Page 6 of Nursing the Alpha

FLYNN

B y the time I stepped out of the cab, my chest ached.

Not the dull, constant ache I’d grown used to.

This was sharp. Hot. The kind of fullness that made my shirt cling uncomfortably to my swollen pecs and every breath feel tight.

I probably should’ve expressed a little before coming, but I didn’t want to show up half-empty.

It was my first day on the job. I wanted to make a good impression.

Full chest, full heart, I told myself as I adjusted the strap on my tote bag.

The house was a palace.

Not in the old-money, crumbling-elegance kind of way.

This was clean lines and quiet wealth, modern with black trim, dark wood, wide glass windows that reflected the trees lining the private street.

A long stone path led up to a sleek black door framed by minimalist planters.

No toys in the yard. No baby swing on the porch. Not even a stroller by the steps.

Which was… odd .

I checked the address again, just to be sure. Double-checked the time on my phone.

This was definitely the place.

The neighborhood itself was the kind that made you feel like you should whisper. Every house looked like it had been included in a magazine. Private drives, security gates, silent electric cars gliding past. Not a single cracked sidewalk or overgrown hedge in sight.

Even the air smelled expensive. Cut grass, rain-polished stone, the crispness of cedar mulch, and something blooming. Lavender?

I adjusted my T-shirt again, wincing as the movement nudged my chest. My nipples were already damp, nursing pads straining slightly against the pressure. I’d worn a compression shirt underneath, just in case, but even that wasn’t enough.

God, I needed to feed soon. Or at least pump.

I rang the doorbell.

It chimed. Not a buzz, not a ding, but a delicate, four-note tone that sounded like a harp.

Of course.

I wouldn’t be surprised if a cherub opened the door.

As I waited, I looked around the yard, trying not to be too nervous.

Everything had happened so fast. Two weeks ago, I’d applied to the Nourish Collective, and they’d responded.

My reference at the hospital had been glowing, so everything had been fast-tracked.

The paperwork. The milk testing. The dietary analysis.

They even took samples to check nutrient quality, pH, caloric content.

Seriously, it was more intense than applying to university.

And then, just like that, I got my first placement with a family who needed a wet nurse with an above-average supply of milk. The contract came with an advance and a fat monthly retainer. I wouldn’t have to worry about bills for a long time, maybe could even tuck a little into savings for once.

The family remained anonymous, just as high-end clients preferred.

All I knew was they requested on-site feeding.

They wouldn’t accept milk pumped at home.

Plus, I’d had to sign a strict NDA, but I wasn’t rushing to broadcast that I was renting out my chest for feeding.

Sure, the hospital used to pay me a stipend, but the little money I received still amounted to charity work. Just enough to get by.

This was different. I was a high-priced commodity now, and all because I couldn’t stop lactating. I’d tried. I did everything by the book, just like the nurse advised, but the aching nipples, the inability to find a good sleeping position, and the upset stomach from the medication made me give up.

Eventually, my body would know it was time to quit, right?

The door finally swung open. A woman stood there, trim and serious in a slate-gray uniform that looked crisp enough to cut.

Her hair was slicked back into a smooth twist, not a strand out of place, and she had that effortlessly polished look that only people working in homes like this ever seemed to have.

She gave me a quick once-over, not unkind, just assessing.

“Welcome,” she said, voice warm. “I’m Faith. You must be Mr. Peterson.”

I nodded, shifting my weight as the fullness of my chest reminded me I was seconds away from making a mess. “Just Flynn is fine. Thanks, Faith.”

She stepped aside, holding the door open wider, and I moved past her into what might as well have been a magazine spread.

The air inside was cool and lightly scented with something citrusy and clean.

High ceilings, soft lighting, polished oak floors that probably cost more than I’d ever made in a year.

Every piece of furniture looked like it had been curated for beauty and silence.

Plush cream upholstery, a glass coffee table that didn’t have so much as a fingerprint on it, recessed shelves with actual art pieces instead of family photos.

Not a toy in sight.

Not a bottle. Not a stroller. Not a single indication that a baby lived here.

Strange, considering how much milk they were expecting me to produce. I’d guessed at least two babies, maybe even triplets.

“This place is…” I let out a low whistle, adjusting the strap of my tote again. “Wow. Fancy.”

The woman gave a tight smile. “We try to keep it peaceful.”

I wasn’t sure what that meant. Peaceful didn’t come to mind when I thought of babies.

“I can give you a quick tour,” she said. “Show you around the house?—”

“Oh.” I shifted uncomfortably as a hot twinge fired through my chest. “Maybe later, if that’s okay.

I’m kind of…” I gestured loosely to my chest and offered an apologetic smile.

“Full. Are the babies due for a feeding? I assumed there were twins, at least, with how much they want me to express.” I half laughed.

“I’ve worked with two before, but that amount of milk?—”

She cleared her throat .

The sound was sharp and awkward in the pristine hallway.

“Ah. Well. You won’t be… chest-feeding directly.”

