping the shirt over his head as he moves. The lamp light catches on the hard lines of his chest and the dark ink winding up his arms.
He reaches for the hem of my sleep shirt and pulls it off in one smooth motion, tossing it aside.
Then his hands move lower, hooking into the waistband of my shorts and panties, dragging both down my legs and off in the same location as my shirt.
Milk beads instantly at both nipples and begins to trail down.
Soren goes for my right breast without hesitation. He cups the full, aching weight of it in one large hand, leans down, and latches on hard enough that the sudden strong pull tears a broken sound from my throat as the first heavy rush of milk spills straight onto his tongue.
“This is your punishment for earlier,” he murmurs into my skin. “I’ll milk you till you’re empty.”
He means it.
He sucks deep and steady, tongue pressing and working the underside of my nipple while his free hand cups the other breast and squeezes in slow, deliberate circles that force more warmth to spill over his fingers and down onto the sheets between us.
Thick streams of milk run over his fingers and drip onto the sheets. The relief is intense, but he doesn’t rush. He stays on the right side far longer than he needs to, drawing every drop he can before he finally switches.
When he finally latches onto the left breast he moves even slower, drawing out every pull, every firmer squeeze of his hand, and the low sound of satisfaction that rumbles in his throat each time a new rush of warmth empties into him.
My back arches. My fingers stay buried in his hair. The ache that had been building all evening finally starts to ease, but he keeps going anyway—milking me past the point of relief and into something heavier and more consuming.
“Soren—” I whisper. “That feels… so good.”
He doesn’t answer with words. He just switches back to the right side again, as if he has all night and no intention of stopping until both breasts are completely soft.
Only when the sharpest pressure is finally gone does he lift his head. His mouth is wet and glistening. He doesn’t wipe it away.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Leaking all over this bed for your stepbrother.”
“Only for you,” I answer, cheeks burning. “I don’t want anyone else to see me like this.”
He never stops.
He never stops. He lowers his head again at once, taking me deeper and harder than before, while his free hand slides down between my legs and two thick fingers push through my soaked folds to press inside me without any warning at all.
They sink in easily because I’m already so wet for him, but he still refuses to give me more than those two shallow, teasing fingers.
He just curls them slowly, shallow and teasing, while his mouth keeps working my breast in deep, relentless pulls.
“Soren… please?—”
He lifts his head just long enough to speak against my wet nipple, voice controlled.
“I told you I won’t stop.”
Then he latches on again, sucking harder, fingers still only teasing—slow, shallow strokes that never quite reach the place I need. Milk keeps spilling into his mouth.
My hips rock helplessly against his hand, but he doesn’t give in. The teasing is too much and not enough at the same time.
“Soren, stop— I can’t— I need more—” My voice breaks. “Please, deeper?—”
He ignores the request. He just keeps the same frustrating rhythm, thumb brushing my clit in light, maddening circles while he continues to milk me. Every time I get close, he eases off just enough to keep me from falling over the edge.
“Soren, please— I’m going crazy?—”
“You need to beg for it.”
My face burns, but the ache between my legs is stronger than the shame.
“Please,” I whisper. “Please stop teasing me. I need you inside me. I can’t take it anymore.”
He still doesn’t move faster. He just looks up at me while his fingers keep up the same shallow, deliberate torture.
“Beg properly.”
The words make my face burn hotter, but I don’t care anymore.
“Soren, fuck me. Please.”
That’s the cue.
He reaches toward the nightstand, opens the drawer, and pulls out a condom. The small foil packet catches the low light as he starts to tear it open.
I catch his wrist.
“Don’t.”
He looks down at me, eyes confused, still breathing hard.
“I don’t want anything between us,” I say, voice quieter but steady. “Not tonight. Not for this.”
His jaw tightens. “You sure?”
I nod. “I’ll take an emergency pill after. Just… please. I want to feel all of you.”
For a second he just stares at me, something raw and possessive flashing across his face. Then the corner of his mouth lifts slightly.
“Good,” he says, voice low and rough. “‘Cause I also like to feel the way this tight virgin cunt takes every inch of me with nothing in the way.”