Chapter 365: Chapter 364- A Mother’s Orgasm

The sound came from her before she could suppress it.

His touch through the thin fabric—one finger, then two, pressing against the heat of her with the same precision that characterized his cooking and his conversation and every other thing he seemed to do—and she felt how ’wet’ she was, felt it with humiliation, the fabric damp and hot and giving nothing away about dignity at all.

Viktor’s mouth pulled back from hers just enough to look at her face.

She turned her head.

“Don’t—” she managed.

He pressed again, two fingers curling, and her hips moved involuntarily—the kind of movement the body conducted independently, the deep muscle responding before the mind could intercept.

“’Hngh’—hahh—”

“Very warm,” Viktor observed, his voice close to her ear.

“’Don’t talk.’”

“And quite—”

“’Don’t.’”

He moved the fabric aside.

The touch that followed was direct and immediate and her body received it like something long-denied, which was wrong, which was completely wrong, she had not been ’waiting’ for this or anything like it, but the warmth of his fingers against the heat of her said otherwise with a thoroughness that her dignity was entirely unable to argue with.

He pushed one finger in.

“’HNGH’—”

Vivian’s hand flew to her mouth. Pressed hard against her lips.

Because Gwen was downstairs—Gwen was ’downstairs’—and the sound that wanted to come out of her was completely, catastrophically inappropriate for a house with her daughter in it.

Viktor’s eyes found her face. Found the hand over her mouth. Found the flush that had migrated from her cheeks down her throat and was still traveling.

Something moved through his expression—dark and warm simultaneously—and he pushed deeper.

“’Mmph’—”

The curl of his fingers found something specific, something interior that her body clearly had opinions about, and Vivian’s back arched with a sharpness that pulled her shoulders off the mattress. Her free hand grabbed the nearest thing—the sheets, bunching them in her fist—and her eyes closed.

And then his other hand moved.

He’d been braced above her, but now that arm shifted, dropping to her side, and his palm pressed flat against her breast through the dress.

“’Hnngh’—”

The weight of it.

His hand simply covering it, the warmth of his palm seeping through fabric, and then his fingers found the shape of her and ’squeezed’—slow, deliberate, the way you handled something heavy and soft that you intended to hold properly—and the combination of both things happening simultaneously sent a wave of heat down Vivian’s spine that she was absolutely, categorically not prepared for.

His fingers inside her moved. In and out, slow, curling at the end of each stroke, finding that place again and again with a precision that could not have been accidental. The sounds it made were—were completely—she could ’hear’ how wet she was, every movement accompanied by the slick evidence of her body’s complete and utter betrayal, and her hand over her mouth was doing less and less to contain what was trying to come out of her.

“’Mmhh’—hahh—’ngh’—”

Her thighs had closed around his hand. Not to stop him—they had given up on that project entirely—but just because the muscles had contracted and were not receiving the message to unclench. Viktor worked through the grip of them without slowing, which somehow made it worse.

His thumb found her clit.

“’MMMPH’—!”

Her whole body jerked. Her hips lifted off the mattress—came entirely up—and then dropped back, and the mattress bounced gently with her weight, and her breasts swayed with the motion under his palm, heavy and present, and Viktor’s hand followed them without losing its grip.

’What,’ she thought, her mind making one last attempt at coherent sentence construction.

’What is—’

His thumb circled again.

’—what is he—’

His fingers curled deep.

’—why is he so—’

The warmth in her lower belly was building toward something large and inevitable, the kind of inevitability you couldn’t argue with because your body had already finished the conversation and gone home, and Vivian was lying in a stranger’s bed with her hand pressed over her mouth and her back arching and her thighs slick against his knuckles, and the only thought her mind could complete—the only one, the singular coherent thing left in her skull—

’Why,’ she thought desperately, her eyes squeezing shut, her hips rolling up toward his fingers without her permission.

’Why does he feel like—’

His thumb.

Again.

“’Hngh’—”

’—why is he so absolutely,’ she thought, ’catastrophically—’

His palm pressed harder over her breast.

’—delicious—’

The word arrived in her mind and stayed there, mortifying and accurate and entirely unretractable, and Vivian pressed her hand harder over her mouth and tried to remember her own name.

She could not.

Viktor’s mouth found the side of her neck, lips warm against her pulse, and said nothing.

He didn’t need to.

It built without warning.

