7. Jett #2
"Listen to me," I say. My voice is rough. "You are not leaving. You are not signing anything. And you are not responsible for that man's poison."
"He's going to tell everyone."
"Let him." I pull her closer. "Let him tell the whole world. It won't change what we are. It won't change that you belong to us."
She shakes her head. Tears spill over, hot and fast. "You don't understand. I can't... I can't watch them look at me like that. Like I'm disgusting. Like I'm..."
She breaks off, her hands going to her chest as she presses against her breasts and winces.
"You're hurting," I say. It's not a question.
"I'll be fine."
"Jolie."
She looks at me, and the pain in her eyes isn't just emotional anymore. It's physical. The milk is building, heavy and urgent, and she's too upset to let down properly.
She thinks she's too much. That she destroys everything she touches. I know that voice—I listened to it for twenty years after the fire. Then she walked in, and I realized I wasn't broken. I was just waiting for someone I actually wanted to keep.
"Come with me," I say, guiding her through the kitchen and past the walk-in freezer toward the wine cellar door.
It's cool and dim down here, lined with racks of bottles we haven't touched in years.
I lead her inside, and she doesn't resist. She's still shaking, her arms wrapped tight around herself, making small pained sounds she tries to swallow.
"You're full," I say, my voice low. "Is it hurting again?"
She doesn't answer, but she slowly nods.
I reach for her, pulling her arms away from her body. I unbutton her flannel shirt, and her breasts spill out, swollen and tight, milk already beading at her nipples.
"Lift it," I say softly.
She pulls the tank top over her head. She's bare from the waist up, her skin golden in the dim light, milk already running in thin trails down her stomach. I sit on a low wooden crate and pull her between my knees.
"Come here," I say.
She straddles my lap, and I guide her breast to my mouth. I latch on, sucking deep and hard, and she cries out. The sound echoes off the stone walls. Her head falls back, her hands gripping my shoulders, and I feel the tension drain out of her as I drink.
"That's it," I murmur against her skin. "Let it out. Let me take it."
The taste of her floods my mouth, sweet and warm and unlike anything I've ever known.
I've had wine aged for decades and desserts from Michelin-starred chefs, but nothing compares to this.
It's her, pure and unfiltered, and I could spend the rest of my life with my mouth on her and never get enough.
I switch to her other breast, pulling deeply, and she moans, her hips shifting against me. I feel her relax, feel the fight leave her body as I drain the pressure from her. Her hands move to my hair, holding me there, and I groan at the sensation.
"I've got you," I say, pulling back just enough to look at her. "I'm not going anywhere."
I'm about to move her when the cellar door opens. Jarvis steps in, closing it behind him. He must have seen us slip away. He doesn't ask questions. He just walks toward us, his eyes dark and knowing.
"She needs more," I tell him. "Both of us."
Jarvis doesn't hesitate. He moves behind her, his hands finding her hips. "You're not running," he says, his voice low and firm. "You're not leaving us."
His hands slide up her stomach and cup her breasts, kneading gently as he leans down. He presses her nipples, and milk sprays across his face. He groans, licking it from his lips before taking one breast into his mouth and suckling deeply.
I guide her to her feet, turning her to face Jarvis.
He steadies her with his hands on her hips, his dark eyes fixed on hers.
I move behind her, pressing against her back as I work her jeans open.
I push them down along with her underwear, exposing her completely.
She whimpers as the cool air hits her bare skin, but she doesn't resist, her head falling back against my shoulder as her body surrenders to both of us.
I kick off my jeans and grip my cock, sliding it through her wetness, coating myself before pressing against her entrance.
"Please," she whimpers.
"Please what?" I ask, my voice rough.
"Please make me feel something else. Please make it stop hurting."
I line myself up and push inside her in one long, hard thrust. She screams, and Jarvis's hand comes up to cover her mouth, muffling the sound. Her inner walls clamp down on me, hot and tight, and I groan against her neck.
"That's it," I growl. "Take it. Let us remind you who you belong to."
Jarvis leans down and takes her other breast into his mouth. He suckles deeply, rhythmic pulls that make her moan into his palm. I start to move, not gentle, needing her to feel me, to know I'm here and not going anywhere.
"You feel that?" I pant against her ear. "You feel how deep I am? This is real. This is yours. And no piece of shit businessman or scared grandparents are going to change that."
Jarvis lifts his head. Milk drips from his chin. His eyes meet mine over her shoulder. "She's going to come. I can feel it. Make her come, Jett."
I reach around and find her clit, rubbing tight, desperate circles as I thrust. She's sobbing against Jarvis's hand, milk spraying from her neglected breast onto his chest.
"Come for us," I command. "Now."
She shatters. Her orgasm is violent, convulsing through her whole body. Her inner walls pulse around me, milking me, and I thrust deep and come inside her, filling her while Jarvis drinks from her breast and she screams against his palm.
We stay like that, connected and locked together. Jarvis releases her breast and pulls her down into his chest, holding her from the front while I stay inside her from behind, softening but not pulling out. We cradle her between us in the dark cellar, and she shakes and shakes and cannot stop.
An hour later, we are upstairs.
The apartment above the restaurant is too quiet. Jolie's grandparents are behind the closed door of the guest room, and I can hear muffled voices—her grandmother crying and her grandfather's low, broken tone.
Jolie sits on the couch, showered and wearing one of Jarvis's shirts, looking small and fragile in the oversized fabric with her knees drawn up to her chest as she stares at her phone. I sit beside her while Jarvis stands by the window, his arms crossed, watching the street below.
"They are going to hate me," Jolie says. Her voice is flat.
"They do not hate you," I say.
She shakes her head. "I ruin everything.
I'm too much to handle. I always have been.
My mother couldn't deal with me, and now I've dragged my grandparents into this mess.
You and Jarvis were fine before I showed up.
The restaurant was simple, your lives were simple.
Now someone's threatening to destroy your reputation because of me. "
"Jolie," Jarvis says. He does not turn around. "Stop."
"I should leave," she says.
The words hit me like ice water.
"I should go back to the city. Sign the papers. Let Rudolf have the restaurant. If I am gone, he has no story. Your reputations are safe. My grandparents do not have to... they do not have to know any more than they already do."
She stands up. Her hands are shaking, but her voice stays steady. She's thought this through—she's not panicking, she's planning. ""I can pack tonight and drive out in the morning," she says. "By Friday, Rudolf will have what he wants, and you can all go back to..."
I grab her wrist and she stops, looking down at me.
"Sit down," I say, my voice quiet but firm, not a request.
"Jett..."
"Sit down." She sits, her bottom lip trembling.
I lean forward, taking her face in my hands and forcing her to look at me.
"You are not leaving," I say.
Tears spill over, running down her cheeks.
"We weren't fine before you came," I continue. "We were empty. Successful and lonely and so bored with our lives we didn't even know it. You didn't destroy anything. You built something. And I'll be damned if I let you tear it down because you're scared."
Jarvis turns from the window. He walks over and kneels in front of her. He takes her hands from mine and holds them in his big palms.
"We fight," he says. "Together. All three of us. We don't run, we don't hide, and we don't let some parasite take what's ours."
Jolie looks between us, her breath coming in short gasps. She's on the edge, one push away from breaking or bending.
"I don't know how," she whispers. "I don't know how to stay when staying hurts everyone."
"Then learn," I say. I press my forehead against hers. "Right now. With us."
She sobs, ugly and loud and desperate, but she doesn't pull away. She leans into us, and we hold her while I feel the shift.
She's not okay, and she won't be for a while, but she's not running.
Not yet.
And I'll spend every day making sure she never does.