Page 7 of Nursing the Alpha

SETH

T he moment Flynn entered the premises, his smell hit me.

Sweet.

Creamy.

Honeyed.

That full-bodied unique scent of his milk, heat-soft skin, and something that lived just under his surface. Tenderness, maybe. Or loneliness. Whatever it was, it gripped me by the throat and held tight.

I pressed my thumb to the biometric lock on my desk and flipped the hidden switch. The monitor hummed to life. Four squares of live feed flickered into view—angles from the security cameras mounted discreetly along the perimeter of the house.

There.

Camera Two. Front walkway.

Flynn stood framed by the hydrangeas, tote slung over one shoulder, his shirt clinging softly to the weight of his chest. He’d dressed with care.

I could tell. His curls were neater than last time, lips glossed with something subtle.

A fresh, dewy look, so unlike the flustered omega who’d landed in my lap three weeks ago and scrambled off like I might devour him.

He looked edible now.

And part of me hated that the housekeeper would open the door.

That it wouldn’t be me. But he’d probably think me deranged if he knew the real purpose he was here.

Thanks to his chatter that day, I’d known exactly where to find him and how I would get him into my life.

My years of working for high-profile clients, organizing their security details, had paid off.

Flynn approached the steps, and the camera caught the angle just right. The faint bounce in his walk, the way he adjusted the strap on his bag, the tightness in his chest pressing visibly against the fabric of his compression shirt, which didn’t hide the slight shadow of a leak.

I was hard already.

His scent was stronger now. Seeping through the walls, wafting into my office like a promise.

I curled my hands into fists against the edge of the desk.

Why did he still affect me this much? I’d always had a lactation kink, but never had it been this potent, this devouring.

It was like his milk was an elixir I had unwittingly become addicted to by the scent alone.

An addiction that ran so deep I’d done the unthinkable, the unforgivable. Lower than stalking him on his morning run.

When he stepped into the house and disappeared from view, something restless twisted low in my belly. I opened the drawer beside me and retrieved the small remote. A press of the button shifted the wall to my right and revealed the interior side of the mirrored glass. The viewing room.

My heart kicked .

The door to the expression room opened.

Faith entered first, giving her usual clipped nod and practiced calm.

And then Flynn.

His arms were tucked in close, his shoulders tense. I caught the slight puff of his lips as he exhaled, the flicker of curiosity as his gaze roamed the space. I’d taken great care in designing the room for this purpose.

I moved to the glass. He was soft in the way that invited touch.

Flynn stepped closer to it. He raised a hand, brushing his fingertips over the surface on his side, unaware I was inches away. Watching. Waiting. I lifted my hand, palm flattening against the cool surface directly opposite his.

He was right there.

Close enough to touch. Close enough to taste. If the damn wall weren’t between us.

My eyes locked on his chest. Milk had already soaked through one side. Not visible to him yet, but the stain bloomed through the fabric like a secret.

Faith spoke. Flynn nodded. Smiled. That smile—that fucking smile—turned something over in me. He was too sweet. Too trusting. And mine , whether he knew it yet or not.

I watched the way his throat worked when he swallowed. The way his hand drifted almost absently over his pec as he shifted his weight from foot to foot. His body was practically begging to let down.

Faith turned to show him the closet and left.

Good. We were all alone.

Flynn disappeared from view for a moment, and I held my breath.

Then he returned, robe folded in his arms. He laid it gently on the edge of the sofa bed. His expression was thoughtful. A little shy. Like he wasn’t quite sure what he was allowed to feel yet.

I waited, heartbeat heavy in my throat.

Waited for him to bare himself.

To give me the show I’d been craving since the moment he sat in my lap on that train and left me haunted by the scent of milk and need.

Flynn turned his back to the mirror as he undressed.

Slow. Careful. Like he did everything with thought, like he’d been trained to be quiet and small.

He pulled the T-shirt over his head first, then peeled off the damp compression shirt underneath, revealing the full curve of his back. My eyes dragged lower.

The pants went next.

Fuck.

A stretch of delicate black lace hugged his curvy little ass.

Not practical. Not something you wore by mistake.

Something you wore because it made you feel something.

Pretty. Desirable. Controlled. A strip of elegance stretched across two perfect, perky cheeks, riding high and biting soft at the crease where his thighs began.

I leaned closer to the glass, breath misting it before I stopped myself.

He turned.

My knees nearly buckled.

His pecs were engorged, rounded, and tight with milk, the weight of them shifting slightly with every breath he took. His nipples were distended—long, flushed, thick. Darker than I expected, since he was so fair. Wetter than I was ready for.

My cock throbbed painfully in my pants.

Flynn rubbed his palms over both nipples, slow and instinctual, like his body knew what it needed and wasn’t waiting for permission.

His mouth parted, lips pink and trembling with what had to be pain-tinged pleasure.

I couldn’t hear him, but I felt it. Every soundless gasp, every ripple of heat moving through him.

Droplets of milk slid down the curve of his chest, catching the low amber light as they trailed over his ribs and down his stomach.

“Don’t put it on,” I whispered, already aching.

But he did.

Flynn picked up the robe and slipped it over his shoulders with a wince. His mouth moved.

No.

I didn’t need to hear it. I saw the word clearly on his lips. A soft, helpless protest. Whether at the robe or the ache or the absurdity of covering himself, it didn’t matter. The result was the same.

He was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

And it wasn’t just his chest. It was all of him. Compact but strong. Soft without being fragile. His thighs were plush. His belly slightly rounded, not from weight but from fullness, like his whole body was a vessel of nourishment barely held together by skin.

Flynn walked to the cart.

He selected a bottle. Picked up the pump.

My breath caught.

He wouldn’t.

He wouldn’t disobey. Not after the housekeeper had made it clear?—

He shrugged. Set the pump down.

And sat.

His legs spread just enough for balance as he cupped one heavy pec in his hand and positioned the bottle with the other. His face twisted in that familiar strain—pressure, then pain—as he dug his fingers into the firm flesh, thumb circling the nipple.

He squeezed.

Milk squirted straight into the bottle.

I bit down on a groan.

Each motion was small, efficient. After a while, he switched sides, expression shifting with the rhythm of it, first discomfort, then the slow melt of relief. His body sagged with every release. His eyes fluttered. His lips pressed together in concentration.

Two full bottles later, he exhaled and picked up the electric pump.

He set it up—fitting the flanges, adjusting the cords, setting the suction.

But then?—

He paused.

Rubbed his pecs, slow and gently, like he was easing the tension before suction. A drop of milk beaded on his fingertip. He brought it to his lips.

And licked it.

I came.

No stroking. No touch. Just a slow, sharp, helpless release that racked my entire body while I stared at the omega on the other side of the glass.

My omega.

He didn’t know it yet.

But soon… he would.