Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 44297 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 221(@200wpm)___ 177(@250wpm)___ 148(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 44297 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 221(@200wpm)___ 177(@250wpm)___ 148(@300wpm)
“What do you mean?” I whisper, glancing up at him, already suspecting I know, but rejecting the thought out of hand.
His gray eyes don’t leave mine. “I mean you’re hurting. And I know how to make it stop.”
There’s no smirk. No glint of cocky arrogance. Just certainty, like this is a task he’s handled before without ceremony. Something totally natural like milking a cow.
But I’m not some animal in his barn.
I’m a woman.
A mother.
A visitor in what used to be my home but hasn’t been for years. Technically, still his stepsister.
Pain spreads through my chest, as sweat trickles down my back.
My throat tightens. “That’s not—”
“It’s up to you,” he interrupts, gently but firmly. “I’m not gonna touch you unless you ask.”
That sliver of choice, the recognition of my agency, is unexpected from a gruff, no-nonsense cowboy like Wade.
My body feels like it’s buzzing, every part of me strung too tight. My breasts throb. Even standing here, I can feel the slow, hot drip soaking into my bra, the pressure so intense it’s dizzying.
I close my eyes and breathe in, trying to calm the storm inside me. My sweet boy is too far from me for any relief, and walking out right now will end my hope of getting this job. I can’t risk getting sick. I have no medical insurance and no savings, and the nearest hospital is miles away.
What other option do I have?
This is insane. But I’m already here, and Wade’s being unexpectedly kind. I’m an idiot for putting myself into this position, but I’m handling life by myself, and it’s tough when you don’t have a momma around to advise you.
I step back as Wade releases me, and I study the broadness of his shoulders and the way his jeans cling to his hips. God knows his masculinity is impossible to ignore. But it's the steadiness in his eyes that anchors me. He’s the same Wade I remember from all those years ago. Quiet, capable, always doing what needed to be done, even when no one thanked him for it. He carried more weight than anyone should’ve, looking after the ranch when his father was sick, keeping things moving when everyone else fell apart. I’d catch glimpses of him through the window sometimes, sweating under the sun, muscles straining as he hauled feed or repaired fences, never stopping, never complaining.
That’s the kind of man he is. Trustworthy. Loyal. A rock when it counts. Tough and no-nonsense.
If anyone could handle this without twisting it into something dirty or shameful, it’s Wade. This is a biological process. Nothing more. And this man is a farmer. He’s more familiar with the workings of nature than most men.
That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
I can do this as a one-off until I can work out what else to do.
Fuck. Am I really going to do this?
They’re just breasts, I think, even though my whole body is trembling. My nipples are really leaking now, no longer damp but actively dripping, tiny rivulets running down the curve of my breast beneath my bra. My shirt is soaked. I can’t hide it anymore. Desperation overwhelms me.
“Okay,” I say, barely audible. “Just to make this stop.”
That’s all it takes.
Wade reaches out slowly, palms up like he’s approaching a spooked mare. His eyes scan the horizon, then he nods in the direction of the door. “Let’s get you inside.”
A wave of relief hits me as we step from the porch back into the kitchen. I must be red as a beet, and my heart is pounding in my ribcage. Every nerve ending in my body has hit max awareness.
Wade eyes my chest, removing his hat and placing it on the table. “Take off your shirt.”
I hesitate. He watches me, waiting for me to take the first step, reaching for a towel.
I flush hot, begin to undo the buttons from top to bottom. The fabric clings, wet and warm, and when I look down, I find my white cotton bra is soaked through and transparent, revealing my wide, dark nipples. Milk glistens on the skin of my belly, and I can’t meet his eyes, but the sound of him exhaling through his nose like a frustrated bull makes me jump. The veins on my breast are prominent blue scars across pale flesh.
“You poor thing,” he whispers, stepping closer. Without warning, he flicks the clasp at the center of my bra so fast that I don’t have a chance to anticipate what it will be like when it falls away, and I’m left bare.
The air is cool on my damp skin, but my face is a raging inferno.
Heat thrums through me, pooling between my thighs. Jesus. Am I getting aroused by this? I can’t get aroused by this.
With fear coursing through me, I risk looking up to be met by his serious gray eyes.