His hand is still on my belly when he pulls me up from the bed. Not rough—inevitable. Like I'm weightless, like my feet barely touch the floor as he walks me backward across the room. The curtains are open. The window is a black mirror reflecting the two of us, the lamp behind us, the wrecked sheets.
I don't ask where we're going. I don't need to.
The glass is cold against my palms when he presses them flat. Shock runs up my arms, settles in my chest. The treeline is out there, dark and waiting, and I can still feel their eyes on me from the clearing, still feel the weight of being watched while he fucked me against the car.
"You think I don't know what you're hiding?"
His voice is a murmur against my ear, low and dark, and my blood trips. The pregnancy. The impossible timing. The secret I drove back from the clinic with burning a hole in my purse.
But his hands aren't on my stomach anymore. They're on my blouse.
Buttons scatter. I hear them hit the floor—tick, tick, tick—and the cold air finds my skin, my bra, the aching fullness of my breasts. I haven't told him. I haven't told anyone. The nurse said eight to ten weeks, and I kept thinking how, how, how—
His fingers find the front clasp of my bra. A single motion. Practiced. The silk falls away.
And I'm bare against the glass, my nipples tightening in the cold, my breath fogging the window in uneven clouds.
His thumbs find me before I can speak. Rough pads, warm against my chilled skin. He doesn't tease. He presses—firm, deliberate—and I feel the pressure build deep in my chest, the ache I've been ignoring all day, the fullness I thought was just my body grieving a possibility I couldn't name.
"Kaelen—"
The word cuts off.
Because his thumb strokes down, and something releases.
A bead of milk wells up at my nipple. Pearly white. Thick. It catches the lamplight, holds it for a breathless second, and then falls. A single drop. It hits the glass with a sound so small I almost miss it.
Almost.
His breath stops behind me. His whole body goes still.
Then his thumb presses again. Harder. A rolling stroke that squeezes the milk from me in a thin, white arc that hits the window and streaks down, a trail of proof.
"Fuck," he breathes. Not angry. Not shocked. Hungry.
I watch his reflection. His grey eyes are fixed on my breast, on the milk sliding down the glass, on the way my body is giving him something I didn't even know I had.
His other hand finds my other breast. He doesn't ask. He squeezes, milks me, paints the window in streaks of white that catch the light. Each motion draws a gasp from my throat, a clench deep in my belly, a wet heat between my thighs that has nothing to do with shame.
"You've been carrying this all day?" His voice is rough, scraped raw. "Walking around with these full tits, leaking for me, and you thought you could hide it?"
"I didn't know how—"
"You don't hide from me." His thumbs work faster now, pressing, releasing, the milk coming in thicker streams. The window is a mess of white lines, intersecting, dripping. "You don't keep secrets from me, Dagmar."
I should tell him. I should say the words—I'm pregnant, it happened before you, I don't understand how—but my body is betraying me. My hips are pressing back against him. My nipples are aching, raw, sensitive, and every squeeze sends a jolt straight to my cunt.
And then I see it.
Movement. At the treeline.
A figure. Dark. Familiar in a way that makes my stomach drop. He's standing at the edge of the woods, half-hidden by the trunk of an oak, and his hand is moving over his jeans in a slow, steady rhythm.
Watching.
My breath catches. A strangled sound. "Kaelen."
He doesn't stop. His thumbs press harder, faster, and another arc of milk hits the glass, smearing the silhouette of the man beyond.
"I see him."
Kaelen's laugh is low and dark, vibrating through his chest against my back. "I've been waiting for him to get bold enough to come back."
"He's—"
"Watching my wife get milked against a window like a cow in heat." His mouth finds my ear, his breath hot. "Let him watch. Let him see what he'll never touch."
His hand leaves my breast. Drops to my skirt. Yanks it up. His fingers find my cunt through my panties—soaked, swollen, desperate—and he presses hard enough to make me gasp.
"You're wet for this." Not a question. "You're wet because he's watching. Because I'm showing him exactly what belongs to me."
I want to deny it. I can't. My body is a traitor, flooding his fingers, clenching around nothing.
He pulls his hand back. Brings his wet fingers to the glass, smears my arousal next to the milk. A signature. A claim.
And then he turns me around.
My back hits the cold, wet glass. The milk smears between my shoulder blades, cool and strange. He drops to his knees in front of me. His hands find my hips, hold me open, and he leans in.
His mouth closes over my nipple.
The sensation hits me like a freight train. The suction. The pull. The deep, drawing ache as he drinks from me, gulping, swallowing, taking what my body has been holding for hours. I cry out, my hands fisting in his hair, my legs barely holding me up.
He sucks harder. Drains me. The milk flows into his mouth, down his throat, and he groans against my skin like it's the most intimate thing he's ever done.
When he pulls back, his mouth is wet with it. His beard glistens. His grey eyes are dark, blown wide, fixed on mine.
"You taste like life," he says. "You taste like mine."
He switches to the other breast. Laves the nipple with his tongue first, slow and teasing, testing the taste of my skin. Then he sucks. Hard. The milk lets down again, flooding his mouth, and I feel it—the pull, the release, the way my body is giving him everything it never knew it had.
I look past his shoulder. The figure at the treeline hasn't moved. His hand is still working, faster now, frantic. Kaelen knows. He knows and he doesn't care. He's showing the man exactly what he's missing, exactly what he'll never have, and the cruelty of it makes me clench.
Kaelen releases my nipple with a wet sound. Looks up at me. His mouth is slick, his jaw set, his eyes burning with something I've never seen before.
"I'm going to fuck you for my next shoot."
The words land like a punch. "What?"
"A stalker theme." He rises, one hand braced on the glass beside my head, caging me in. His body is hard and hot against mine. "Every camera on us. Every angle. I'm going to fuck you while they watch, and I'm going to steal every drop of milk you have. On camera. For every screen. So the whole world knows exactly whose body this is."
I should be horrified. I should tell him no, that this is private, that the milk is a secret I'm still learning to understand.
Instead, I feel another rush of heat between my thighs.
"Kaelen—"
"You'll wear a skirt. Nothing else. I'll bend you over a table, a window, a bed, and I'll fuck you until you're empty. Until there's nothing left in you but my cum and my name."
He presses his palm against my belly. Flat. Firm. Over the life I still don't know how to explain.
"And then I'm going to fill you again. And again. Until there's no question who these belong to."
I swallow hard. "The men—"
"Are already dealt with." His voice is steel. "That one out there won't be a problem after tonight. But the shoot happens. I want it. I want everyone to know what I have."
"And the—" I can't say it. The pregnancy. The impossible timing.
His eyes flicker. He knows I'm holding something back. But he doesn't press. Not now.
Instead, he lifts me. Carries me to the bed. Lays me down like I'm made of glass and covers my body with his, his weight pressing me into the mattress, his hand flat on my belly, his mouth against my throat.
"We tell my mother tomorrow," he says. "About the pregnancy. And then we figure out the rest."
The window is still painted with my milk. The figure at the treeline is gone. The room is quiet except for his breathing, my heartbeat, the slow tick of the clock on the nightstand.
I feel his cum still seeping from me onto the sheets, the ache of his mouth on my breasts, the weight of his hand on the secret I still don't fully understand.
And I feel the Animal, warm and heavy against me, keeping watch.
His hand doesn't leave my belly. Not for hours. Not until the milk on the window dries into a white haze that catches the first light of dawn.