1. Rue #2
"Yeah." He shrugs, easy. "You just got here. Take the night, unpack, whatever. We're not going to throw you into it right away."
My hands shake as I stare at the bed. The door clicks shut behind Roman, his footsteps fading down the hall.
This is it.
Mom's voice crawls through my head, sharp and insistent. Men act like idiots when it comes to sex, Rue. You get him alone, you give him what he wants, and he'll hand over whatever you ask for. It's that simple.
My stomach twists.
I've done cons before. Small stuff—Dad taught me how to read marks when I was ten, how to smile and play helpless so people would open their wallets. I've lied to landlords, sweet-talked bill collectors, forged signatures on forms Kurt needed for school. But this? This is different.
This is my body. My first time.
I press my palms against my thighs, try to steady my breathing. The damp spots on my chest have cooled now, sticky and uncomfortable against my skin. Another leak threatens, my body still betraying me with every nervous heartbeat.
It wouldn't be that bad, I tell myself. He's gorgeous. He's nice. He didn't laugh at you when you were standing there dripping like some kind of freak.
I peek back at the door. He said he'd bring a list. That means he's coming back. Soon.
My pulse kicks into overdrive.
Condom. I have to make sure he wears a condom.
I'm fertile right now—I can feel it in the way my body's responding, the slick heat between my thighs that hasn't let up since he opened that front door.
Getting pregnant would destroy everything.
Kurt would lose his chance at the transplant, and I'd be stuck with some rich guy's baby while Mom and Dad bled him dry from the sidelines.
No. Absolutely not.
I move before I can second-guess myself, cross to the bathroom and push open the door.
Oh God.
Clear walls. The entire bathroom has clear glass walls facing back into the bedroom, like some kind of showroom. I can see everything—the bed, the window, the door. Which means anyone in the bedroom can see everything in here, unless I lock the bedroom door.
My face goes hot.
That's the point, idiot. This is a rich person's house. Probably some design choice that screams wealth and confidence. People who live here don't worry about privacy because they don't have to.
I step inside, let the door swing shut behind me, pretending I forgot to lock the bedroom door. It doesn't help. I'm still completely visible.
My fingers find the hem of my hoodie. I peel it off, drop it on the floor.
The sports bra underneath is soaked through, dark patches spreading across the gray fabric.
I unhook it, let it fall. My breasts ache as they're freed, nipples tight and still leaking faint trails of clear fluid down my skin.
Don't think about it. Just move.
I shove my sweatpants down, kick them off along with my sneakers and socks. My underwear—plain cotton, nothing special—clings to me, damp in a completely different way. I hook my thumbs under the waistband and slide them down.
Now I'm naked. Completely bare in this glass box of a bathroom, staring at my reflection in the mirror over the sink.
I look small. Pale. My curls are a wild mess around my face, my eyes too wide and scared.
My body's soft in all the places I've always been self-conscious about—hips, thighs, the slight curve of my belly.
My breasts are fuller than usual, heavy and aching, and I can see the faint sheen of moisture still clinging to my skin.
Seductive. You're supposed to look seductive.
I try to remember what that even means. The movies I've seen, the romance books I've stolen glances at in libraries. Women lean against things. They arch their backs. They look confident.
I press my shoulder against the glass wall, let my hip jut out slightly. One hand lifts to my hair, fingers threading through the curls. The other rests against my stomach, just above the dark curls between my thighs.
I look ridiculous.
My reflection stares back at me, and all I see is a lactating eighteen-year-old playing dress-up in someone else's life.
But I hold the pose anyway.
Because Roman's coming back.
And I need him to want me enough to stop thinking straight.
The bedroom door opens.
My entire body locks up. Every muscle goes rigid, every nerve lights on fire. I watch through the clear glass as Roman steps inside, a paper in his hand—the task list, probably—his eyes down as he starts to speak.
"Hey, I wanted to go over?—"
He looks up.
His words die mid-sentence.
Those dark eyes find me instantly, widen just a fraction, and his whole body goes still. The paper crumples slightly in his fist.
Now. Do something. Anything.
I try to shift my weight, arch my back the way I've seen in movies, make it look natural and inviting.
Instead I wobble, my hand slips against the glass with a squeak, and I have to catch myself against the wall to keep from falling.
