2. GAVIN
GAVIN
The shock painted across her face—eyes wide, lips parted, cheeks flushed—sends blood rushing south.
Every muscle in my body pulls taut. Forty-one years old, and here I stand, harder than I've been in decades, offering to breastfeed my twenty-year-old stepdaughter in a warehouse that reeks of diesel and desperation.
What the fuck has gotten into me?
Photos don't capture reality. The file I received three days after Ellen vanished contained surveillance shots—grainy, distant, clinical. A girl leaving campus. A girl entering a coffee shop. Numbers and facts: age, major, GPA, residence hall.
Nothing prepared me for this.
For freckles scattered across her nose like constellations.
For curves that make my palms itch. For the way tears cling to her lashes, making those blue eyes shimmer like sea glass.
For the scent of her—vanilla and desperation and something uniquely Georgie that makes my cock throb against my zipper.
The arousal started the second consciousness returned to her—those first confused blinks, terror rippling across features too soft for the violence that surrounds her. Too innocent for my world. For me.
Something primitive awakens with each passing moment, recognition sparking low in my gut.
It's familiar, this feeling. The same inevitability that strikes when I'm closing a deal worth millions, when I'm watching a rival realize too late they've already lost, when I'm expanding into territory others thought untouchable.
When something sinks its claws into me and refuses to let go, resistance becomes pointless.
Wastes time. Energy. Resources that could be better spent.
Total commitment works better.
This woman—two decades old, untouched, her body producing milk because stress triggered some primal biological response—she already belongs to me. The knowledge settles into my bones with absolute certainty.
She just doesn't understand it yet. Doesn't realize that the moment Ellen made the catastrophic mistake of dragging her into my orbit, every possible future narrowed to a single path.
To me.
I thought someone else had gotten there first. The possibility made fury simmer hot enough to scorch everything in its path. But virgin? The word rewrites every plan, every calculation. Opens doors I thought were sealed. Creates opportunities that make my pulse quicken.
Need to claim her. Mark every inch of that freckled skin.
Make her writhe and moan and scream my name until her throat goes raw and she can barely speak.
Need to put my baby inside her belly, forge a connection that binds her to me forever—something real, permanent, nothing like the hollow farce I had with Ellen.
My marriage to that materialistic woman was pure convenience, a business transaction that served a purpose.
Except nothing about it proved convenient.
She embezzled hundreds of thousands. Sold intel to enemies who are now feeding worms six feet under.
Disappeared like smoke when she sensed the walls closing in.
But she left me Georgie.
"This is wrong." Georgie's voice trembles, but steel threads through it. "You're my stepfather."
Stepfather. The word tastes bitter on my tongue. "We're not related by blood."
"That doesn't?—"
"Tell me how to do it." The command cuts through her protest. "Teach me."
Her throat works. Swallowing. Deciding. Blue eyes dart around the warehouse as if searching for escape routes that don't exist. Finally, she nods—small, jerky, reluctant.
"You need to... I need to take off my shirt first."
My cock pulses. "Do it."
Trembling fingers work the hem of her sweater. She pulls it up slowly, revealing pale skin and the soft swell of her stomach. A plain cotton bra strains against breasts swollen with milk. The fabric's damp. She unhooks it with practiced efficiency, and Christ?—
Full and heavy, nipples darker than I expected, already leaking. A drop of milk beads at the tip of her left breast. My mouth waters.
"Your hands," she whispers. "Start with your hands."
Moving closer requires effort. Control. Can't rush this. Can't scare her more than she already is. Each step echoes in the cavernous space. When I'm close enough to feel her body heat, close enough to count each freckle on her chest, I stop.
"Show me."
She reaches up, cups her breast with one small hand. "Gentle pressure. Like this." Her fingers knead, working from the outer edge toward the nipple. More milk wells up. "You're trying to empty them. Constant, steady pressure."
My hands slide over hers, nudging them aside so that the full, fever-warm weight of her breasts settles into my palms like they were made for me.
Christ, they’re heavier than they look, skin satin-soft and fever-flushed, veins faintly blue beneath the surface.
A low, broken gasp tears from her throat the instant my callused thumbs brush the undersides, and the sound punches straight through me, thickening my cock until the zipper of my slacks feels like a damn torture device.
I start slow, mirroring what she showed me, rolling the swollen flesh outward to inward with steady, deliberate pressure.
