Page 8 of The Minotaur's Milkmaid
I’m leaking.
But my body doesn’t care about my shame. Back at the farm, we were on a schedule, milked at dawn, midday, and dusk every day like clockwork. My body remembers, and now, without relief, the ache is unbearable.
I squirm, biting back a whimper.
Dakar’s grip tightens around my waist. “Little cow.” His voice is rough with sleep, and I hadn’t realized how close we’ve gotten. I’ve somehow ended up curled up against him, his body pressed to mine. I can feel the heat of him against my back. His hand slides up to my ribs, and my breath catches as his fingers brush the underside of my swollen breast. “What is wrong?” he asks.
My face burns. “I need to…” The words stick in my throat. I’ve said this before, but never to a male. Especially while curled against his bare chest.
His thumb circles my nipple through the damp fabric, and I gasp. “Need to what?”
His deep voice grumbles against my nape.
I squeeze my thighs together.
“I…I need to express them,” I whisper. “It's time.”
A low hum vibrates in his chest. “I think it's past time, little cow.”
Before I can stammer a reply, he’s sitting up, the furs sliding off his bare torso. I see the hard planes of his chest, and I should look away, but I’m finding it difficult to pull my eyes away.
He reaches over me, grabbing the empty washbowl from last night. “You’ll use this.”
I take it from him with shaky hands.
Dakar observes me, amber eyes half-lidded. “You know what to do?”
I do. But right here? With him watching me?
Then he rises from the furs, and I…Oh.He’s naked.
Morning light spills through the mouth of the cave, gilding over the powerful curve of his back, the thick, sculpted muscle of his shoulders. He’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. The boys back home were sun-browned and lean from fieldwork, but Dakar…Dakar is something else entirely.His dark horns are wicked-sharp, and my breath tangles in my throat as he stretches, the shift of his body revealing the heavy strength of his arms, the dusting of dark fur trailing down his stomach. Lower.
I shouldn’t be staring, but I can’t help it.
His tail flicks lazily behind him, and when he turns around, my gaze is drawn to the swell of his…
Oh, mercy.
Even half-hard, he’s massive. My mouth goes dry. Surely the boys back home were not so brutal in size?
I wrench my eyes away, my face on fire, but the image burns behind my eyelids. His thick cock, the length of it curving against his thigh. Stars above, how would that even—
“Relax, little cow.”His voice curls around me, and I shiver.
He struts across the cave to the fire pit, glancing back at me over his shoulder, and the knowing glint in his eyes tells me henoticedme staring.“I’ll make us food.”His forearm flexes as he grabs the handle of a pan.“Unless you’d rather I stay…and help you first?” He smirks at me with a raised brow.
My thighs press together, a traitorous pulse answering between them.
What is wrong with me?
But the answer is standing right there, all muscle and arrogance.
When I'm confident that Dakar is busy, I fumble with the wooden bowl, setting it on the bed between my knees. Mynipplesare so tight they hurt; stiff, and oversensitive. The second I peel the damp tunic off, they bead harder, the pink gonedeep rose from the strain. I wince just looking at them. Gods, they’reswollen, my areolas puffy and stretched.
Just do it. Just get it over with.
I press my palm against the underside of my right breast, wincing at the heat radiating from it. My fingers try to mimic the motion I’ve seen Aunt Hettie do a hundred times, gentle, rhythmic squeezes, but the moment I apply pressure, pain lances through me.