I blinked.

“I won’t?”

“No.” She smoothed her hands down her skirt. “They’ve asked that you express milk only. There’s a dedicated room set up for you.”

“Oh.” I tried to hide my confusion, but it came out in my voice anyway.

“That’s… unusual. Most parents ask me to feed in person, at least for the first week.

Skin-to-skin helps the babies latch, and there’s usually a body-bonding period.

Even if I’m just here to pump, they usually want some in-arms time, you know? For the oxytocin.”

She looked mildly horrified. Or maybe just uncomfortable.

“They were very clear,” she said. “No direct nursing.”

My pecs ached in protest, like they’d heard the news and decided to panic. I nodded slowly, biting the inside of my cheek.

“Okay. Sure.”

It wasn’t my place to ask questions. Not with this much money involved.

Faith gave a short nod and gestured for me to follow.

We walked down a wide hallway lined with tall windows that let in hazy morning light.

Everything in this house felt expensive but…

still. No signs of life. No framed art made by little hands, no stray pacifier underfoot, no soft hum of a baby monitor from a nearby room. Just polished silence.

She stopped at a door near the end of the hall and opened it for me.

“This is your space.”

The room was honestly beautiful .

Soft neutral tones, sage-green walls, and warm amber lighting that made everything feel calm and spa-like.

A plush rug covered most of the hardwood floor.

A pull-out sofa, already folded down into a twin-sized bed, sat against the far wall with a neatly folded blanket on top and a side table holding a clock, a water carafe, and a noise machine.

One entire wall—directly across from the sofa—was made of glass.

Not a window. No view of the outside. Just a smooth, reflective surface that caught the light strangely, like it absorbed more than it gave back. A decorative design, maybe? Modern architecture loved those strange flourishes.

I tilted my head and stepped closer, raising my hand to touch it. The glass was cool beneath my fingers, seamless with the frame. No light behind it. No hint of what was on the other side. Just my distorted reflection staring back at me, chest rising and falling under the weight of too much milk.

I found it… curious. But not worth questioning. This whole place was already fancy enough to justify weird design choices.

I turned away and continued taking everything in.

A dedicated wash-up station held a deep basin sink, mini soap dispensers, and a hand towel rack.

Built-in shelving lined one side of the room, already stocked with labeled milk storage bottles in neat rows, their blue caps gleaming under soft lights.

Next to them lay a few warming bottles too, still wrapped in plastic.

A full-size mini-fridge hummed quietly beside a small prep counter. And beside it sat a compact cart on wheels with everything you’d need for a proper session—lanolin cream, nipple shields, sterilizing wipes.

Then I saw the equipment .

A sleek, top-of-the-line hand pump, all curved edges and silicone-soft parts, set out beside a modern electric double pump with a digital display. Both sparkling clean. Untouched.

My body practically sighed. I already felt the milk nudging at my ducts, preparing to let down at the mere sight of the gear. “You can use whichever setup you prefer.” Faith gestured toward the pumps. “Although the family does prefer… hand expression, if possible.”

I blinked. “Hand?”

“Yes.”

I tried not to frown. “That’s a little unusual.”

“It’s what they requested,” she said lightly, but something flickered in her eyes. She knew it was strange too. “You’re welcome to use the pump if it’s easier or more efficient. But if you’re willing to express at least part of your sessions by hand, it would be appreciated.”

Part? I wanted to ask. With how much milk they were expecting me to produce, hand expression sounded about as practical as milking a cow with a teacup. Still, not weird enough for me to turn down the kind of money they were paying me.

And besides… my chest was already tingling. My nipples were tight, aching, heavy with milk behind the pad-lined compression shirt.

“Sure,” I said, voice strained. “I’ll give it a try.”

Faith nodded and walked to a narrow closet near the door.

“Robes are in here.” She revealed a stack of soft, thick cotton robes in muted shades. “You can change if you don’t want to get your clothes messy.”

“Oh.” I blinked, genuinely surprised. “That’s… convenient. Thank you. ”

“You’re welcome.” She turned back toward the door, pausing with her hand on the knob. “There are refreshments in the fridge. Is there anything else you need before I leave you to it?”

I shook my head. “No, I think I’m good. Everything is great.”

“I’ll check back in an hour. And I’ll bring you some food.”

Huh? “I get fed as well?”

She chuckled, just a quick breath of amusement. “Of course. Pumping’s hard work.”

I smiled, caught off guard by the warmth in her voice. “Yeah. It kind of is.”

She gave a polite nod and slipped out the door, closing it softly behind her.

And finally, finally, I was alone.

Alone in a stranger’s home. In a quiet, luxurious room designed for milking me like a prize-winning dairy goat. Or a cow.

My chest ached, and I hadn’t even unzipped yet.

Still, I couldn’t deny it—the robes, the supplies, the quiet care with which this space had been arranged—it felt good. Comforting, even.

I took a breath, then moved to the closet and reached for a robe.

Time to get started.