The Billionaire's Milking Room (Billionaire Hucow Arrangements #2)

1. Laura

Laura

The morning light sliced through the dusty windows of Pinehaven Creamery Loft like golden blades, cutting across the reclaimed oak floors and the man I'd spent five years pretending I didn't still dream about.

Kevin Miller hadn't changed in ways that suited my peace of mind.

He stood by the industrial kitchen island, pouring coffee into two ceramic mugs, his shoulders broad beneath a flannel shirt rolled to the elbows.

The same hands that had once traced the curve of my spine now moved with a deliberate grace, measuring cream into my cup without asking how I took it. He remembered.

Of course he remembered.

"You've seen the space online," he said, sliding the mug toward me. His voice had that same gravelly warmth I'd woken up to for two years, the kind that made you believe promises you knew better than to trust. "But photographs don't capture the light in here. The way it changes hour by hour."

"That's why you hired me." I wrapped my fingers around the mug, let the heat ground me. "To capture it."

Kevin's mouth curved, not quite a smile. "That's one reason."

The loft was everything a renovated dairy barn should be—exposed wooden beams supporting a vaulted ceiling, whitewashed walls adorned with vintage milk cans repurposed as vases, floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the rolling Vermont hills.

But my eyes kept snagging on the details that screamed adults only: the king-sized bed nestled in the loft's upper alcove, visible from below through wrought-iron railings; the oversized copper soaking tub positioned in what must have been the old creamery room; the leather restraints I spotted hanging from the headboard, tasteful but unmistakable.

This wasn't a family vacation rental. This was a playground for consenting adults, and Kevin had built it with the same meticulous attention he'd once applied to our relationship.

"Your photography has gotten incredible," he said, leaning against the counter. "I've been following your work. The series you did on abandoned textile mills in Massachusetts—the way you caught the light filtering through broken windows. Haunting."

"You followed my work."

"I never stopped." He said it simply, without apology. "I knew you'd make something of yourself, Laura. You always had the eye. I just... wondered, sometimes, if you were happy."

The question landed like a stone in my chest. Happy. Such a simple word for such a complicated state of being.

"I'm successful," I said, which wasn't the same thing.

Kevin's eyes traced my face with a familiarity that made my skin prickle. "You're still beautiful. More beautiful, actually. There's something different about you. Fuller. Softer."

I felt heat climb my throat at his words, at the way his gaze lingered on my chest. The hormonal imbalance that had plagued me for the past year had left my body foreign and strange—breasts swollen, heavy, constantly aching with a fullness I couldn't explain or relieve.

My doctor had called it galactorrhea, a fancy word for a body producing milk when no baby was coming. I called it a curse.

But Kevin didn't know that. Kevin saw curves where there had been angles, softness where there had been sharp edges, and he didn't know the half of what my body was capable of now.

"So," I said, forcing my voice steady, "should we start with the main living area? I want to catch the morning light while it's still low."

"We can start whenever you want." His voice dropped, intimate. "But first, I need to tell you something."

I set down the mug, suddenly wary. "Kevin?—"

"I didn't hire you just because you're talented.

" He pushed off from the counter, closing the distance between us until I could smell him—wood and coffee and something muskier underneath.

"I hired you because I knew you'd come. Because I needed to see you.

Because there's been something unfinished between us for five years, and I'm tired of pretending it doesn't exist."

"Kevin." His name came out breathless, betraying me. "That's not why I'm here."

"Then why are you here?" His hand lifted, hovered near my jaw without touching, waiting for permission I shouldn't have wanted to give. "You could have sent your assistant. You could have recommended another photographer. But you came yourself."

"Because the work matters to me?—"

"Bullshit." He said it gently, with the ghost of a smile. "You came because you feel it too. The pull. The unfinished business." His fingers finally made contact, brushing a strand of hair from my face. "Tell me I'm wrong."

I couldn't.

The silence stretched between us, heavy with memory.

I remembered the way he'd looked at me the night we broke up, like I was a door he couldn't bear to close but couldn't keep open either.

I remembered the sound of his voice when he said I love you, but I can't be what you need.

I remembered the hollow ache of walking away from the only man who had ever made me feel completely, terrifyingly seen.

"You broke my heart," I said, and the words came out raw, honest, ugly.

"I know." His thumb traced my cheekbone. "I know I did. And I've regretted it every day since. Not because I didn't mean it—I did mean it, then. We were young, and I was scared of how much I wanted you. Scared I'd drown in it."

"And now?"

"Now I've built a business teaching people how to drown in each other safely." A dark humor flickered in his eyes. "Consent, communication, boundaries. I've spent five years learning how to want someone without losing myself. And I want to want you, Laura. Properly. Completely."

I should have walked away. I should have picked up my camera, taken my photos, and left Pinehaven with my dignity intact.

But my body had other ideas. My body was remembering things my mind had tried to bury—the way his hands felt on my skin, the way he groaned my name in the dark, the way he made me feel like the most desired woman on earth.

"I'm not the same person you knew," I said, and the warning in my voice was real. "Things have changed."

"Show me."

