Page 8 of A Little Spilled Milk

He put a finger in his mouth, an innocent expression slapped on his face.

“And you have milk now? In your fridge?”

“No, I sold it all to my regular clients and one new.”

His crestfallen face was my fault because I hadn’t explained in more detail.

“Oh.” That tiny disappointed voice brought tears tomyeyes.

I pulled off my sweater revealing my stained shirt. “I have plenty.”

“You do?”

He licked his lips as I undid the buttons on my shirt, one by one. Tossing it aside, I cupped one teat as milk squirted out.

He wasn’t throwing himself at me. He was a good boy and was either waiting for me to tell him it was okay or to ask permission.

“And you can have it.”

Now he squirmed and studied his nails. “I don’t… maybe I can’t… I’m sorry, I don’t have a lot of spare cash.”

My poor boy. He thought I was expecting payment.

“Vinnie, look at me.” He lifted his head. “I’m offering this as a friend.” But I longed to be so much more. But tonight, he needed milk, and I needed his help because I was in agony. If he didn’t suckle, I’d have to pump.

“I would never expect money from you.”

“But you don’t know me,” he said in a quiet voice.

“I know you’re upset and you won’t sleep without a bottle or a teat to suck on.” I tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, hoping I hadn’t overstepped.

If he refused and left, there wasn’t much hope we’d never be anything other than neighbors who passed in the night.

“Are you sure?” He was eyeing the milk as it streamed over my fingers. I grabbed a bunch of tissues to stem the flow, not that it would do any good.

“I’m certain.”

5

VINNIE

I couldn’t believe I told him what it was. At first he thought it was raw milk, and that was such an easy out. I could have said, “Yeah, I’m into farm-fresh goodness. I heard it helps with...” and made up something, and all would have been good.

But no. No, I had to go and tell him exactly what it was. And once that was out there, it was there. No taking it back.

There was something about Emory—about the way he squatted down to be face to face with me, the way he helped me clean up, the way he didn’t rush me—that made him safe and had me spilling my guts. I was lucky I didn’t call him Daddy, because goodness knows, there were a few times I almost did.

He saw right through me. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him if he was a Daddy or if he was just really into lactation. I knew for some people, that was a thing. And if you had the goods, why not?

When I found out he lactated—suddenly, there was a shift. I couldn’t quite pinpoint whether it was good or not yet, but there was no going back.

We were connected now, no longer simply neighbors who sometimes passed each other.

So when he offered me some milk, I said yes. I needed it. There was no pretending otherwise, not when he saw me sobbing. He witnessed it firsthand.

The day had been far too stressful not to have it. It was bad enough that I didn’t have it on my trip, which just made me exponentially more tired.

Taking my first sip hadn’t been the difficult part. I latched on, circling his nipple first, loving the way his breath hitched. And then I took one long pull and then another, until I was happily sucking away. He didn’t need to let down, his milk flowing easily from the first pull.

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