Chapter 3
Joelle
I stand like an idiot, arms crossed tight over my chest, trying not to cry out from the pressure building behind my nipples. They’re swollen and aching, and I can feel the milk starting to let down again, warm and slow, soaking into the front of my shirt.
I’d hoped that if I ignored it, the feeling would pass. That maybe distraction would be enough. My body would absorb it. I’d finally be free.
But that isn’t what’s happening.
Wade stands too close, and I’m too aware of his scent, warm and earthy like leather and sun, and the way his stubble shadows the strong line of his jaw. His gaze drops to my chest, for a second, but it’s enough to make my whole body flush hot with shame.
I tighten my arms, like I can hide what’s happening. Like I can pretend I’m not falling apart.
But then the heat rising in my face breaks loose somewhere else. My throat tightens. My eyes sting. And before I know what’s happening, I’m crying.
Not a tear or two but the kind of emotion that springs from deep down and wells up so fast, it’s impossible to control.
I try to swallow it, to shake it off. “God,” I whisper. “This is so stupid.”
Wade is as silent and motionless as a statue.
“I shouldn’t be here,” I say, breath hitching. “I left my son behind. I don’t have a plan. And now—” I choke on the laugh that wants to rise. “Now I’m leaking all over myself like a damn cow.”
That’s when he approaches me, stepping in and setting his hand on my shoulder, firm and warm, the way someone might touch a nervous animal.
“Joelle,” he says, voice low. “Hey. Look at me.”
I do, because something in the way he says it makes me feel like maybe I’m not unraveling alone. His thumb brushes the tears from my cheek, slow and gentle. He’s so unlike the man I remember that I gape.
“You’re not stupid,” he says. “You’re tired. You’ve been holding too much for too long.”
I shake my head. I don’t know what to do with kindness like this. “I’m a mess.”
“You’re surviving,” he says. “That takes guts.”
I cry harder because no one’s said anything like that to me in a long time. Maybe ever.
He pulls me closer until my forehead rests against his chest and his arms are around me, solid and safe. I don’t even remember the last time someone held me like this, and it feels so good.
“I can’t believe I let it get this bad,” I whisper against his warm skin.
“Hell,” Wade says, “I’ve seen men lose their minds over a broken truck axle. You’ve got nothing to apologize for.”
His hand comes up, cradles the back of my head. I breathe him in, the scent of him settling something in my chest I didn’t even know was shaking loose.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to do this alone anymore.”
He sounds so sure that some tiny part of me believes him. Just enough to rest my body against his, for one long moment, and let someone else hold the weight of the world.
“I can help you.” He strokes my hair, and I shudder with another sob. “But the only way to release the pressure without a pump is manually.”
My body freezes. Logic in my mind packs up and leaves on vacation. My legs want to move, but my feet disagree as my stomach flips.
“What do you mean?” I whisper, glancing up at him, already suspecting I know, but rejecting the thought out of hand.
His gray eyes don’t leave mine. “I mean you’re hurting. And I know how to make it stop.”
There’s no smirk. No glint of cocky arrogance. Just certainty, like this is a task he’s handled before without ceremony. Something totally natural like milking a cow.
But I’m not some animal in his barn.
I’m a woman.
A mother.
A visitor in what used to be my home but hasn’t been for years. Technically, still his stepsister.
Pain spreads through my chest, as sweat trickles down my back.
My throat tightens. “That’s not—”
“It’s up to you,” he interrupts, gently but firmly. “I’m not gonna touch you unless you ask.”
That sliver of choice, the recognition of my agency, is unexpected from a gruff, no-nonsense cowboy like Wade.
My body feels like it’s buzzing, every part of me strung too tight. My breasts throb. Even standing here, I can feel the slow, hot drip soaking into my bra, the pressure so intense it’s dizzying.
I close my eyes and breathe in, trying to calm the storm inside me. My sweet boy is too far from me for any relief, and walking out right now will end my hope of getting this job. I can’t risk getting sick. I have no medical insurance and no savings, and the nearest hospital is miles away.
What other option do I have?
This is insane. But I’m already here, and Wade’s being unexpectedly kind. I’m an idiot for putting myself into this position, but I’m handling life by myself, and it’s tough when you don’t have a momma around to advise you.
I step back as Wade releases me, and I study the broadness of his shoulders and the way his jeans cling to his hips.
God knows his masculinity is impossible to ignore.
