She stopped.
Her body trembled against him, the fine, full-body tremor of a woman who was holding several things that did not fit in a single container.
Viktor's hand kneaded her breast again. Slow. The milk dripped.
"Viktor," she tried again. "You shouldn't — I'm — I have a daughter your—"
"I know," he said.
His tone was not unkind. Just — factual. The 'I know all of this and it has not changed anything' quality of a man who has already done his accounting.
His cock was warm and heavy against her ass. Half-limp. Not pressing. Just there.
She could feel the weight of it. The 'this thing has been inside me for an hour and my body knows its dimensions by memory now' awareness of it resting against her crack.
He lifted her.
