3. GEORGIE
GEORGIE
My pump sits uselessly back at my car. Gavin said his men would collect my things tomorrow—today, technically—but that knowledge offers zero comfort when my body feels like it might split open from the inside out.
I squeeze my eyes shut and press my palms against the tender flesh, trying to manually express some of the milk. The first few attempts yield pathetic drops that do nothing to ease the swollen heaviness. My fingers cramp from the awkward angle, and a whimper escapes before I can bite it back.
This is ridiculous. I'm ridiculous.
But there's a solution right next door. A solution with a mouth that turned my entire world sideways just hours ago.
Wrong. Everything about this situation screams wrong on so many levels I've lost count.
He's technically my stepfather, even if we've never met before tonight.
Even if there's no blood relation. Even if my mother—who barely remembers I exist—married him years ago and apparently never bothered mentioning she had a daughter.
The ache intensifies until tears actually spill down my cheeks. I sit up, breathing hard, and the silk nightgown they provided—because apparently Gavin keeps a fully stocked guest room—clings to my overheated skin.
My body has never responded to anyone the way it responded to him.
Zero sexual experience, and suddenly I'm coming apart from my stepfather's mouth on my breasts?—
No. Not going there.
Except I've been going there for the last three hours, tossing and turning while replaying every second.
The rough scrape of his stubble against sensitive skin.
The wicked heat of his tongue. The possessive growl that vibrated through his chest when I ground against that chair like some desperate thing I didn't recognize.
That first orgasm still hums faintly in my bloodstream, an electric memory that makes my thighs clench involuntarily.
Another wave of pain lances through my chest, sharp enough to drag a sob from my throat. My hands are useless, cramping and ineffective, and the pressure builds to an unbearable crescendo.
Fine. Fine.
Bare feet hit cool hardwood as I slide from the bed.
The nightgown barely reaches mid-thigh, and I should probably find a robe, but the pain overrides any remaining shred of modesty.
My reflection catches in the mirror by the door—wild hair, flushed cheeks scattered with freckles, blue eyes huge and uncertain.
What am I doing?
The hallway stretches dark and quiet. His bedroom door sits closed, an imposing barrier that somehow feels more intimate than anything that happened in that warehouse.
My hand raises. Hovers.
Knocks three times before courage abandons me entirely.
Footsteps approach almost immediately, as if he wasn't sleeping either.
The door swings open to reveal Gavin in low-slung gray sweatpants and nothing else.
All that ink decorating his arms and chest practically glows in the dim light filtering from his room.
Salt-and-pepper hair slightly mussed, stubble darker than before, those storm-cloud eyes instantly alert despite the hour.
"Georgie." My name sounds different in that gravelly voice. Dangerous. "What's wrong?"
"I—my—" Words stick in my throat because now that I'm here, the request seems impossible. "They hurt."
His gaze drops to my chest, and the nightgown might as well not exist for all the protection it offers. Those dark gray eyes linger, assessing, before his jaw tightens.
"Inside." Not a request.
He steps back, one large hand wrapping around my wrist to guide me into his domain. The bedroom matches the rest of the house—expensive, masculine, immaculate. A massive bed dominates the space, sheets rumpled on one side like he'd been lying there but not sleeping.
"Sit." He gestures to the edge of the mattress.
My legs move on autopilot, sinking into the plush surface while he closes the door with a decisive click. The lock engages, and my pulse jumps.
Gavin crosses to stand directly in front of me, towering and magnetic and utterly focused. "Tell me what you need, baby girl."
The endearment should sound strange. Should feel wrong.
It doesn't.
"Same as before," I manage, voice barely above a whisper. "The pressure—I can't—my hands don't work right, and it hurts so much?—"
"Shh." One tattooed finger presses against my lips, silencing the rambling explanation. "I've got you."
He sinks to his knees between my spread thighs, and the visual alone sends molten awareness pooling low in my belly. Those massive hands bracket my ribcage, thumbs stroking gentle patterns through silk while he studies my face.
"Lift your arms."
The nightgown slides up and off in one smooth motion. Cool air kisses my skin, and my nipples—already tender and leaking—tighten further. Gavin's sharp inhale is audible, his pupils dilating until only a thin ring of gray remains.
"Fucking gorgeous." The rough worship in those words makes my toes curl. "My stepdaughter's pretty tits are mine now, understand?"
