The Ritual — Part One

The van rattled over another cracked slab of asphalt, and somewhere in the darkness of the rear compartment, a magazine clattered against the floor. Nobody bent to pick it up. Nobody even looked.

"Alright," Vic said, clicking his rifle's safety back on and setting it across his lap. His voice cut through the noise like a blade. "Let's do it. Two at a time. Fifteen seconds each. Don't get greedy."

He looked at Kayla. "You good with that?"

She met his gaze. Held it. Nodded once.

"Dom. Terry. You're up."

Dom rose from his bench and moved into the narrow aisle between the seats. The van swayed hard, throwing him against the wall, and he grabbed the overhead rail to steady himself. His crotch was level with her face for half a second — half a second that felt like an hour — before he dropped to one knee in front of her.

Terry followed, squeezing past the broad-shouldered operator near the doors, murmuring "excuse me" like they were on a crowded bus instead of a tactical vehicle heading toward God knew what. He knelt on her other side.

The others watched.

Not leering exactly. Observing. Like this was just another pre-raid checklist.

Which, she realized with a cold little twist in her stomach, it was.

Beard licked his lips again. "Gym & Guns" hoodie's hand was still resting on his thigh, fingers spread. Hicks's helmet was tilted back at what had to be an uncomfortable angle. The broad-shouldered man hadn't moved at all — hadn't even blinked — but his shotgun was now pointed at the floor rather than across his lap, as if he wanted both hands free.

Chief tapped his magazines faster. The rhythmic click-click-click was the only sound in the van besides the engine and the rattle of the suspension.

Kayla shifted forward on the bench, spreading her knees slightly to give the two men room. Her hands rested on her thighs, fingers curled loosely. Her heart was pounding now — a frantic, hummingbird drum against her ribs — but her face remained still.

Cold professionalism.

That's what they'd taught her.

Cold professionalism.

Dom reached up first.

His fingers brushed the underside of her left breast — warm even through his gloves, even through the chill of the van — and she **** herself not to flinch. He didn't just cup her. He gripped. A firm, possessive squeeze that made her breath catch in her throat.

"Fuck, you're full," he murmured, almost to himself. His thumb traced a slow circle around her areola, and she felt her nipple tighten in response, felt the telltale tingle of milk beginning to leak.

Then he leaned in, and his mouth found her nipple — already leaking, already painfully sensitive from the night's tension and the cold and the weight of eight men's stares — and closed around it.

The suction was immediate.

Hard.

Demanding.

God.

Terry took her right breast with more hesitation. His lips brushed her areola once — a question, a request for permission — before he latched on, as if asking for something she'd already agreed to give. His technique was softer. Slower. Almost shy compared to Dom's hungry urgency.

Then they began to suckle.

The sound filled the van. Wet. Rhythmic. Filthy.

Kayla tilted her head back against the cold metal wall. Her lips parted. Her eyes half-closed.

Steady. Breathe. This is just biology.

But her body didn't care about professionalism.

The warmth spread from her chest downward. A tingling, pulsing sensation that settled low in her belly, deep and insistent. Her thighs pressed together involuntarily, trapping the heat there, making her aware of how damp her underwear had become.

Dom pulled harder, and she felt the milk release — a rush of pressure giving way to flow — and heard him swallow. Gulp. Swallow again.

"Fuck yeah," he breathed against her skin, his voice muffled by her flesh. "That's the good shit."

"Shut up and drink," Vic said, but there was no heat in it. His eyes were fixed on her face, watching the way her jaw had gone slack, the way her fingers curled into loose fists on her thighs.

Terry pulled back just enough to gasp for air, a thin string of milk connecting his lips to her nipple. "She tastes — " he started, then shook his head and latched back on, as if words couldn't capture it.

Beard shifted in his seat. Kayla saw him adjust himself through his tactical pants, slow and deliberate, not even pretending to hide it anymore.

Hicks wasn't pretending either. His hand rested openly on his thigh, fingers spread, thumb tracing slow circles against the fabric.

"Fifteen seconds," Vic said. "Switch."