Chapter 389: Chapter 388 – Sandwiched Husband

He reached around her.

Both hands cupped under her belly from below.

Lifted.

Not much. A few inches. Just enough that the weight that had been sitting on her hips and lower back was distributed — shifted, redistributed, the mechanical assist of someone supporting something they know needs supporting.

Mira’s whole body dropped.

Not fell — settled. The specific release of a muscle group that had been working continuously for weeks and had just been handed a reprieve. She leaned back into him with the full trust of someone handing weight to someone who can take it, her back against his chest, her head dropping to rest on his shoulder.

“Oh my god,” she said.

Not provocative. Just — real. The exhale of it was the exhale of someone whose lower back had been doing load-bearing work and had just been given a vacation.

Viktor put his mouth against her neck.

Kissed it. Light, once, his lips against the warm skin where her throat met her shoulder.

She made a small sound.

He rubbed his jaw against her, slowly. The rasp of his stubble against the side of her neck, his hands still supporting her belly from below, his cock still between her ass cheeks through his trousers, the warmth of her back against his chest.

“I’ll introduce you to my maternal aunt soon,” he said.

His voice was quiet. Conversational. The tone of someone sharing a fact about upcoming logistics.

Mira was quiet for a moment.

He could feel her thinking — the particular quality of Mira’s thinking, which had a physical component, a slight change in muscle tension across her back while the strategic part of her brain assembled and evaluated.

Then she chuckled.

Low. Knowing.

“I will,” she said, “definitely teach her all the kinky ways to satisfy her husband.”

Viktor’s mouth, which had been moving toward her neck again, stopped.

He held very still.

“Her husband,” he said.

“Your aunt, yes.” Mira’s tone had the warmth of someone delivering a gift they’d been sitting on. “She’ll need to know how to keep a man like you satisfied. Properly. I have opinions about technique that I feel would—”

“Mira.”

“—transfer well, and Helena has been saying for weeks that the household needs—”

“Mira.”

“—more collaborative energy, and if your aunt is joining the—”

“She is my aunt,” Viktor said. “My mother’s sister. She is here on political business. She is not joining—” He stopped. Looked at the sky. Found it unhelpful. Looked back down. “She is not,” he said, with the patient precision of a man laying stones, “a candidate.”

Mira turned her head slightly.

One eye found his face.

The heart-shapes in it were still there, and underneath them, the expression of a woman who had decided something and was generously allowing him to believe she’d been corrected.

“Of course,” she said.

Viktor breathed.

Then he felt it.

Her ass moved.

Specifically: she twitched. A deliberate, small, rotational thing — her hips rolling slightly, the valley of her ass closing and opening around his cock in the specific way of someone who was entirely aware of what they were doing and had decided to do it.

He went still.

She did it again.

Both ass cheeks, slow squeeze. His cock, which had been behaving itself under the circumstances of pregnancy-belly-support and logistical conversation, received this input and registered it with the enthusiasm of something that had been awoken.

Mira took his hand.

The one that wasn’t supporting the belly.

She guided it upward.

His hand arrived at her breast — the heavy round weight of it, the nipple already stiff through the fabric — and she pressed his fingers closed around it. Guided his palm to squeeze. Her other hand came down, pulling his other hand from the belly-support position, sliding it down over the curve of the dress, the fabric, down to the juncture of her thighs.

She pressed his hand against herself.

“Please,” she said.

Low. The genuine register. Not the teasing Mira — the other one.

Viktor looked at the hand she’d placed.

At the warm pressure of her against his palm through the fabric.

At the belly that she’d just let him take weight from because her lower back was exhausted.

“You’re pregnant,” he said.

“I know.”

“You’re carrying twins.”

“I’m aware of the count.”

“Mira.”

“Please,” she said again.

The word had weight in it. The specific weight of someone who had spent weeks watching Viktor’s schedule revolve around everyone else’s needs and bodies and crises and was sitting here in the garden asking for twenty minutes of being specifically wanted by the person who was supposed to be hers.

