2. Egor
EGOR
The woman in front of me looks like she belongs anywhere except my world. Too young. Too soft. Too innocent.
She looks like an angel, standing in my dining room with wide caramel brown eyes and rich cognac brown hair falling over her shoulders. She's small, around five-foot-five.
And that's exactly why I don't trust her.
People see a pretty face and assume harmless.
I learned a long time ago that the most dangerous weapons rarely look like weapons at all.
She shifts nervously under my stare.
My rivals wouldn't send some tattooed thug to get close to me. They know better. Every person who enters my circle gets investigated, watched, questioned.
No. If someone wanted to get close to me, they'd send someone like her.
Someone nobody would suspect. Someone a man might lower his guard around. Someone who looks like she couldn't hurt a fly.
My jaw tightens. I've buried men who made that mistake. I've watched powerful men lose everything because they let the wrong woman into their homes.
LIke this carefully chosen distraction.
A weapon wrapped in pretty packaging.
I've spent my entire life surviving people who underestimated me. I'm not about to start underestimating her.
She swallows hard when I continue staring at her.
"Yes. Because I swear, it wasn't poison." Her voice trembles just enough to sound genuine.
Maybe it is genuine.
Maybe she's terrified.
Or maybe she's a better liar than most.
I lean in, close enough to see the pulse hammering in her throat. Close enough to catch the scent of something warm and sweet beneath the fear. My nose brushes the damp fabric of her shirt, and I inhale.
Milk.
Thick. Earthy. Real.
My cock twitches.
What the hell?
"You smelled it, right?" Her breath hitches, fingers twisting in the hem of her shirt. "Satisfied?"
I straighten, slow, deliberate. The corner of my mouth curls. "Not even close."
She swallows, throat working. "What do you want from me?"
I step forward. She steps back. The kitchen counter digs into her spine, trapping her. My hands plant on either side of her, caging her in. Her scent wraps around me, and my mouth waters.
"Prove it." My voice drops, rough. "Show me."
"What?! No."
I tilt my head. "You want me to call them in instead? Tell them to apprehend the new chef who tried to poison me?"
Her eyes dart to the door. To the hallway where my men wait. Her jaw tightens. A muscle jumps in her cheek. She knows what happens when I call them in.
Slowly, her hands rise. Fingers trembling, she grips the hem of her shirt and lifts.
The fabric peels away, revealing skin flushed pink, glistening with milk. The bra is soaked through, white cotton clinging to full, heavy tits. The outline of her nipples presses against the fabric, dark and swollen, leaking slow, thick drops down the curves of her breasts.
My breath catches.
She's dripping.
A pearl of milk rolls down the slope of her left tit, catching in the lace edge of her bra. My fingers twitch. My cock throbs.
Her voice is a whisper. "Happy now?"
I reach out.
She flinches. My thumb brushes the wet spot on her bra, smearing the milk across the fabric. It's warm. Sticky.
I bring my thumb to my mouth.
Her eyes go wide.
I lick.
Sweet. Nutty. Fucking perfect.
Her breath comes fast, chest heaving. The wet spot on her bra darkens, another drop welling at the tip of her nipple.
I want to feast.
But wait? Why is she lactating?
Is she… pregnant?
The word slams into my skull like a bullet. My vision tunnels, narrowing on the woman trembling in front of me. Those tits, heavy and dripping. Fuck.
My hand shoots out, gripping her chin. Her eyes snap to mine, wide and startled. "Who."
She swallows. "W-what?"
"Who the fuck knocked you up?" My voice is a growl, low and lethal. The thought of another man's hands on her, another man's seed taking root in her body… It makes my blood boil. Makes my fingers itch to wrap around a throat.
Her lips part. "No one. I'm not?—"
"Don't lie to me." My grip tightens. "Then why are you suddenly lactating?"
She winces, her teeth sinking into her lower lip. "I'm not pregnant! I've never even held hands with a man."
I search her face. No deception. Just pain. My gaze drops to her chest, where her tits strain against the soaked fabric, nipples swollen and aching. A fresh drop of milk beads at the tip, trembling before rolling down the curve.
My cock throbs.
I release her chin, my hand sliding down her throat, over the rapid flutter of her pulse.
She suddenly winces.
"Does it hurt?"
She nods, just once.
My fingers trail lower, brushing the damp fabric of her bra. She sucks in a sharp breath, her back arching just slightly, pressing her tits into my touch. The scent of her milk thickens, rich and earthy, wrapping around me like a fucking drug.
"Want me to make it better?"
