She fights me with that sharp tongue every damn day.
The farm's hers by blood, this sprawling dairy empire she's clawing to claim from rivals circling like wolves. But in the humid glow of the milking parlor, under those harsh lights, her body's mine to command. I force her to the steel benches, hands rough on her swollen curves, drawing out thick streams of warm milk that arc and splatter. She gasps defiance even as she arches, hating how good it feels to break.
I never planned this breeding hunger.
Not for the woman who's supposed to fire me, not for the one whose inheritance hangs on proving she can tame this land. Yet every shadowed hayloft tryst leaves us sweat-slicked and locked, my hips driving deep while she claws my back, whispering curses that turn to pleas. It's brutal possession laced with the tenderness she pretends to scorn-the way I stroke her trembling thighs after, holding her as rivals plot to steal it all from under her.
Her autonomy's a fragile thing, won through grit and sleepless nights.
One wrong move, one leaked photo of her pinned and milking under my grip, and it's gone. Inheritance lost. Control shattered. But she craves this humiliation, the way I pin her heaving body to cold machinery, filling her until she's marked inside and out. Devotion wars with dominance in my gut, turning obligation into obsession.
What if her deepest yield costs her everything?
