2. GAVIN #2
Every swallow, every whimper, every helpless roll of her hips carves itself into my brain like a brand. She’s mine now. Every drop, every moan, every soaked inch of her curvy little body belongs to me. And I’m nowhere near done drinking.
"Gavin…"
The way she whimpers my name rips straight through me, husky and wrecked, like it’s being dragged from someplace deep and untouched inside her.
That single syllable hits harder than any bullet I’ve ever taken, and my cock gives a vicious throb against the confines of my zipper, the wet patch of precum now spreading, sticky and warm, with every heavy pulse.
I switch to her left breast without mercy, sealing my mouth over the leaking peak again. The taste of her floods my tongue, richer here, sweeter, thick cream that I swallow while my stubble scrapes the delicate, freckled skin of her cleavage.
She’s leaking faster now, each pull of my mouth forcing more milk to spray across the back of my tongue in hot, rhythmic jets that I can’t get enough of.
“I can’t—oh God, I can’t?—”
Her voice cracks, high and broken, the words dissolving into a long, guttural moan that bounces off the cold concrete walls of the warehouse.
The smell of her orgasm hits me before she even fully comes—sharp, sweet arousal thickening the air until I’m drowning in it. Her thighs clamp around my hips, every muscle in her curvy little body locking tight.
Then she explodes.
Her back bows so violently the chair creaks beneath her, head flung back, that long reddish-brown hair spilling like silk over her shoulders.
A raw, keening cry tears from her throat, echoing in the empty space around us, and her fingers twist brutally in my hair, yanking hard enough to sting my scalp.
She grinds down against nothing, riding the brutal waves of her orgasm with shameless, jerking rolls of her hips.
Fuck, she’s beautiful like this—flushed, trembling, milk still beading at her swollen nipples, freckled cheeks wet with overwhelmed tears. The sight brands itself behind my eyelids.
She’s mine. Every shudder, every broken gasp, every drop of warm cream and slick that’s soaking through her clothes belongs to me now.
I don’t stop suckling, gentling the suction until the last violent tremor fades from her limbs and her grip in my hair finally slackens. Her chest heaves with ragged, sobbing breaths that brush her sensitive tits against my stubble, sending fresh shivers through her.
When I pull off with a soft, wet pop, a thin string of milk and saliva stretches between my lips and her dark, glistening nipple before breaking. Her blue eyes are glassy, unfocused, staring at nothing while her body still twitches with aftershocks.
“I don’t know what happened,” she whispers, voice hoarse and wondering.
A dark satisfaction curls low in my gut.
I rise slowly, towering over her at my full six-six, the thick ridge of my cock straining painfully against my pants, the head smeared with so much precum the fabric clings obscenely.
Wiping the glistening trail of her milk from my chin and stubble with the back of my hand, I taste her one last time on my skin.
“I do.” The words come out rough, gravelly with the effort of not throwing her down and burying myself balls-deep in that virgin cunt right here on the filthy warehouse floor. “Now you need to come with me.”
Confusion flickers across her face. "What?"
"You're coming with me. To my house."
"I can't just—why would I?—"
"Because your mother sold information to my enemies. Those enemies have been eliminated, but Ellen's got other people looking for her. People who know she had a daughter." I let that sink in, watching comprehension dawn. "People who won't hesitate to use you as leverage or worse."
The color drains from her face in an instant. Reality crashes through whatever post-orgasm haze still clung to her, sharpening those blue eyes with genuine fear. Her throat works on a swallow that looks painful. "How many people?"
"Enough." The word carries weight. Too much weight for someone like her to carry, but she'll learn.
Bending down, I scoop her bra and sweater from the concrete floor.
Dust clings to the fabric. I brush it off before handing both to her, watching her fingers tremble as she takes them.
"Get dressed. My men will pick up your things from your dorm. You tell them what you need."
"But my classes—" Her voice cracks. She tries again, stronger. "My friends?—"
"You're not stopping. You're just transferring homes.