The two words stripped me bare. Show me—not tell me, not explain. He wanted to see, wanted to witness whatever transformation had reshaped me. And God help me, I wanted to show him.

My hand moved before my brain could stop it, pressing against the front of my shirt, where the dampness had already begun to seep through the fabric. I'd worn a dark blouse, hoping it would disguise the inevitable leakage, but Kevin's eyes tracked the gesture immediately.

"Laura." His voice went rough, knowing. "What is it?"

"It's a medical condition." I laughed, bitter and embarrassed. "My hormones are—I'm lactating. Have been for eight months. No baby, just... my body deciding to produce milk like some kind of dairy cow."

I expected disgust. I expected awkward pity. I expected him to step back and suggest I see a specialist.

Instead, Kevin's eyes darkened with something that looked almost like hunger.

"Show me," he repeated, softer this time. "Please."

My fingers trembled as I unbuttoned my blouse, slow and deliberate. The morning light caught the sheen of moisture on my skin as I parted the fabric, revealing the lace of my nursing bra—another humiliating purchase I'd made after ruining three silk blouses in a single week.

"Undo it," he said. Not a question.

I reached behind my back, unhooked the clasp, and let the bra fall away.

Kevin's breath caught.

My breasts were fuller than they'd been when we were together, the nipples darker, more prominent. Beads of milk pearled at the tips, catching the light like liquid opals. I felt exposed, vulnerable, monstrous—and something else, something I was ashamed to acknowledge. Arousal.

"Jesus Christ," Kevin whispered. His hand lifted, hovered, waited. "Can I touch you?"

"If you want to."

"I've wanted to for five years." His palm cupped my breast, warm and reverent. "But this—Laura, this is?—"

"Pathetic?"

"Beautiful." His thumb brushed across my nipple, catching the milk, spreading it across my skin. "You're beautiful. You've always been beautiful, but this—this is incredible."

A sound escaped my throat, half laugh, half sob. "You're not disgusted?"

"Why would I be disgusted?" He leaned in, his lips brushing my ear, his voice dropping to a whisper that sent shivers down my spine.

"Do you know how many fantasies I've had about you?

About tasting you? About watching you give yourself to me completely?

" His tongue traced the shell of my ear. "This just adds a whole new layer."

"Kevin—"

"I want to taste you," he said, pulling back to meet my eyes. "I want to taste your milk. I want to watch it flow. I want to drink from you like you're something sacred." His grip on my breast tightened, just shy of pain. "But only if you want it. Only if you trust me."

Trust. Such a fragile thing, broken and reassembled between us.

"I don't know if I trust you," I admitted. "But I want—God, I want?—"

"Tell me."

"I want you to touch me. I want you to—" I swallowed, my face burning. "I want you to relieve this pressure. It's been building for days, and I can't—I can't make it stop on my own."

Kevin's answering growl was pure animal satisfaction. "Then let me help." He guided me backward until my thighs hit the edge of the kitchen island, then lifted me onto the cool granite. "Spread your legs for me, sweetheart."

I obeyed, my skirt riding up my thighs as he stepped between them. His mouth found my right breast, tongue circling the nipple before closing around it and suckling.

The sensation was electric.

Milk flowed into his mouth, warm and sweet, and the release of pressure was so profound I cried out. His hands gripped my hips, holding me steady as he drank, as he pulled and tugged and swallowed. The sound of it, wet, hungry, intimate, filled the quiet loft.

"More," I gasped, threading my fingers through his hair. "Kevin, please?—"

He switched to the other breast, giving the first a gentle squeeze that sent another stream of milk trickling down my ribs. He lapped at it, chased it, cleaned me with his tongue.

I was trembling, over sensitized, drowning in a pleasure I hadn't expected. This wasn't a clinical release. This was worship.

When he finally pulled back, his lips were wet, his eyes dark and dilated. "I want more," he said, voice ragged. "I want all of you. But we need rules first. Boundaries. Safewords."

"Now?" I laughed, breathless. "You want to negotiate now?"

He nodded, serious despite the flush on his cheeks. "I've learned, Laura. You don't play without a framework. Not if you want to keep playing." His thumb traced my lower lip. "We set the rules, we say the words, and then I take you apart however you want me to."

I wanted to argue. I wanted to pull him back to me, to feel his mouth on my skin again. But the sincerity in his eyes stopped me. He wasn't stalling. He was protecting us both.

"Okay," I said. "Tell me your rules."

"First: safewords. Traffic light system—red for stop, yellow for slow down, green for keep going. You can use them anytime, for any reason. I don't question it."

"Okay."

"Second: we talk about what we want before we do it. No surprises. I need to know your limits, and you need to know mine."

"And third?"

His hands found my waist, pulling me closer. "Third: this isn't about using you. This is about cherishing you. About giving you the release you need and the devotion you deserve." His forehead pressed against mine. "I broke your heart once. I'm not going to break it again."

The tears came without warning, spilling down my cheeks. Five years of hurt and longing and loneliness, dissolving in the space between his words.

"Green," I whispered. "Green, green, green."

Kevin's smile was soft, wicked, and full of promise.

"Then let's start," he said, and lowered his mouth to my chest once more.