2. Jarvis #2
I knead her gently, working the pressure out of her swollen tissue as milk flows freely now, soaking my fingers and dripping down her stomach, and the scent is everywhere, thick and intoxicating, making me lose my mind as I watch it slide over her skin.
I want to taste it. I want to taste her.
I want to drink from her until she's empty and satisfied.
"Please," she whimpers, and I don't know what she's begging for—for me to stop, for me to keep going, or for someone to finally tell her that she's not broken.
I press my mouth against her ear. Her hair smells like vanilla and grief. "Stop shaking, sweet girl. I'm going to fix this."
She trembles harder. Her body is vibrating against mine, and I can feel her heart racing through her back.
I keep one hand on her breast, rolling her nipple between my thumb and forefinger, milking her with slow, deliberate strokes.
My other hand slides down her stomach, stopping at the waistband of her jeans.
I don't go lower. Not yet. But I want to.
God, I want to. I want to feel her, to taste her, to claim every part of her.
"Daddy," she whispers.
The word slips out of her like a prayer. Like a confession. Like something she's been holding inside for so long that it finally broke free.
I freeze. My hands still. My breath catches in my throat, and for a moment, the world stops turning.
"What did you just call me?" I ask. My voice is barely audible.
She goes rigid against me. Her cheeks burn red, visible even in the dim light of the stairwell. She tries to pull away, but my arms lock around her, banding across her chest, holding her against me. I can feel her heart hammering, can feel the panic in her breath.
"Say it again," I murmur. The command is soft, but it's absolute.
She trembles. Her voice is so small I almost miss it. "Daddy."
I groan. The sound is low and primal and it rips out of me before I can stop it.
My hips buck against her, pressing my arousal harder into her lower back.
She whimpers, and the sound goes straight to my cock.
I'm so hard it hurts, so desperate it's like I'm a teenager again, losing control with a girl who shouldn't want me.
"That's right," I say against her neck. My lips brush her pulse point, feeling it flutter like a trapped bird. "Daddy's going to fix this. Daddy's got you now. Daddy's never going to let you bind yourself again. Do you understand?"
She nods frantically. Her head falls back against my shoulder, exposing her throat to me.
I bite her gently, just enough to mark, just enough to claim.
My hands return to her breasts, working her with renewed desperation, squeezing and releasing, drawing out the pressure that's been killing her.
Milk streams down my fingers, coating my hands, soaking her blouse.
She's crying. Not sobbing. Just tears sliding down her cheeks, silent and endless.
Each tear feels like a confession, like a release of something she's been holding for too long.
"Let it out," I tell her. "Let it all out. I've got you. I've got you, baby girl. I've got you."
"I'm sorry," she chokes out. "I'm so sorry. I don't know why I said that. I don't know what's wrong with me."
"Nothing is wrong with you," I say. My voice is fierce.
I turn her face toward me with one hand, forcing her to look into my eyes.
"You called me Daddy because that's what I am.
I'm the man who's going to take care of you.
I'm the man who's going to protect you. I'm the man who's going to make sure you never have to hide again.
And if that means you call me Daddy, then you call me Daddy. You call me whatever you need."
She stares at me, her hazel eyes wide and wet, and I see the moment she believes me. I see the wall crack. I see the girl who's been alone for twenty-two years finally let someone in. I see all the fear and shame and loneliness she's been carrying finally start to fall away.
"Jarvis," she whispers.
"Daddy," I correct her. My thumb traces her lower lip. "When we're like this, I'm Daddy. Say it again."
"Daddy," she breathes.
"Good girl." The words feel right. They feel like they were always meant to be said. "Now hold still. Let Daddy finish."
I return my hands to her breasts. She's softer now, less swollen, but still leaking.
I milk her with long, slow strokes, drawing out every drop, easing every ache.
Her breathing evens out. Her body melts against mine.
She's limp and trusting and so beautiful it hurts to look at her.
Every sigh she lets out is a victory, every tremor of her body is proof that she's finally letting someone take care of her.
I press a kiss to her temple. "Better?"
"Yes," she whispers. "Yes, Daddy."
My cock throbs at the word. I'm going to hell. I know I'm going to hell. But if hell feels like this, I'll burn happily.
A sound comes from the kitchen. A footstep. Then another.
I turn toward the sound.
Jett is standing at the entrance to the kitchen, perfectly still with his hand on the railing and his eyes fixed on us, and I don't know how long he's been watching, but it's been long enough to see my hands on her bare breasts, the milk glistening on her skin and my fingers and the front of her ruined blouse, and long enough to hear her call me Daddy.
His eyes are dark. His jaw is tight. The bulge in his jeans is unmistakable.
I see the hunger in his gaze, the barely restrained desire that mirrors my own.
"Don't stop on my account," he says. His voice is low and rough. He walks out of the kitchen and stops at the bottom of the stairs, his boots heavy against the wood. "I want to see what she's been hiding. I want to taste what she's been keeping from us."
My brother's eyes meet mine across the dim space between us, and I know exactly what he's asking—not just permission, but something deeper, something that says she was never meant to be mine alone.
I nod once.
Jett's smile turns dark and hungry as he drops to his knees in front of her, his hands finding her thighs and spreading them wide. "She's perfect," he murmurs, his voice thick with reverence. "Every inch of her."
Jolie's breath hitches, and I feel her fingers dig into my thighs, clinging to me as Jett leans in.
She should run. Every instinct she has should be screaming at her to flee.
Instead, she looks up at me with those wet hazel eyes and whispers, "Daddy."
The word is for me, but her body is already arching toward him.
Jett's mouth finds her breast, and she cries out, her head falling back against my shoulder.
"Good girl," I murmur against her hair. "Good girl."
Thirty days.
She thinks she's staying for thirty days.
She has no idea we're never letting her go.