Page 19 of Nursing the Alpha
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’twaiting 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.
Hewouldn’tdisobey. 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.
