Page 9 of Nursing the Alpha

SETH

T he milk dripped down his chest again.

Not from effort this time. Not from pressure or suction or massage. Just a lazy, leftover trickle, weeping from one distended nipple as Flynn stretched his arms overhead, robe slipping open at the sides.

I sat in the chair behind the mirrored glass and didn’t move.

I couldn’t.

Not with my cock straining, already aching from the first orgasm that had ripped through me minutes ago. I hadn’t even cleaned up. I couldn’t think about cleaning up. Not while he was still here. Still soft and flushed and barefoot in my house.

I watched him. Like I did every time he came to my house.

Flynn parted his lips and rolled his shoulders back, tipping his head from side to side as he worked out the tension.

His pecs weren’t as swollen now. They’d flattened out after the last session.

Their curve was still full but not bulging, the skin less tight but still pink and marked from the suction.

Still beautiful.

So fucking beautiful.

I couldn’t decide which I liked more—the sight of him full and leaking, heavy with milk and need… or this, the softness after. The glow in his cheeks, the looseness in his limbs. Like he’d just come, even though he hadn’t.

He absently rubbed one nipple. Long. Swollen. Flushed dark red from use. My mouth watered again.

He didn’t know how good he looked. Standing there in that pale robe, half tied, a wet patch staining the inside where milk had soaked through. When he shifted, the robe opened a bit, and his stretch marks peeked through, silvery and soft at the edges of his hips.

I wanted them.

I wanted all of him. The pretty nipples, the heavy pecs, the sleepy smile he sometimes wore after pumping. I wanted the part of him that laughed too loud on the train, and the part that blushed when I offered him my seat.

He liked me. I knew he did.

Every Friday, we talked like it was nothing. Like we weren’t orbiting something hotter and closer every week. He never pulled away. He sat close. He let his thigh rest against mine. He smiled when I asked about his books, even if he always made fun of his taste.

And tonight… we had a date.

Dinner.

My heart beat painfully at the thought of it. Not the meal itself but the meaning of it. It was more than a train ride. More than passing notes with our eyes and pretending it wasn’t becoming something.

I looked at him. He was gorgeous, flushed, still damp from the effort of feeding himself into the bottles that sat capped and cooling on the table beside him.

I could’ve walked in. Told him it was me.

Told him that every moan he made, every quiet sigh of relief, every drop of milk that slid down his chest, I’d seen. Felt. Come to. Drank.

But I didn’t.

Because what if he hated me? What if he looked at me with disgust?

What if I lost him?

Flynn turned, stretching again, and the robe gaped wider at the chest. His nipples still hung heavy and long, the right one glossy with milk. His hand brushed it again—absent-mindedly—and he winced. Sensitive.

I swallowed thickly.

My cock was hard again, the ache almost unbearable.

And all I could do was sit in the dark, behind the glass, trembling with the hunger to be known by him… and the fear that if I stepped through that door, I’d lose the only sweetness I’d ever wanted to keep.

Flynn crossed the room, robe tied loosely at the waist, and pulled open the fridge.

I watched through the glass as he grabbed the chilled bottle from the top shelf.

The one I’d prepared hours ago, like I always did.

Just a mild sedative. Nothing strong. Nothing harmful.

Just enough to lull his body into softness.

To help him sleep. I’d lowered the dosage because he had to leave for our date.

He unscrewed the cap and tilted his head back.

God.

His throat worked with every swallow, the hollow of it flexing, the muscles shifting beneath the delicate skin. A small trail of milk glistened on his chest where he hadn’t noticed it dripping. I clenched my fists against the arms of the chair.

This was always the part I hated most.

He trusted the space I gave him. Trusted that when he shut the door behind him, no one was watching. He moved like the room was his. Like he was safe.

And that made me a coward.

I didn’t want to hurt him.

I just… wanted to be close.

Flynn pressed his hand to his temple, blinking a little too slowly now. He turned, swaying slightly, and made his way to the sofa bed. As he sat down, the robe parted, his bare thigh flashing pale in the low light. He lay back, one arm curled over his stomach.

It didn’t take long. The sedative always worked quickly.

Within minutes, his breathing had slowed. Deepened.

I rose from my chair and slipped through the hidden access door into my office. My heart was pounding, a heavy ache beneath my ribs as I crossed the space and opened the secondary door. The one that led directly into the hallway.

As I exited, Faith passed by, heading toward the kitchen with a tray of empty bottles. She didn’t look at me.

She never did.

