Page 12 of The Minotaur's Milkmaid
He was just being kind, wasn’t he?
The memory makes my cheeks burn. The way he sat behind me, so close. His big hands, strong but gentle. The way my body had reacted. How I shook and bit my lip, trying not to moan as he milked me. I’d been so embarrassed afterward that I couldn’t even look at him.
Now, I can't keep my eyes off him. I catch a glimpse of the tattoos etched across his arms and chest. Maybe symbols of his clan? He also has a long, thick, brutal-looking scar across his shoulder blades, but that isn’t the only one; Dakar is covered in them. What kind of life has he lived to earn so many scars?
My gaze drifts lower, over the wide expanse of his muscular back, down to the curve of his firm, sculpted rear that’s now covered by the leather kilt slung low across his hips. Heat curls in my belly before I can stop it. His legs are thick and powerful, every step flexing muscle beneath dark, smooth fur. And then…his hooves. So different from my soft, human-like feet.
A sweet ache stirs between my thighs, and I'm ashamed of myself. It’swrongfor me to have these types of thoughts. I’ve been taken from my village. He’s a warlord, a Minotaur, everything I’ve been warned about since childhood, but…
Gods help me, I wanted him back in the cave.
Ahead of me, he clears his throat, and I jerk my gaze away from his backside, mortified. Has he noticed me staring? No, he can’t have. My cheeks blaze with heat regardless.
The tall grasses part, revealing the spring, and it’s like something out of a fairytale. The water is so clear I can see the smooth stones beneath the surface and tiny, colorful fish darting from beneath the lily pads. Wildflowers are in full bloom along the banks, swaying gently in the breeze. Nearby, water trickles down a rock face in a soft, musical rhythm. It’s beautiful.
Dakar turns to face me. “You can bathe here,” he says, not quite meeting my gaze. “I’ll wait on the bank.”
His jaw is tight, his tail twitching once. He looks flustered and almost…nervous.
It’s oddly comforting, seeing this powerful, terrifying male unsure of himself. Like maybe I’m not the only one who is confused.
I wrap my arms around myself and nod. “Thank you,” I whisper.
He gives a short, sharp nod and turns away to give me privacy.
The water is cold and crisp as I splash it over my arms and face, but my skin still feels hot. I glance back at Dakar, standing just beyond the trees. He’s still facing away, arms crossed, the muscles in his back shifting slightly as he shifts his hooves. His tail flicks back and forth.
I slip off the oversized tunic he gave me, teeth tugging at my lip as I ease into the spring. The freezing water climbs up my legs, to my waist, then chest, drawing a gasp from me.
I run my hands over my skin, trying to be quick and modest, but even I can’t ignore the way my breasts are aching again. My own body is betraying me. I let out a soft, frustrated sound, barely louder than the trickling of the spring.
“Are you alright?” he asks, he's still facing away, but I can see his ear swivel back toward me.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
He turns, looking at me over his shoulder. His golden eyes meet mine. He doesn’t leer or smirk or make a lewd joke like I expect him to. Instead, gives me a look as if he doesn’t believe me.
“I can help you again,” he says, his hooves crunching gently through the grass as he steps closer. “If you’ll let me.”
My heart thunders. I should say no. I should tell him to stay back. But instead, my lips part, and the softest word slips out before my thoughts even have a chance to scold me.
“Okay.”
The look in his eyes sends a flutter through my chest. He steps into the spring, and the water barely touches his waist at the deepest part. I try not to stare. Really, I do. But he’s still wearing his kilt, and the fabric floats gently around him, and suddenly I forget how to act normal. My heart is doing ridiculous things. I look away, pretending to be fascinated by a tiny fish darting past my ankle.
“Turn around, little one.”
I obey, my breath hitching when my back presses flush against his chest. His skin is fever-warm against mine, his body a solid wall of muscle against me.
“There,”he rumbles, his big hands sliding up my ribs before cradling the swollen weight of my breasts.”Let me take care of you.”
A gasp catches in my throat as he lifts them gently, testing their heaviness. His thumbs brush over my nipples, already taut and leaking, and I jerk in his arms.
“Shh,”he soothes, his lips grazing the shell of my ear.“I know it hurts. Just relax.”
I try. Gods, Itry. But when his fingers tighten in a slow, deliberate rhythm, coaxing the first thick beads of milk to the surface, my knees nearly give out.
“That's it, Maeve,”he praises me.“You're doing so well.”