That was the thing—one moment she was managing it, containing it, her hand over her mouth and her mind still running some distant background process that was composing protests she had no intention of delivering. And then Viktor’s fingers found the specific angle inside her, the heel of his palm grinding against her clit simultaneously, and whatever coherent structure she’d been maintaining simply—

Collapsed.

“’MMMPH’—!!”

Her thighs slammed together around his hand. Her back came entirely off the mattress. Every muscle in her body contracted at once—her toes curling, her free hand yanking the sheets half off the corner of the bed, her hips snapping up with a force that surprised her own body—

And she ’gushed.’

Hot and sudden and ’everywhere,’ soaking his hand, soaking the sheets beneath her, the slick rush of it audible even through her muffled scream, and she was shaking—actually shaking, the fine tremors of her thighs and her stomach and her arms completely outside her control, her whole generous body oscillating with the force of it, her breasts rolling with the motion, heavy and uncontained and ’present.’

“’MMHH’—hahh—’hngh’—haahhh—”

She couldn’t stop.

The orgasm kept ’going,’ rolling through her in waves that her body refused to cut short, each one arriving before the last had fully passed, Viktor’s fingers continuing to move through all of it—slow, deliberate, wringing every last tremor out of her with the patience of someone who had nowhere to be.

Finally—’finally’—it began to ebb.

Vivian lay there. Breathing. The ceiling of the bedroom existed above her and she stared at it and her chest heaved with each inhale and she was aware, in the distant way of someone observing their situation from a comfortable remove, that the sheets beneath her hips were completely ruined.

Viktor’s fingers withdrew.

Slowly.

The sound they made was obscene and she was too wrung out to be mortified about it in the way she would be in approximately five minutes.

She turned her head toward him.

He was looking at her.

He had that expression on his face—that dark, collected thing that watched without announcing itself—and his eyes moved across her with the slow thoroughness of a man conducting a post-examination assessment. From her face. Down her throat. Across the rise and fall of her chest. Down.

Then his mouth curved.

“What—” Her voice came out completely destroyed, scraped clean of its usual register. She cleared her throat. “What just ’happened’—”

“Your body answered my question,” Viktor said pleasantly.

“That is not—” She pushed herself up onto her elbows, or attempted to, her arms having limited confidence in their structural integrity at the moment. “That is absolutely not an ’answer,’ that was a—what did you ’do’—”

Viktor moved.

He came forward—not sitting beside her, not hovering above her, but going ’down,’ dropping his head to her chest with the directness of someone who had identified what he wanted and saw no reason to approach it at an angle.

His hands found the neckline of her dress.

“’Wait’—”

The fabric pulled.

The dress had not been built to withstand intentional lateral tension and it knew it—the neckline gave with a sound of giving-way, and then the air of the bedroom was against her skin, cool and immediate, and Vivian’s hands flew to cover herself on pure instinct.

Viktor’s hands caught her wrists.

Not hard. Just—redirecting. Moving her hands aside the way you moved curtains out of a window, clearing the view. His grip held her wrists together above her, pressed down into the mattress over her head, and for a moment she simply lay there with her arms up and the dress pulled open and felt the full, unguarded weight of his gaze land on her chest.

Her breasts, freed of the last architectural assistance the dress had been providing, settled into their natural state—enormous, heavy, the soft flesh spreading slightly with gravity, the dark tips tight and peaked in the cool air. The momentum of her breathing moved them.

Viktor went very still.

Then he made a sound low in his throat that wasn’t a word.

“’Don’t’—” Vivian started.

His mouth closed over her nipple.

“’HNGH’—”

The suction was immediate and deep, his tongue working against the tight peak with a focused attention that sent a lightning strike down her spine and arrived somewhere that had just finished being devastated and was ’already’ rebuilding heat. She felt the sound he was making against her—felt the hum of it through the sensitive flesh—and her back arched again, her hands straining against his grip on her wrists.

“Hahh—stop—you need to—’hngh’—”

He pulled back with a sound that should not have been audible. His dark eyes found her face over the curve of her breast.

“Softer,” he said.

She blinked. Dazed. “What?”

“Than my other wives.” His thumb brushed the wet skin where his mouth had just been, and she twitched. “You’re softer.”

The words arrived in her brain and took a moment to assemble into meaning.

“Your—” She stared at him. “Your ’other wives’—”

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