" Saying it out loud makes it real. Makes this decision final.
The sight of her wrestling the bra back on tests every ounce of control I've built over four decades.
Watching her wince as fabric compresses that flesh makes my jaw clench.
Want to rip the damn thing off again. Want to spend hours mapping every freckle, every curve, every soft place that makes her gasp.
"You've got two choices: come with me willingly, or come with me unwillingly.
" I straighten to my full height, letting my size reinforce the point. "Either way, you're coming."
Her jaw sets. That stubborn tilt of her chin surfaces despite everything—despite the tears still drying on her cheeks, despite the mess I've made of her.
Mine.
The thought pounds through me with certainty.
"Fine." She yanks her sweater over her head with jerky, angry movements. The hem catches on her damp hair, and she has to fight it down. When her face emerges, flushed and scowling, something in my chest tightens. "But this is insane. You know that, right? This whole thing is completely insane."
"Welcome to my world, baby girl."
The drive takes thirty minutes. Thirty minutes of silence broken only by road noise and her occasional shifting in the passenger seat. She stares out the window at darkness punctuated by streetlights, arms wrapped around herself like she's cold. Or scared. Probably both.
My house sits on ten acres outside city limits. Gated. Secured. Guards patrolling the perimeter 24/7. She takes it in with wide eyes as we roll up the circular driveway—the stone exterior, the sprawling wings, the tasteful landscaping.
"You live here alone?"
"Now I don't."
Inside, I lead her upstairs. The bedroom next to mine has sat empty since I bought this place five years ago. Originally planned it as an office. Never got around to furnishing it properly. Now it'll serve a different purpose.
The door swings open to reveal a space twice the size of most studio apartments. King bed. Private bathroom. Windows overlooking the gardens. Not the master suite, but close enough that I'll hear her if she calls.
When she calls.
"This is mine?" Disbelief colors her voice.
"For now." Leaning against the doorframe, I watch her move into the room. Watch her run fingers over expensive furniture, test the mattress, peek into the bathroom. "You need anything, you tell me. Food, clothes, whatever. My men will bring your things tomorrow."
She turns to face me. Exhaustion pulls at her features, but wariness keeps her spine straight. "Why are you doing this?"
"Told you. Ellen made you a target."
"No, I mean..." She gestures between us. Blush creeps up her neck. "Why did you... in the warehouse... why did you do that?"
Because I wanted to. Because obsession has claws and they've sunk deep. Because tasting her was inevitable from the moment I laid eyes on her and nothing—not morality, not logic, not the fucked-up relationship between us—was going to stop it.
"You needed help." The non-answer slides out smooth. Practiced. "I provided it."
"That wasn't help. That was—" She cuts herself off. Swallows hard. "What was that?"
"You came, didn't you?"
Her face goes scarlet. "That's not—I didn't mean for?—"
"Your body knows what it wants." Moving into her space, I crowd her against the dresser.
"Here's what's going to happen, Georgie.
You're going to stay here where it's safe.
You're going to let me protect you from the shitstorm your mother created.
And when your tits hurt—" I let my gaze drop to her chest, where her nipples press visibly against her sweater. "—you're going to call me."
"Call you," she repeats. Voice faint.
"I'm your pump now." The declaration settles between us. Heavy. Undeniable. "Understand?"
She nods. The movement barely registers—just the smallest dip of her chin—but those blue eyes stay locked on mine. Wide. Uncertain. Like she's trying to solve a puzzle that keeps shifting shape.
"Good girl."
Her breath catches audibly in the quiet room, chest rising sharp beneath that oversized sweater. Something flickers across her face—confusion tangled with arousal, embarrassment wrapped around curiosity. Fucking beautiful.
"Now get some rest." I force my voice level. Controlled. "Door locks from the inside if it makes you feel better. But nobody's getting past my security. You're safer here than anywhere else in this city."