Chapter 62 Fuck

Chapter 62 Fuck
The first month after the twins were born passed in a beautiful, exhausting blur.

The nursery—once just a dream of pale silver walls and hand-painted constellations—became the beating heart of the penthouse. Two cribs sat side by side under a mobile of tiny silver wolves and moons that turned slowly in the filtered light. The air always smelled faintly of milk, lavender baby wash, and the warm cedar scent that clung to every brother who spent hours there.

The twins were named at sunrise the morning after their birth.

The boy—firstborn, fierce, already showing silver flashes in his stormy gray eyes—was called Rowan.

The girl—smaller but no less commanding, with hazel eyes that sometimes flickered pure silver—was called Luna.

Rowan and Luna Walker-Anderson.

The names felt like vows carved into the world.

Emily healed quickly—wolf metabolism and Silverfang blood saw to that—but the exhaustion was bone-deep. Feeding two newborns around the clock left her drained, breasts perpetually full and aching, nipples cracked and tender despite the lanolin and the brothers’ careful care.

The alphas were overprotective to the point of comedy.

Logan installed baby monitors with military-grade encryption and slept on the nursery floor the first two weeks—claiming the couch was “too far.”

Lucas read every parenting book ever written, then cross-referenced them with wolf-specific texts, creating color-coded spreadsheets for feeding, sleep, and diaper changes.

Liam stood guard at every doorway like a sentinel—growling at delivery drivers who knocked too loudly.

Lowell turned bath time into a nightly comedy routine—blowing bubbles at the babies until they giggled (tiny, hiccupping wolf giggles that melted everyone).

Luke rigged smart lights that dimmed automatically when the twins fussed and played white-noise ocean sounds synced to Emily’s heartbeat.

Leo mapped out every possible threat within a ten-mile radius and had escape routes laminated and posted in every room.

Levi—youngest, most emotional—cried the first time Rowan latched properly and whispered “I’m your dad” like a sacred secret every time he held either baby.

But nothing compared to the breastfeeding.

Emily’s milk came in strong—almost too strong. She leaked constantly, soaking through nursing pads within an hour. The brothers noticed immediately.

And they became… helpful.

Very helpful.

It started innocently enough.

One late-night feeding—Rowan nursing on her left, Luna still asleep—Logan knelt beside the rocking chair.

“You’re hurting,” he murmured, noticing how she winced when Rowan latched too hard.

She nodded—exhausted. “They’re greedy.”

He didn’t ask permission.

He simply leaned in—cupped her right breast gently—and latched his mouth over the nipple.

Emily gasped—back arching.

Warmth flooded her—relief and something darker, hotter. His tongue soothed the cracked skin, then sucked—slow, rhythmic—drawing milk into his mouth with a low, satisfied groan.

“Fuck,” he breathed against her skin—voice wrecked. “You taste like heaven.”

She whimpered—free hand tangling in his hair—hips shifting restlessly.

He drank until the ache eased—then switched sides when Rowan finished—suckling the other breast while she rocked Luna back to sleep.

When he finally pulled away—lips shiny with milk—he kissed her deeply—letting her taste herself on his tongue.

“You’re feeding our babies,” he growled softly. “Now you’re feeding me. So fucking perfect.”

The others caught on quickly.

Lucas took mornings.

He’d wake her with soft kisses—then settle beside her in bed—mouth on one breast while she nursed Rowan on the other. His sucks were slow, romantic—tongue swirling lazy circles—eyes locked on hers the whole time.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he’d whisper between pulls. “Leaking for us. Letting us taste what our babies get. I could live here forever.”

She’d come softly—clenching around nothing—while he drank his fill and kissed the milk from her skin.

Liam was rougher—hungrier.

He’d catch her in the kitchen—bend her over the island—lift her shirt—and latch on hard—sucking deep, greedy pulls that made milk spurt and her knees buckle.

“Fuck, these tits,” he’d growl—voice muffled against her skin. “So full. So heavy. Gonna drink you dry every damn time.”

He’d knead the other breast—milking her—catching the streams in his palm—licking it clean while she moaned and rocked against his thigh.

Lowell turned it filthy and playful.

He’d lie beneath her on the couch—her straddling his chest—both breasts hanging over his face.

“Feed me, mama,” he’d grin—then pull her down—sucking one nipple while his fingers worked the other—milking her until streams dripped onto his tongue.

“Gonna keep you pregnant forever,” he’d promise—voice thick. “Gonna drink from you every day. Gonna fuck you while you leak all over me.”

She’d come grinding against his stomach—sobbing his name—milk dripping down his chin.

Luke was methodical—precise.

He’d sit her on the nursery rocking chair—kneel between her legs—take one breast in his mouth while his hand massaged the other—slow, rhythmic squeezes that coaxed milk in steady streams.

“You’re producing so much,” he’d murmur—voice reverent. “Your body knows what we need. Knows how to keep us all fed. So perfect.”

He’d drink until she was empty—then switch—making her come just from the suction and his whispered praise.

Leo was control and worship.

He’d lay her on the bed—straddle her hips—take both breasts in his hands—knead them gently—then lower his mouth—sucking one while he pinched and rolled the other.

“You’re feeding our legacy,” he’d whisper—voice low, commanding. “These tits belong to us now. Gonna drink from you while I fuck you slow. Gonna watch you leak while you come around my cock.”

He’d slide inside her—deep—rocking gently—mouth never leaving her breasts—until she shattered—milk spraying—body convulsing.

Levi—youngest, neediest—was desperate.

He’d crawl into bed with her at night—nuzzle between her breasts—latch on like a starving man—sucking hard, greedy—groaning when milk hit his tongue.

“Fuck, mama,” he’d whimper—voice muffled. “So sweet. So full. Gonna drink every drop. Gonna keep you pregnant so I never have to stop.”

He’d rut against her thigh—desperate—until she guided him inside—slow—letting him suckle while he rocked into her—coming hard—whimpering against her skin.

They took her together too—slow, gentle group scenes on the big bed.

All seven surrounding her—mouths on her breasts—sucking, licking, drinking—hands stroking her belly—fingers between her thighs—until she came again and again—milk leaking in thin streams—body trembling—loved beyond measure.

And every time—after—when she was limp and sated—they’d curl around her—hands on her belly—feeling the twins settle—whispering love and praise and filthy promises.

“You’re the sexiest fucking thing alive,” Logan would growl—kissing her temple.

“Gonna keep you full,” Liam would rumble—hand on her breast.

“Gonna drink you every day,” Lowell would laugh—nuzzling her neck.

“Forever,” Lucas would whisper—kissing her tears.

Emily lay in the center—radiant, powerful, leaking, loved—surrounded by seven alphas who worshipped her changing body as much as her unchanging soul.

And in those quiet moments—when milk dripped and babies kicked and seven heartbeats synced with hers—she finally understood:

Motherhood hadn’t taken anything from her.

It had given her everything.

And they loved her for it—all of it—fiercely, completely, eternally.