But it's the steadiness in his eyes that anchors me. He’s the same Wade I remember from all those years ago.
Quiet, capable, always doing what needed to be done, even when no one thanked him for it.
He carried more weight than anyone should’ve, looking after the ranch when his father was sick, keeping things moving when everyone else fell apart.
I’d catch glimpses of him through the window sometimes, sweating under the sun, muscles straining as he hauled feed or repaired fences, never stopping, never complaining.
That’s the kind of man he is. Trustworthy. Loyal. A rock when it counts. Tough and no-nonsense.
If anyone could handle this without twisting it into something dirty or shameful, it’s Wade. This is a biological process. Nothing more. And this man is a farmer. He’s more familiar with the workings of nature than most men.
That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
I can do this as a one-off until I can work out what else to do.
Fuck. Am I really going to do this?
They’re just breasts, I think, even though my whole body is trembling. My nipples are really leaking now, no longer damp but actively dripping, tiny rivulets running down the curve of my breast beneath my bra. My shirt is soaked. I can’t hide it anymore. Desperation overwhelms me.
“Okay,” I say, barely audible. “Just to make this stop.”
That’s all it takes.
Wade reaches out slowly, palms up like he’s approaching a spooked mare. His eyes scan the horizon, then he nods in the direction of the door. “Let’s get you inside.”
A wave of relief hits me as we step from the porch back into the kitchen. I must be red as a beet, and my heart is pounding in my ribcage. Every nerve ending in my body has hit max awareness.
Wade eyes my chest, removing his hat and placing it on the table. “Take off your shirt.”
I hesitate. He watches me, waiting for me to take the first step, reaching for a towel.
I flush hot, begin to undo the buttons from top to bottom.
The fabric clings, wet and warm, and when I look down, I find my white cotton bra is soaked through and transparent, revealing my wide, dark nipples.
Milk glistens on the skin of my belly, and I can’t meet his eyes, but the sound of him exhaling through his nose like a frustrated bull makes me jump.
The veins on my breast are prominent blue scars across pale flesh.
“You poor thing,” he whispers, stepping closer. Without warning, he flicks the clasp at the center of my bra so fast that I don’t have a chance to anticipate what it will be like when it falls away, and I’m left bare.
The air is cool on my damp skin, but my face is a raging inferno.
Heat thrums through me, pooling between my thighs. Jesus. Am I getting aroused by this? I can’t get aroused by this.
With fear coursing through me, I risk looking up to be met by his serious gray eyes.
“It’s okay, girl. I’ve got you,” he says, with a surprising amount of tenderness.
He reaches up and cups one breast, his large hand supporting the heavy weight. His thumb brushes over my nipple, and milk wells up instantly, releasing a slow, aching trickle onto the towel.
“Jesus,” he murmurs.
His other hand joins the first, and he kneads gently, carefully, thumbs pressing in a rhythm I didn’t know I needed. The milk flows, slowly at first, then a little more. Relief floods through me so fast I nearly cry, but it hurts too, and I flinch with the pain.
My head tips back as I grit my teeth. My knees wobble.
“Easy,” he says, catching me by the waist, guiding me down to the bench seat by the kitchen table. “You have to relax to let it out.”
He kneels between my legs, both hands still working, mouth inches from my chest. His breath is warm. With a furrowed brow, he mutters, “This isn’t gonna release enough. I’m gonna have to suck.”
My eyes widen, then focus on his plush lips. He’s seriously suggesting he’ll suck the milk out of me.
“Is that okay, Joelle?” he asks, his ethereal eyes almost swamped by huge black pupils. He seems as dazed as I am about what we’re doing.
The voice in my head screams, “No. Of course it isn’t.
” This man is my stepbrother, and I need a job here.
This whole situation is making everything weird.
How will I work here after this without dying of embarrassment every time I see him?
But my body betrays me. Relief is so close, and all I want is to be rid of this ache.
“Yes,” I whisper. “Okay. So I don’t get sick.”
And then his mouth is on me, hot and possessive, sucking hard so the milk rushes out, and I moan with relief. I can’t help it. The letdown is immediate, and his eyes widen as his tongue strokes the underside of my nipple, teasing out more and more.
He drinks like it’s water, and he’s been stumbling through the desert for days. He drinks like it’s nectar from the gods and drawing it into his body will make him a hero. And I watch his eyelids lower, his dark eyelashes fanning across his cheeks, his expression blissed out.
And as wrong as it is, I don’t want him to stop.