2. JACKSON
JACKSON
"Okay."
The word sits between us like a closed door. Final. She's decided, and I have to work with whatever that means.
My palms settle over her breast. Heat is the first thing that hits—raw, concentrated, like she's running a fever right under the skin.
The tissue is rock-hard where the swelling peaks, stretched so tight it feels almost glassy. I can map every point of engorgement with the flat of my hand, feel the way the milk has nowhere left to go.
My fingers span far more of her than they should; one hand swallows half the curve, the other braces underneath, and I still can't get the fine control I need. She's five-two and slight, and I'm built like someone who should be lifting engines, not coaxing milk from someone this small.
She winces the second I find the densest spot. A sharp little hitch of breath that goes straight through me.
"Here." Thin, strained, barely holding. She lays her hands over mine, fingers so much smaller they only cover my knuckles. "Like this."
She guides. Light pressure at the outer edge of the areola, not the nipple itself—rolling motion, inward and slightly up.
Her touch is instructional even while tears keep sliding down her cheeks, one after another, silent and ignored.
She's in clear pain and still teaching me, voice level, jaw locked against anything louder.
I follow. Press where she shows. Match the angle. When I get it right, milk gathers—first clear, almost watery, then turning opaque white at the tip of her nipple.
Tiny drops that bead, tremble, and fall onto my thumb. Warm. Thin. Nowhere close to enough. The scent of it rises between us, faint and sweet under the sharper smell of her skin and whatever soap she used hours ago.
Her breath stutters. Not relief. Frustration, pure and raw.
"More pressure."
I give it. Too much. She flinches hard enough that her thighs shift against my knees. I ease off.
"Less. But—no, that's not working either."
My jaw locks tight enough I feel the joint pop. This is failing because I'm all wrong for the job. Too big. Fingers too thick to isolate the narrow band of glands the way she needs.
When I try for precision my palms spill past the targeted spot and crush the swollen tissue around it. When I keep the pressure light enough not to hurt her, nothing moves.
When I push hard enough to force anything out, she jerks back, a soft broken sound catching in her throat, and the few drops that appear aren't enough to drop the pressure even a fraction.
I can feel her heartbeat through my hands—fast, ragged—matching the warning throb in my own pulse. She's trembling now, fine continuous shakes that travel from her sternum into my wrists.
Another tear tracks the same path down her jaw and she doesn't bother wiping it. Her whole body is a plea for relief I can't deliver with these hands.
The heat of her is searing my palms; the wet warmth of the milk is already drying sticky between my fingers. Every failed press digs that failure deeper.
I hate that my size is the problem. I hate that she's still trying to instruct me while clearly drowning in it.
"Again," she whispers, almost apologetic. Like she's the one who should be sorry for bleeding pain into my bathroom.
Six hours ago I was reading incident reports at my desk.
Alice's text came in — "My daughter might need help.
I'm not in the country." — and I filed for three-day leave without asking a single question.
Now I'm kneeling on my bathroom floor with my stepdaughter's breasts in my hands, and my hands are failing her.
She makes a sound. Soft, defeated. Another tear tracks down her jaw, and she swipes at it with her shoulder because my hands are occupied with her body.
"What does the pump do? Walk me through it."
She looks at me. Her jaw is clenched. She's been trying not to cry again.
"It suctions. Creates a vacuum and pulls the milk out. That's what relieves the pressure."
Suction. Vacuum. My hands can't create suction.
One thing can.
The realization lands clean and simple. My hands can't make a vacuum.
Mouth can. I know exactly what that means—my mouth sealed over her, milk on my tongue—and I've been hard since the parking lot.
She's twenty. The math stopped being clean the second I saw her standing at that curb with her arms crossed tight over her chest.
I lower my head.
My mouth closes over her nipple. The areola stretches under the pull; the tip is rock-hard against my tongue, so engorged it feels almost bruised. I seal my lips and draw steady suction.
