Page 178 of Wanting What's Wrong

I’m not even out of the chair when the door handle turns.

A beat of silence.

Then a voice, low and dark: “Jenna. Are you in here looking at Granny’s Playgirls? You better not be hittin’ that bottle.”

My head snaps up, and there he is.

Cal.

“What are you doing?” he rumbles, eyes already tracking over my shame.

“I—I—” Shit, there’s no hiding this now.

His eyes are locked on my breasts, milk spraying onto his boots as I slap my palms over the source of the rebellious white cream, but it only drips down my palms onto my shorts.

A muscle in his cheek ticks. Nostrils flare as he swings a hand behind him, flipping a couple of boxes as a makeshift barricade at the door without taking his eyes from mine.

“You’re full,” he rasps. “I fucking knew it. I fucking smelled it.”

I can’t speak. My heart is thundering. My nipples pulse harder. I know what he sees. What I’m letting him see.

Cal steps forward, slow and dangerous.

“Morgan,” I start. “Um… Babysitting. My pump…”

I’m verbally flailing in the dark as he looms over me, a foot taller than ever before, chest filling his black t-shirt, his cowboy hat casting eerie shadows down his face as he blocks out the light from the bulb.

“I’ll help you baby.” His voice vibrates down into my belly, winding around my clit like an invisible tongue.

My breath catches. The pump slips from my hand, landing with athunkon the cardboard box.

His huge hands reach down, taking the forgotten plastic flanges from my lap, holding them in one hand as he lifts the pump by the handle, dropping it all onto the linoleum floor with a loud thud.

“You won’t be needing that anymore.” His voice fills the small room as he raises his foot from the floor, bringing the heel of his boot down with mighty force onto the pump, shatteringthe plastic into pieces, the metal workings of the interior falling out in a heap of bent metal.

“I—” I stare up at him, terror pulling at my insides as I look down, the purple veins in my breasts snaking under the taut skin. “I have to pump. It hurts if I don’t.”

My bottom lip and chin start to quiver as he nods, removing his hat and bending the rim absently between calloused fingers as he sets it on a tall stack of the boxes.

“I’m your new fucking pump.” He lowers to his knees, his face right there, milk seeping through my fingers as I try to hold it in.

I shouldn’t let him.

But I want it too badly.

I wanthimtoo badly.

“This is my job now.”

He plucks my fingers away, settling them on the tops of my thighs as milk spray starts to decorate his face.

I bite back a smile at the sight of my step-father being sprayed between his eyes with breast milk.

“You think that’s funny?” he grouses, rough palms coming up to hold a breast in each hand, making my breath stutter in my throat.

I shrug, the spaghetti straps of my cami digging into my shoulders. “Your sense of humor always was a little lacking,” I say as he snorts some sort of agreement, but when his lips open, and he shoves my nipple between them, and holyshnikes.

Nothing. Else. Matters.

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