Viktor knew that weight.

He felt it.

“Not a chance,” he said.

She made a sound.

“Your back is already—”

“I feel fine.”

“Your back—”

“My back is fine, and if you’d stop being—”

The pressure arrived at his back.

Something soft. Something large. Something that pressed against him from behind with the patient thoroughness of an object that had decided this was its position and was settling into it with full commitment.

Viktor registered: belly. Two of them. His own body between two pregnant bellies, front and back, Mira’s dome against his hands from the front and what was pressed against his spine from behind, and also — rising above both bellies — two very large, very warm, very full breasts pressing against the back of his shoulders.

And a chin on his shoulder.

He turned his head.

Brown hair.

Warm brown eyes looking at him from three inches away with an expression that was — Helena had many expressions, and this was the specific one she used when she had timed her arrival precisely and knew it.

“Young master,” Helena said.

Her voice was honey and morning and the sound of someone who had been waiting for the right moment and had found it.

Her arms came around him from behind — around both of them, because Helena was generous with her reaching — her hands coming to rest on his stomach in the position of claiming, her chin still on his shoulder, her entire front pressed warm and soft against his entire back.

Her belly.

Her belly was — Helena was further along than Mira. The dome of it pressed against his lower back and it was the specific shape of very late pregnancy in a woman who had not been small to begin with — round and heavy and warm and present in the way of something that demanded acknowledgment just by existing.

And above it.

Her breasts.

Viktor had always known that Helena’s breasts were categorically distinct from most things that were called breasts. But pregnancy had added to this in the specific way of something that starts large and goes somewhere new. They pressed against his back shoulders now with the full weight of something that had given up any ambition of compactness — soft and dense and warm, the nipples pressed through her dress against his shoulder blades, and he could feel that they were wet.

Leaking.

Just slightly. The warmth of it through the fabric at his shoulders, the sweet clean smell of her milk.

“I also want to do sex with you,” Helena said.

Her arms tightened.

Her hands on his stomach moved downward, in the same direction Mira’s hand had been going, and stopped at his waistband with the polite precision of someone who had already made a request and was waiting for the response before proceeding.

“Pleeeease.”

The word came from his right.

And also his left.

Because Mira, in front of him, had rotated in the sandwich to face him more fully, her belly pressing against him from the front, and had also said it.

In exactly the same register.

Both of them.

Simultaneously.

Viktor stood between his two pregnant wives — one in front, one behind, both enormous, both warm, both pressing — in the afternoon garden of the tower he had built with weeks of very specific effort, and looked at the middle distance.

The purple slime bounced against his ankle.

Viktor looked down at him.

Rusty’s brass goggles reflected: a man between two pregnant women, both of whom were asking for the same thing, both of whom were going to keep asking.

Viktor looked up at the World Tree.

At the golden fruit on its branches.

At the long afternoon light coming through its canopy.

He thought about his lower back.

About the twins.

About Helena’s third trimester.

About the word responsible.

He thought about all of these things.

Then Helena’s breasts shifted against his back as she readjusted her hold on him, the warm weight of them moving across his shoulder blades with the patient permanence of something that had been there and intended to continue being there, and her mouth pressed against the side of his neck, and she said, in the voice that was specifically the Helena voice — warm and low and completely without strategy, just wanting:

“Please.”

Viktor closed his eyes.

Opened them.

“No,” he said.

Both women made sounds.

“Both of you,” he said, “are pregnant. One of you is carrying two. Your backs — Helena, your back has been audible on the stairs for a week — you are not—”

“I could be on top,” Mira said.

“The belly—”

“Adjustable,” she said, with the confidence of someone who had been making these calculations already.

“Both your spines are working harder than they should right now and I am not—”

“Young master,” Helena said, against his neck. Her hands at his waistband moved one centimeter lower. “Just a little.”

“Sigh… but I will not do anything…”

As you said that, both women chuckled in unison.

“We will handle everything, Husband~~~”

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