Milk beads instantly, pearlescent and warm, trickling over my knuckles in silky rivulets that smell faintly sweet. The liquid coats my fingers, making every squeeze slicker, wetter.
Her nipples tighten into dark, rigid peaks that beg for a mouth, leaking faster with every knead until thin streams run down the heavy curves and drip onto her lap.
“Harder,” she breathes, voice cracking. “You have to… it needs more pressure.”
I tighten my grip, digging in just enough to feel the dense, milk-laden tissue yield under my fingers. A high, needy whimper slips from her, nothing like pain.
Her thighs clamp together on the chair, hips rolling in tiny, unconscious circles. The freckles across her chest stand out sharper against the deepening flush racing down her neck.
“Other side,” she pants, almost frantic. “Both need—both need attention.”
Switching breasts, I keep the same relentless rhythm—squeeze, roll, release—watching fresh milk spray in fine arcs when I pinch just beneath the nipple. Her face twists, torn between relief and something darker, sharper.
She bites down hard on her lower lip, knuckles bone-white where they clutch the metal arms of the chair. The sharp tang of her sweat mixes with the sweeter perfume of leaking milk, and my mouth floods with saliva.
“Still hurts?” The question scrapes out of me, gravel-rough.
“Yes.” Her voice is barely a thread. “The pump works better because—because of the suction.”
Suction.
The word explodes behind my eyes in a blaze of pure filth. I can already feel it: the tight seal of my lips, the pull of my tongue, the moment her milk would jet hot and sweet across my palate while she shattered.
My balls draw up tight.
I lift my gaze and let her see everything—every filthy intention, every dark craving, the absolute certainty that I’m going to drink from her until she’s writhing and empty and soaked between her thighs. “I told you. I can do that.”
“You can’t—we can’t?—”
I drop to my knees in one fluid motion, the concrete biting cold through my slacks.
The new angle puts my face level with those dripping, flushed tits.
Her breath snags audibly, blue eyes blowing wide, pupils swallowing the bright irises until she looks half-drunk on fear and something far more dangerous.
“Last chance to stop me, Georgie.”
She says nothing. Doesn’t pull away. Just stares down at me with parted, trembling lips, cheeks scarlet, chest heaving so hard her leaking nipples brush my stubble with every ragged inhale.
The scent of her skin is everywhere now—warm milk, clean sweat, and the unmistakable musk of a pussy growing wetter by the second.
Good enough.
Leaning forward, I take her left nipple into my mouth.
The taste detonates across my tongue—rich, warm, impossibly sweet, like melted sugar and raw cream and pure Georgie. I suck hard, hollowing my cheeks, tongue lashing the stiff peak while my teeth graze just enough to make her jolt.
A startled cry rips from her throat and her hands fly into my hair, fingers fisting tight enough to sting my scalp. Milk gushes instantly, flooding my mouth faster than I can swallow.
Thick, sweet pulses coat my throat, spill from the corners of my lips, trickle down my chin and soak into the collar of my shirt. I groan against her flesh, the vibration pulling another desperate sound from her.
“Oh God?—”
I work her harder, sucking with steady, ruthless pressure, lips sealed tight while my tongue milks her in long, dragging strokes. She grinds down against the chair, hips rolling, the seam of her jeans no doubt rubbing right against her swollen clit.
The movement sends white-hot lightning down my spine. My free hand clamps onto her waist, fingers digging into the soft give of her hip to hold her still while I switch to the right breast.
This one is even fuller, heavier, the nipple darker and leaking in steady beads that I catch with the flat of my tongue before sealing my mouth over her again.
I suck hard enough to hollow my cheeks, and the moan that tears out of her this time is filthy—low, broken, shocked. Her back arches, pushing more of that perfect tit between my lips.
“Please—I don’t—something’s happening?—”
Pleasure. Raw, virgin pleasure slamming through a body that’s never been touched like this. Her thighs tremble, knees spreading wider on the chair as if her cunt is aching to be filled.
My cock throbs so violently it hurts, thick pulses of precum soaking through fabric and threatening to spill if I don’t get inside her soon.
I keep working her breast with my mouth, greedy pulls that empty her in rhythmic jets while my hand kneads the other, pinching and rolling the neglected nipple until milk sprays across my knuckles.