Page 17 of Nursing the Alpha

FLYNN

I stared at it from the edge of my bed, legs curled up to my chest, my fingers twisted tight in the hem of my sleep shirt. I wasn’t sure if I hated or loved that glowing red display anymore. It was the only constant on nights like these.

Nights when my chest felt too heavy to breathe.

Nights when no matter how I shifted, no matter how many pillows I piled under my arms, the ache wouldn’t subside.

I pressed a palm over one swollen pec and hissed softly at the sharp, needling pressure. My body felt full. Too full.

I needed relief.

But even more than that, I needed him.

I pushed the thought away, curling tighter in on myself.

I hated that Seth’s name still felt like home in my head. Hated that my skin still burned for his hands, his mouth.

God, I was so messed up.

With a low groan, I swung my legs out of bed. The sheets were damp where I’d leaked through my sleep shirt. Again. I didn’t even bother changing. I padded barefoot across the cold floor, rubbing my eyes with the back of one hand.

I grabbed the pump I’d placed on the nightstand. I no longer could be bothered to go to the kitchen or the bathroom to express. If Seth were here, I wouldn’t have needed to leave the bed at all.

My feet carried me toward the window like they always did at this time of the morning when I needed to get some relief. The city beyond the glass was quiet and still, streaked with pale amber from the streetlights. A thin mist hung low, curling over the pavement like fingers searching for purchase.

I sank into the armchair by the window, pulled my knees up, and tugged my shirt aside. My nipples were taut, the skin hot and aching to be touched.

I placed the pump to my chest. The suction started with a gentle pull, then a deeper one. Milk beaded, then flowed, and I exhaled shakily as some of the pressure ebbed.

But my relief was short-lived.

Because all I could think about was Seth.

The first time he’d nursed from me, his mouth hot and greedy, his hand cradling my chest like it was precious. The low, guttural noises he’d made when my milk hit his tongue.

I bit my lip hard, but it didn’t stop the tears from pricking my eyes.

Did he miss my milk?

The thought made me flinch.

Made me ache.

I gripped the arm of the padded bench with my free hand, knuckles white.

I miss you. The words burned through my chest like acid. I miss you so goddamn much I can’t breathe .

He’d done something unforgivable. Something perverted.

And yet?—

Didn’t people make mistakes? Horrible, earth-shattering mistakes they’d do anything to take back?

Was it really so bad to forgive him if he was truly sorry?

But then… what kind of person did that make me?

I choked on a shaky sob.

Maybe my books had ruined me.

In those stories, the heroes never flinched. They admitted what aroused them. Even when it wasn’t right or consensual.

Wasn’t I just as bad as Seth if a part of me—some dark, hidden part—thrummed with heat at the memory of his hands, his mouth, the way he’d looked at me like I was his whole world?

I shuddered as the pump drew another slow, steady pull from my chest.

“I’m so messed up,” I whispered into the empty room.

I pressed my thighs together.

Tears spilled hot and silent down my cheeks as shame twisted through me.

But underneath the shame was need.

Dark. Overwhelming. Desperate.

I wanted him back.

God help me, I wanted Seth back.

The pump whirred steadily, drawing and releasing, drawing and releasing.

The chime of my phone startled me. I flinched so hard I nearly spilled the bottle.

For a second, I sat there, heart pounding like a trapped bird. Carefully, I set the pump aside and crossed the room to grab my phone from the bedside table .

One new message.

Seth:

You look so beautiful tonight.

The words sent a shock straight through me.

My breath caught as I turned my head toward the window. The curtains were still open, city lights casting long stripes of amber and shadow across the floor.

Seth.

Was he… out there? Watching?

My heart hammered, panic and something far more dangerous tangling until I could barely tell them apart.

I should close the blinds.

I should lock the windows.

I should call someone.

Instead, I walked back to the chair.

Slowly. Deliberately.

I set my phone on the sill. My fingers trembled as I reached for the pump and detached it.

I didn’t know why I did it.

Or maybe I did.

Maybe I knew exactly what I was doing as I cupped my hand under my heavy, tender chest and began to express the old-fashioned way.

The milk beaded quickly, spilling over my fingers, hot and sweet and faintly sticky. I bit my lip hard, eyes flicking to the dark street below as I gently massaged the side of my pec with my other hand.

Another chime.

Seth:

God, Flynn. I miss you .

My stomach fluttered violently. I pressed my thighs tight together and squeezed again, milk dripping steadily into the half-full bottle.

Chime.

Seth:

I miss your scent. I miss your milk. I can almost taste you from here.

A shaky breath escaped me. My hand worked faster now, my nipples taut and aching under my fingers.

Chime.

Seth:

Don’t let a drop go to waste. Please. Leave it for me when you’re done. I’ll be grateful.

My fingers slipped on the glass bottle as a quiet, choked sound clawed up my throat.

God, what was wrong with me?

But I didn’t stop.

The words on the screen burned into me, sweet, filthy promises that tightened something low in my belly until it throbbed.

Chime.

Seth:

You’re so perfect like this. So full. So ready for me. Let me help. Let me drink. Let me have what’s mine.

A tremor rippled through me. My chest ached more fiercely now, but not from the pressure. From need.

I swiped clumsily across the screen.

Me:

My chest still aches. I can’t express fast enough.

The reply was instant.

Seth:

Unlock your door.

I’m coming up.