My other hand flies to cover my chest on instinct, then drops when I remember I'm supposed to be seductive, not modest.
Heat floods my face. My heart pounds so hard I can hear it in my ears.
And then—oh no—I feel it. The familiar warmth, the wet trickle down my skin. Milk leaks from my nipples in thin white streams, trailing down the curve of my breasts and dripping onto the tile floor between my feet.
I freeze. Can't move. Can't breathe.
Roman stares.
He thinks I'm insane.
I stand there, milk dripping down my chest like some kind of deranged dairy farm, one hand half-raised in what was supposed to be sexy but probably looks like I'm hailing a cab, the other clutching the glass wall for dear life.
But his mouth is slightly open, his chest rising and falling faster now. The paper falls from his hand, flutters to the floor forgotten. He takes one step forward, then another, his gaze locked on me like I'm something he can't quite process.
I want to cover myself. Want to run. Want to disappear into the floor and never exist again.
But his eyes—they're not laughing. Not disgusted.
They're hungry.
The look in them makes my thighs press together, makes my breath catch in my throat. He stops just outside the bathroom door, one hand braced against the frame, knuckles white. His jaw flexes, that hint of stubble catching the light.
"Rue." My name comes out rough, scraped raw. "What are you?—"
"I—" My voice shakes. I swallow hard, try to steady it. "I thought... I wanted to..."
The words tangle in my mouth. I can't say it. Can't make myself voice the lie Mom and Dad drilled into me this morning. Seduce him. Make him want you. Get what we need.
Another drop of milk falls to the floor.
Roman's eyes track the movement. His throat works as he swallows, and when his gaze drags back up to meet mine, there's something dark and raw burning in those charcoal depths. Something that makes my pulse spike and my body react in ways I don't understand.
I expect him to leave. To back away, horrified. To tell me to get dressed and get out.
Instead, Roman steps into the bathroom.
The glass door swings shut behind him with a soft click, and my lungs forget how to work.
He reaches for the hem of his t-shirt, yanks it over his head in one smooth motion.
The tattoo I glimpsed earlier spreads across his chest in full glory now—roses and thorns and intricate architectural details that wind over hard muscle and bronzed skin.
His abs are cut deep, a perfect V disappearing into the waistband of his jeans.
Those come off next. He shoves them down along with black boxer briefs, kicks them aside, and then he's naked.
Completely, gloriously naked.
His cock juts out from a nest of dark hair, thick and already hard, the head flushed dark. My mouth goes dry. I've never seen one in person before, and the sight of it—of him—makes my core clench with something that's half terror, half desperate need.
"Fuck," he breathes, and the word sends a shiver straight down my spine.
He closes the distance between us in two strides, and then his mouth is on mine.
The kiss hits like a lightning strike—hot, demanding, his lips moving against mine with a hunger that steals what's left of my breath.
His tongue sweeps into my mouth, and I gasp, open for him, let him take whatever he wants.
He tastes like coffee and something darker, something that makes my knees buckle.
His hands find my waist, pull me flush against him. The heat of his bare skin against mine is overwhelming, every point of contact burning. I feel his cock press against my stomach, hard and insistent, and a whimper climbs up my throat.
Roman breaks the kiss, trails his mouth down my jaw, my neck. His stubble scrapes against my skin, rough and perfect. He moves lower, his breath hot against my collarbone, and then?—
"Jesus Christ," he mutters against my breast.
His mouth closes over my nipple, and I moan.
Can't stop it. Can't hold it back. The sensation is electric, his tongue flicking over the sensitive peak before he sucks, and milk floods into his mouth.
I feel it release, feel the warm rush as my body responds to him, and his groan vibrates through my chest.
He drinks.
Actually drinks from me, his mouth working, his hands coming up to cup my breasts and massage them.
His fingers knead the soft flesh, coaxing more milk out, and he swallows it down like it's the best thing he's ever tasted.
His eyes flutter shut, dark lashes fanning against his cheeks, and the look on his face is pure bliss.
He likes it.
The realization slams into me. He's not disgusted.
Not horrified. He's into this, into me, into the way my body's betraying me in the most humiliating way possible.
And somehow—God help me—I love watching him.
Love the way his throat moves as he swallows, the way his tongue circles my nipple before he sucks again, the faint wet sounds as he drinks me down.