His mouth seals around my left nipple, the sudden, wet heat of it dragging a broken whimper from my throat.
Every rhythmic pull feels like pure salvation, the built-up pressure inside me finally giving way in hot, pulsing bursts that coat his tongue.
Relief floods my veins so violently it blurs the edge between pain and ecstasy, my eyes fluttering shut as a raw sob lodges behind my sternum.
God, I needed this—needed him—more than air. The thought spins wildly through my head while my body arches without permission, chasing the merciless suction that turns my heavy, aching breasts into instruments of pure, filthy pleasure.
He doesn’t rush. Those big, tattooed hands knead the soft, overflowing flesh with deliberate care, squeezing just enough to coax more milk onto his tongue while he switches sides.
The shift leaves my abandoned nipple glistening and flushed, still tingling from the loss of his mouth.
Each deep pull sends liquid fire racing straight to my core, my pussy clenching around nothing, slick arousal coating my inner thighs in shameful abundance.
The scent of warm milk and raw need thickens the air between us, sweet and heady, making my head swim. I’m empty, so fucking empty, and the desperate ache only sharpens with every expert flick of his tongue.
My fingers plunge into the short strands of his hair, fisting hard enough that my knuckles ache. He growls against my skin, the low vibration rattling through my nipple and straight into my clit.
The scrape of his stubble burns in the most addictive way, leaving reddened trails across my skin.
My hips rock in tiny, helpless circles, seeking pressure that isn’t there yet, my mind a chaotic storm of yes, more, please don’t stop, Daddy—except the word stays trapped behind my teeth, too filthy and thrilling to release.
I can’t stop myself. My right hand slips free of his hair, gliding over the rigid cords of his shoulder, tracing the raised lines of ink that sleeve his massive biceps.
His heart thunders beneath my palm when I reach his chest, a savage beat that matches the frantic pulse between my legs. Lower I go, driven by pure instinct, until my fingers spread over the enormous, rigid length straining against thin gray sweatpants.
The heat of him sears my palm, the thick vein pulsing under my touch, the sheer size making my mouth go dry even as fresh wetness floods my cunt.
Gavin goes utterly still. The wet pop as he releases my nipple echoes obscenely in the quiet room, cool air rushing over the swollen, leaking peak. His head snaps back, dark gray eyes locking onto mine with a look so predatory my breath catches hard in my throat.
The danger rolling off him should terrify me. Instead, it makes my inner walls flutter with fresh hunger.
“Careful, baby girl.” The warning scrapes out low and lethal, his voice gravel wrapped in velvet threat. “Don’t start something you won’t finish.”
My fingers flex, shamelessly stroking the massive bulge, feeling it twitch and thicken further beneath my touch. A wicked smile tugs at my lips despite the way my cheeks burn. “Who says I won’t finish this?”
The growl that tears from his chest sounds barely human, vibrating through every inch of me. Before I can draw another breath, he surges upward like a storm breaking, one huge hand fisting tight in my hair.
He yanks my head back, exposing my throat, and his mouth crashes down on mine in a kiss that obliterates every thought. No tenderness, no hesitation—just raw possession, his tongue plunging deep to claim every corner while I taste myself on him, sweet milk and darker, masculine hunger.
I open wider, sucking on his tongue, moaning into the brutal slide of lips and teeth, my body screaming for everything he’s about to give.
His free hand grips my thighs, spreading them so wide the muscles burn, then hooks both legs over his broad shoulders as he tears off my cotton panties.
The new angle tilts my hips up, leaving my dripping pussy completely exposed and vulnerable while my back hits the mattress.
He looms over me, eyes blazing with dark, filthy promise that makes my stomach clench.
“Last chance to run, Georgie.” His voice has dropped into a dangerous octave, scraping along every nerve. “Because once I start, I’m not stopping until you’re screaming my name and dripping my come.”
Heat explodes through every cell in my body, my clit throbbing so hard it hurts. The words should shock me. They only make me wetter.
“Then start.”
His smile turns wicked, sharp as a blade in the low light, before he descends.
That hot, talented mouth blazes a deliberate path down the soft curve of my stomach, leaving wet kisses that make my skin prickle and burn in the wake of his stubble.
The coarse rasp of it drags over my freckled flesh, igniting every nerve until my hips jerk upward in helpless anticipation.