The Ballerina's Forbidden Cream

A muffled whimper, thick with desperation and tears, seeped through the wall.

I pressed my forehead against the cool surface, my long legs twisting into the sheets. My teeth sank into my lower lip as I rubbed my chest, trying to ease the deep, throbbing ache inside me.

Just the thought of my aunt's boyfriend—towering, broad-shouldered, built like a man who could break me—sent heat flooding through my veins.

A sharp cry from her room sent me collapsing onto the bed, the air thick with the sweet, cloying scent of milk.

And then, before I could catch my breath, my aunt burst into my room—with him right behind her.

My name is Fiona Lawrence. A freshly graduated ballet dancer with a secret that's haunted me since puberty.

My breasts produce milk—far more than they should.

Before every performance, every practice, I have to drain them, or my leotard would be soaked through.

And with it comes a hunger—deeper, hungrier than most women's.

When I'm turned on, the flow doubles.

I'm lean, all long limbs and sharp angles—except for my chest. Even bound tight, men's eyes linger too long.

I've never struggled to find boyfriends. But lately? Frustration gnaws at me.

None of them could satisfy this growing, clawing need inside me. I lost interest.

The suppressed desire has built to a fever pitch.

I need a man who can ruin me—body and soul.

Then, while staying at my aunt's place for work, I met him. Vincent Lowell.

One look, and I was done for.

"Isn't Fiona gorgeous? She's here for a job. You'll help me take care of her, won't you?"

My aunt, Sophia, beamed as she presented me like some prized jewel.

Vincent, though well into his forties, was pure, unrefined masculinity—the kind that makes a woman's knees weak. His voice was deep, rough, the kind that curled low in your stomach. "Stunning. No wonder you won't shut up about her."

When he took my luggage, his fingers brushed mine. "Let me get this. You rest."

His touch burned. My legs trembled.

Years of restraint shattered in an instant.

His gaze flickered to my chest, and I remembered—I hadn't emptied myself today. Only the tight binder kept me from spilling over.

That single touch left me drenched.

I forced a steady breath. "Thank you, Vincent."

"Stay as long as you need. Don't mind him—he's hardly ever here," Sophia assured me.

I glanced at Vincent's massive frame, disappointment coiling low in my stomach. "Oh."

At my door, Sophia knocked something over.

Flushing, she pocketed it quickly. "Ugh, my muscle gel ended up here."

But I knew—it wasn't for sore muscles.

It was for her soreness.

My eyes darted to Vincent, feigning innocence as they dipped lower.

"Forget something?" His voice rumbled near my ear, too close.

I looked away, cheeks on fire. "No. Just thinking how heavy this must be."