That was what I liked about her. She kept her head down. Kept her questions to herself.

She knew exactly what I did to Flynn, but didn’t question it.

I paused outside Flynn’s room for a second, then opened the door. The soft glow from the wall sconce bathed the room in gold. Flynn lay exactly where I’d last seen him. Arm over his stomach. Lips slightly parted. Chest rising and falling beneath the loose fold of his robe.

He looked… breakable .

Beautiful.

I sat down beside him slowly, careful not to jostle the mattress. I didn’t touch him. Not yet. I watched. So close now I noticed the faint sheen of milk drying on the slope of his left pec. His skin was flushed, his lashes trembling faintly with each breath.

I couldn’t help it.

I moved one hand to the knot of the robe.

Slowly.

Gently.

I loosened it, untucking his arms one at a time and laying them at his sides. He didn’t stir. My breath caught as I pulled the robe back far enough to expose his chest.

His nipples were still red. Still long from all the milking. Slightly wet, even now. The skin around them was puffy and sensitive-looking, marked faintly where the flange had been pressed.

I exhaled shakily.

He was art.

He was mine.

What was so wrong with taking what was already mine?

I brushed a fingertip lightly along the edge of his sternum, tracing down the slope between his pecs. I wanted to kiss him. To press my face to his skin and breathe him in. He would never know.

And so, I did.

I pressed my lips to his chest, tasting the faint sweetness of milk and the warm saltiness of his skin.

His heartbeat fluttered beneath my mouth, fast and fragile as a hummingbird’s wing.

The vibrations rang through me, filled me, echoing in the hollow places where loneliness used to reside.

I moved my hand and cupped him, brushing my thumb over his nipple so lightly that it barely registered.

He drew a soft breath, but otherwise, he remained undisturbed.

Emboldened, I flicked my tongue over his nipple. I only meant to taste him a little. What could it hurt? He already expressed his milk for me. What was the difference if I got it directly from the source?

But the second the warm sweetness touched my tongue, my taste buds exploded.

Drinking his milk from a glass before bed every night was a luxury I allowed myself to indulge in.

At times, I took a jug with me to the shower and poured it down my chest, using his milk as lube to stroke my dick until I came.

But nothing, nothing had prepared me for how much sweeter it was for his milk to seep into my mouth directly from his warm flesh.

I needed more.

God, it was so delicious.

I groaned softly and closed my mouth over his other nipple, pressing my tongue against the thick swell, suckling just once, gentle.

And again, deeper. I sealed my lips around the length of him.

It was a length now, drawn out from hours of stimulation, long and perfect and made to be pulled between lips.

I gripped the mattress on either side of his body, keeping myself steady, controlled.

But my cock throbbed with every pull.

The first real letdown came with a rush. Warm liquid filled my mouth, almost choking me. My hips jerked involuntarily. I moaned around him and kept drinking, slow pulls, heavy swallows, my jaw working to take more and more and more .

I couldn’t stop.

His body was made for this. This moment. This act. The way he fed me without moving, without pushing me away, even though he couldn’t. I was taking what he didn’t offer, and I wasn’t remorseful enough to stop. Just this once, I would take all of him.

I circled my cock, already leaking in my pants. I tugged once. Twice. The friction was unbearable, made worse by the taste of him on my tongue, the milk spilling in rhythm with my breath.

I stroked myself harder, faster, never once breaking the suction on his chest. He was all I could see—rosy skin, long nipple swollen between my lips, the sound of wet pulls and soft dripping as a trail of milk escaped the corner of my mouth and slid down my chin.

I sucked harder. Not because I had to. Because I needed to .

Needed to claim this. To be fed from the source. To taste what no other alpha had. To make him mine in the most primal, quiet, intimate way.

My orgasm hit fast—sudden, violent, earth-shattering.

My whole body tensed as I came in my pants. I stroked frantically, and the pressure snapped and spilled hot between my fingers. I groaned into his chest, milk still flowing, his nipple still pulsing against my tongue.

Fuck.

I eased back slowly, breaking the seal of my lips but keeping them close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his skin. My tongue darted out once, flicking against the sensitive bud, then letting it go entirely and leaving it glistening from milk and my saliva.

Gently, I grabbed his robe and froze. He was stirring. Stretching and moaning. Fuck. I sprang up from the sofa bed, turning my back to him.

I can’t let him see me .

I’m not ready to lose him yet.

“Who are you?” Flynn’s whisper hit my back as I bolted from the room.