Page 24 of Nursing the Alpha
“No, no, it’s okay. I’m surprised by you, that’s all. You’re a really sweet man, Seth.”
On impulse, I bridged the gap between us, went up on my tippy toes, and kissed his cheek. “I’ll see you later.”
“Not unless I see you first.”
Walking away from him that evening didn’t make me feel sad, as I usually was on other Fridays. All because I would get to see him again. His words stayed in my ear as I continued walking.“You smell like honeyed milk.”
Oh fuck, I was leaking all over myself.
9
SETH
The 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’tthinkabout 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 notbulging, 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 wantedallof 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 dampfrom 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.