Heat floods in—skin-warm, faintly salty, metallic undertone that hits the back of my throat. Not sweet. Just milk. Her milk. The first mouthful is thick; I swallow it and keep pulling, tongue working the underside while my cheeks hollow.
Her body's response is immediate and total. The rigid set of her shoulders collapses like a cut string. Spine softens. Knees buckle half an inch before she catches herself.
The sound that leaves her is pure release—ragged, air-starved, close to a sob but cleaner. Relief so sharp it borders on pain of its own. I feel the pressure break under my mouth: the rock-hard tissue starts to give, softening millimetre by millimetre as the milk lets go.
Wet heat floods my tongue again. I swallow, reseal, pull harder. The stream strengthens. Sticky drips escape the corner of my mouth and run down the underside of her breast onto the hand still braced beneath it.
Her hand lands on the back of my neck and grips. Nails bite faint crescents into my skin—not yanking me closer, just anchoring. Using the solid bulk of me to stay upright while her body finally unclenches.
My free palm slides to her lower back, spans almost the entire width of her. Fingers brush the knobs of her spine; I could close my hand and nearly touch my own thumb.
One shift and I'd have her off her feet, wrapped up against my chest. That thought is not useful. I shove it down and keep working—steady, rhythmic suction, tongue circling the softening tip, drawing the last of the pressure out of the swollen flesh until her breast lies easier in my palm.
The bathroom smells like soap and skin and the thin, animal scent of fresh milk.
Every swallow is a deliberate choice. Every pull of my mouth is measured so the seal never breaks hard enough to hurt her.
She's small enough that one wrong squeeze of my hand could leave a mark; I keep the pressure careful, deliberate, while my body stays locked in the awareness of exactly how hard I am and how little that matters right now.
This is the task. Draining the swelling. Giving her relief. This is what I'm here for.
The swelling eases under the rhythmic pull of my mouth, each steady draw coaxing more from her until the tight, heavy ache begins to relent. I pull back just enough to draw a breath, the faint, warm sweetness of her milk lingering on my tongue like something forbidden and intimate.
My gaze lifts to her face, taking in the slackened line of her jaw, the way her chocolate-brown lashes rest against flushed cheeks, those dried tear tracks still glinting under the bathroom light.
For the first time since I found her huddled in here, the sharp tension has melted from her features. She looks undone in the best way, soft and open, like the pain that had her strung so tight has finally released its grip.
I let myself look—one deliberate second that stretches too long. The delicate column of her throat works on a swallow. The elegant dip of her collarbone rises and falls with each breath.
Heat coils low in my gut, thick and insistent, but I shove the raw want down where it belongs. This is about her relief, not the way my cock strains against my zipper like it has its own agenda.
Shifting my weight on the cold tile, careful not to jostle her small frame, I angle toward her other breast.
The neglected one looks fuller, the nipple darker and pearled with a bead of milk that trails lazily down the curve. My lips close around it, slower this time, savoring the velvet heat of her skin against my tongue.
The first strong pull draws a fresh rush from her, thin and sweet, flooding my mouth as her body gives in completely.
A low, involuntary hum vibrates in her chest, and the scent of her intensifies—soap, skin, that underlying animal tang of fresh milk now laced with the faint musk of building arousal.
Her hips twitch.
At first it's subtle, a slow, unconscious roll that brushes her pelvis against my forearm where it braces her. The movement is so small I could almost convince myself I imagined it.
Then it comes again, deeper, her pelvis tilting in a lazy circle that grinds the heat between her thighs against the solid muscle of my arm.
Her green eyes stay closed, lashes fluttering, but her breathing has thickened into something else entirely—deeper, rougher pulls of air that hitch on every exhale.
Forty-one years old, and I know exactly what this is. Pain fading. Endorphins surging. A warm, wet mouth working sensitive flesh in ways that blur every line between necessity and naked hunger.