Her eyes widen, and my hand cups her tit, squeezing. She gasps, her body jerking, but she doesn't pull away.
"Is that a yes?" I ask.
She nods, and I squeeze again. The fabric of her bra is soaked, clinging to her skin, and my fingers slip beneath the edge, finding her nipple. It's hard, swollen, begging for relief.
I roll it between my fingers.
She whimpers.
I pinch.
A sharp cry tears from her throat, her hands flying up to grip my wrist. Not to push me away. To hold me there.
I chuckle, low and dark, reaching behind her. "Let's get rid of this."
The bra clasp snaps between my fingers like a twig.
The straps slither down her arms, pooling at her wrists before I yank it free.
Her tits spill into my hands, full, heavy, dripping.
The skin is flushed pink, stretched tight over swollen flesh, the areolas dark and puckered.
Her nipples jut out, thick and turgid, glistening with pearls of milk.
I groan.
She shivers, her breath hitching as my thumbs brush over the sensitive peaks.
"Does it feel good?" My voice is rough, my cock aching against my zipper.
She nods, and I bend my head. Her hands fly to my shoulders, nails digging in as my mouth closes over her left nipple. The first pull is electric, hot, thick milk floods my tongue, sweet and nutty.
She gasps, her back arching, pressing her tit deeper into my mouth. I suck harder, my tongue swirling around the swollen tip, coaxing out every drop.
"Oh god." Her fingers tangle in my hair, pulling.
I growl against her skin, the vibration making her whimper. My free hand cups her other tit, squeezing, rolling the nipple between my fingers until another stream of milk sprays onto my palm. I switch sides, my mouth sealing over the right nipple, drinking deep.
Her milk is rich, creamy, addictive. I could drown in it.
Her thighs press together, her hips rocking in tiny, desperate circles. I can smell her arousal, sweet, musky, wet. My cock throbs, demanding attention, but I ignore it. This isn't about me.
This is about her.
"Oh god." Her voice is breathless, her body trembling. "I can't… It's too much."
I pull back just enough to speak, my lips brushing her nipple with every word. "You're still not empty, karamelka."
Her eyes fly open, wide and startled. "Karamelka?"
"It means little caramel." I switch to her other breast. "Fits you."
I go back to sucking, my mouth sealing over her nipple, drinking her down. Her milk sprays into my mouth, hot and thick, and I swallow every drop, my tongue lapping at her nipple until she's empty.
I pull back, my lips glistening. Her tits are softer now, the tension drained from them, but her nipples are still hard, still begging for more. I cup them, squeezing gently, watching as the last few drops well at the tips.
She's panting, her chest heaving, her skin flushed and glistening with sweat.
A sharp knock at the door cuts through the haze of her afterglow.
"Pakhan." My sovietnik or advisor, Sergei calls. "We've got a situation." His voice is muffled but urgent
I exhale through my nose, my jaw tightening.
I straighten, my hands lingering on her tits for just a second longer. "One of my men will take you to your room."
She blinks up at me, her eyes still hazy with pleasure. "What?"
"As my private chef, you'll be staying here from now on."
Her lips part, that sharp little tongue darting out to wet them. "This wasn't part of the contract."
I don't answer. I just turn and stride toward the door, my cock still hard, my body still thrumming with the need to bury myself inside her.
But business comes first.
Always.
The door clicks shut behind Sergei, sealing me in the war room with the stink of cigar smoke and the weight of Brighton Beach pressing down on my shoulders.
He doesn't waste time. "The new shipment from Odessa clears customs tomorrow.
Three containers… textiles, electronics, and the usual.
" His fingers tap against the mahogany table, each strike a metronome counting down to the next problem.
"Port Authority's been sniffing around. They know something's off, but they don't know what. "
I nod. "Double the bribes. If they still ask questions, remind them who owns the docks."
Pavel, one of the avtorityet or brigadiers leans forward, his knuckles white around a glass of vodka. "One of the rival mafias is moving products through our territory again. Caught two of their runners on Neptune Avenue last night." His lip curls. "They're getting bold."
Dmitry, the other avtorityet, exhales through his nose, the sound sharp as a blade. "Bold, or stupid. Either way, they're testing us." His eyes flick to me, dark and calculating. "We hit back hard. Make sure they remember who runs this place."
I don't answer right away. The room hums with the weight of their expectations, but my mind is still back in the kitchen, her milk on my tongue, her body trembling under my hands.
Sergei clears his throat. "Pakhan."
I blink. "What?"
"Let's do it," Pavel presses. "Send them a message."