Page 18 of Nursing the Alpha

SETH

I ’d been at his window every night for two weeks.

Same spot. Same angle. Same routine.

It wasn’t even subtle anymore.

Somewhere deep down, I knew this wasn’t helping my case. If Flynn found out, it would confirm everything he already believed about me. That I was a liar and, worse, a pervert who couldn’t keep his hands to himself.

And yet, I couldn’t stay away.

I’d told myself the first night was an accident. I’d been restless, pacing the streets near his building just to feel close to him, and when I’d looked up, there he was.

Sitting at his window.

Shirt rumpled. Eyes distant. A pump pressed to his swollen chest.

The sight had hit me so hard I’d had to clutch the brick wall beside me, my knees weak, my cock stirring despite the shame twisting in my gut.

I should have left.

But I hadn’t .

I’d jerked off to the sight of my beloved omega pumping milk.

And now here I was again.

The street was quiet, washed in orange lamplight. A drizzle misted the air, clinging to my hair and jacket as I leaned against the cold brick of the opposite building.

His window glowed softly across the street. Curtains open. Light spilling out like an invitation.

I was hard already.

Pathetic.

But when Flynn appeared, barefoot and tousled in his oversized sleep shirt, my chest squeezed so tight it hurt.

God, he was beautiful.

Even with the dark smudges under his eyes. Even with the slumped shoulders that spoke of too many sleepless nights.

Especially like this.

Vulnerable. Alone.

Mine.

My fingers twitched in my pockets as I watched him settle into the armchair by the window. His movements were slow, hesitant, like he didn’t even know why he was drawn there.

He tugged his shirt aside.

My breath caught.

Even from here, I noticed the sheen of milk on his skin, the heavy fullness of his pecs.

And his scent.

Sweet. Warm. Rich.

It hit me like a punch to the gut, and I had to press my head to the rough brick behind me, swallowing hard. My cock throbbed in my jeans, the ache almost painful.

I shouldn’t be here .

Before I could stop myself, I sent the text.

Me:

You look so beautiful tonight.

What harm could it do? I’d already lost him.

He left the window, and I held my breath. I’d just outed myself. These little glimpses of him were my only joy. Now I would lose those too.

Now he knew I was here.

Now he knew I was stalking him.

Flynn returned to the window. For a few seconds, he stood there, staring out.

And yet?—

He didn’t close the blinds.

He didn’t move away.

My heart pounded like a war drum. He returned to his seat but angled even more toward the window, as if putting himself on display for me. He set the pump aside, cupped his heavy chest, and began to express manually.

The first bead of milk welled up, catching the light.

I groaned low in my throat, clenching my hand hard in my pocket.

God, he was doing it on purpose.

My sweet little omega—my shy, careful Flynn—was putting on a show.

For me.

The thought made my knees weak.

Milk spilled over his fingers and into the bottle below, and I swore I could taste it from here.

I sent another text.

Me:

God, Flynn. I miss you.

He read it, but his hand didn’t stop.

Me:

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

My cock strained against my zipper, and I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek to keep from reaching for it.

Me:

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

His hand was moving faster now.

So was my heart.

Me:

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 minute passed. Maybe two. I thought he wouldn’t reply.

Then my phone buzzed.

Flynn:

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

A sound tore from my throat—half growl, half prayer—as I typed back without hesitation.

Me:

Unlock your door.

I’m coming up.

This time, I didn’t wait for permission.

The moment I stepped into the apartment building, the air changed.

Flynn’s scent lingered in the narrow hallway—sweet and rich, threaded through with something almost floral. My chest tightened at the familiar pull of it, and I balled my hands into fists at my sides.

Each step up the stairs felt heavier than the last, like my body was bracing for something I couldn’t name.

This was reckless.

He hadn’t said I could come. Not really.

But he hadn’t said no either.

And after weeks of watching from across the street, of waiting, hoping, aching—god, I couldn’t stay away. Not now. Not when I’d finally heard from him.

My boots were soundless on the worn steps. First floor. Second. Third.

By the time I reached his landing, my pulse was hammering so hard it drowned out everything else.

His door stood at the end of the hall, a glimmer of golden light seeping out from the gap beneath it.

My breath came shallow, my palms damp as I crossed the last few feet.

And nearly knocked it over.

A glass bottle.

Sitting neatly on the mat in front of his door.

Condensation clung to the sides where the milk’s warmth met the cooler air of the hallway.

The door remained firmly locked. I tested it.

My chest twisted sharply with not quite disappointment, not quite relief .

This was his answer.

No to me.

But yes to this.

I crouched slowly, fingers trembling as I curled them around the warm glass. The faint heat of his body still clung to it, and my throat worked as I brought it to my lips.

The first taste nearly undid me.

Sweet. Creamy. So achingly familiar.

I groaned low in my chest and tilted the bottle higher, drinking deep, bracing my hand against the doorframe to keep myself upright.

It wasn’t the same.

Not the feel of his tender chest under my palms. Not the way his breath hitched when my tongue caught his nipple. Not the low, helpless noises he made when my mouth latched on.

But still?—

God.

It was him.

And for now, it was enough.

I drained the bottle in a few long pulls, licking the last trace of milk from my lips like a starving man. I let my head drop forward, resting my forehead against the cool wood of his door.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my voice hoarse. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

I pulled it out with numb fingers.

Flynn:

I’ll have more tomorrow night.

There’s too much milk. I don’t know what else to do with it .

My breath hitched.

The words were practical. Matter of fact.

But I saw through them.

He could have dumped it. Poured it down the sink. Closed the curtains and shut me out for good.

Instead, he’d left this for me.

A lifeline.

I wrapped my fingers around the empty bottle as heat coiled low in my belly.

Tomorrow night.

God help us both.