She's not choosing this. Not yet. Her conscious mind is still drifting somewhere behind those closed lids, but her body has already crossed over. Her fingers twist tighter in my hair, nails scraping my scalp with a sting that shoots straight to my cock.
The circles of her hips grow bolder, more insistent, slick fabric of her panties catching against my skin as the motion drags her closer to the edge.
Two currents run through me at once, crashing hard. One keeps the suction steady, measured, tongue circling the stiff peak to drain every last drop while my palm cradles the soft weight of her breast.
The other drowns in the awareness of how wet she's getting, how her thighs tremble against my sides, how the raw little sounds leaking from her parted lips make my balls draw up tight.
My own arousal throbs in time with her rhythm, thick and heavy, leaking against the front of my jeans. I want to taste more than just her milk. I want to bury my face between her legs and drink down whatever this is turning into.
Her breathing fractures. The roll of her hips turns sharp, demanding. Those delicate fingers yank at my hair with enough force to sting, and the scent of her arousal blooms stronger, sweet and heady in the small bathroom.
Every cell in me screams to stop, to pull back before this becomes something she didn't explicitly ask for. But the milk still flows. The job isn't finished. And beneath every rational excuse sits the simpler, darker truth: I don't want to stop.
My mouth works. The milk keeps coming. Her hips circle harder, chasing friction against my arm while her back arches in a graceful bow that presses her deeper into my hold.
The tension coils tighter in her small body, muscles quivering under my forearm, breath sawing in and out like she's running toward something inevitable.
She breaks.
The sound rips out of her—raw, shattered, nothing like the soft sighs from before. It slams into my chest like a physical blow. Her spine snaps into a deeper arch, hips stuttering wildly against me as her stomach clenches hard under the press of my arm.
The shaking starts in her thighs and spreads upward in visible waves, her whole frame trembling as the orgasm tears through her without mercy.
I pull back. Stay on my knees. Watch her come down.
Her chest heaves. Eyes still closed. The flush on her skin is different from the crying flush, different from the pain flush. This is something else entirely — heat and satisfaction and the particular glow that follows release.
Her breathing slows. The trembling settles into aftershocks.
Then her eyes open.
The blood drains from her face. Her eyes go wide. Her mouth opens, and I can read the horror written across every feature. She's just registered what happened. What she let happen. What I made happen.
"I'm sorry." The words tumble out fast, tripping over each other. "I didn't — that wasn't — I didn't mean for that to happen."
She's spiraling. Building the wall back up, getting ready to bury this under shame. Her eyes dart, looking anywhere except at me. Her arms start to fold across her chest — covering herself, closing off.
I watch this happen. Recognize what she's doing. She's about to make this a thing she has to apologize for, add it to the pile of things that have gone wrong today, and I am not going to let her do that.
"Do you regret it?"
The question stops her. Her arms freeze mid-fold. She stares at me, and I can see the fight happening behind her eyes — the answer she thinks she should give competing with the real one.
I wait. Don't push. Don't rephrase. She either answers or she doesn't.
"No."
One word. Quiet. True.
It ends the fight I've been having with myself since the parking lot.
The restraint I've been holding snaps.
I stand. The movement is deliberate, unhurried. She has to tilt her head back to look at me — the height difference stark, unavoidable. My hands go to her face, framing her jaw, thumbs brushing the tear tracks on her cheeks.
I kiss her.
Her mouth is soft under mine. She tastes like salt from tears and something underneath — something that's just her. She freezes for half a second, then melts into it. Her hands grip my shirt, pulling me closer, and she makes a sound against my mouth that goes straight through me.
This is not gentle. Not violent. The kiss of a man who held back for hours and just stopped holding back. There's urgency in it, but it's controlled — I'm still aware that she's small, that my hands are big, that I have to be careful with her even now.
She meets me. Kisses back with the same urgency, the same heat. Her body presses against mine, and I can feel her heartbeat through her chest, fast and hard and alive.