11. Emilia
EMILIA
The marble floor is cold beneath my bare feet as I pad into the living room, the weight of the last few weeks pressing down on my shoulders.
Egor's already there, sleeves rolled up, tie loose, a glass of something transparent but strong in his hand.
He looks up when I enter, his pewter eyes darkening as they trace my curves, the way my fingers absently rub the small swell.
"You're tired," he says, not a question.
I shrug, sinking onto the couch with a sigh. "My feet are killing me."
He sets his drink down without hesitation, moving to kneel in front of me. His hands are warm as they wrap around my ankle, lifting my foot into his lap. The first press of his thumbs into my arch makes me groan, the sound embarrassingly loud in the quiet room.
"Better?" His voice is rough, like he's the one who's been carrying the weight.
I nod, melting into the cushions as he works his way up my calf, his touch firm, sure. "You don't have to?—"
"I want to." His fingers dig into the muscle, and I bite my lip to stifle another moan. The pressure is perfect, almost too much, but in the best way. Like he knows exactly how to unravel me.
Then his thumb brushes the inside of my ankle, and I flinch, not from his touch, but from the sudden, sharp ache in my breasts. A warm bead of milk escapes, darkening my shirt, and Egor's gaze snaps to it like a predator locking onto prey.
His nostrils flare. "Karamelka."
I swallow, heat flooding my cheeks. "Don't."
He doesn't listen. His hand slides up my leg, fingers tracing the damp path on my thigh. "Let me take the pain away."
I should say no. I should. But my body betrays me, nipples tightening, the ache between my legs growing heavier. I glare at him, even as my breath hitches. "If you promise to do what I say."
His lips curl, slow and dangerous. "Just tell me what you want."
I reach for the hem of my shirt, pulling it over my head in one swift motion. My bra follows, discarded on the floor, and his gaze drops to my chest, to the way my breasts swell, heavy and full, milk already beading at the tips.
His hands flex on my thighs, like he's fighting the urge to grab, to take. He raises them, wanting to touch my breasts.
"No," I say, gesturing for him to drop his hands.
He scrunches his nose, and I smile.
"Suck," I order, my voice steadier than I feel. "Without touching."
Then he leans in, his mouth closing over one nipple, tongue swirling around the peak before he pulls hard. The first tug sends a jolt straight to my clit, and I gasp, my fingers tangling in his hair.
"Fuck," I breathe, arching into him. "More."
He obeys, switching to the other breast. The relief is instant, but it's not enough. I need more.
"Make me feel good down there," I demand, my voice trembling.
His mouth leaves my breast with a wet pop, his lips glistening. "With pleasure."
Before I can react, he's on his knees between my thighs, yanking my leggings down. The cool air hits my skin, but it's nothing compared to the heat of his breath as he presses a kiss to my inner thigh. Then another. And another, each one closer to where I'm already wet, already aching.
"You can lick now."
His tongue drags through my folds, slow and deliberate, and my hips jerk off the couch. He chuckles, the sound dark and satisfied, before his mouth closes over my clit. The first suck has my back arching, my fingers clawing at the cushions.
"Oh god."
He doesn't let up, his tongue working me in slow, torturous circles, his fingers sliding inside me, curling just right. The pressure builds fast, too fast, my thighs trembling as I rock against his face.
"Don't stop," I gasp, my voice breaking. "Please, don't."
He groans against me, the vibration sending me over the edge. My orgasm crashes through me, my vision whiting out as I come with a broken cry.
Egor doesn't stop until I'm boneless, until my legs are shaking and my breath is coming in ragged gasps. Then he pulls back, lips slick, eyes dark with hunger.
He reaches for his belt.
"No." The word is out before I can think, my hand shooting out to stop him.
His brow furrows. "What? Come on, Emilia."
"You said you'd do what I say." I sit up, pushing him back just enough to reach for his zipper. "But don't worry. I'll make you feel good as well… on my terms."
His jaw tightens, but he doesn't argue as I free his cock, thick and heavy in my hand. I stroke him once, twice, watching as his breath hitches, his hips jerking forward.
"Fuck," he growls, his hand covering mine, guiding my movements.
I smile, my grip tightening, my thumb swiping over the tip, spreading the bead of precum. He's so hard, so hot, and the way his eyes burn into me makes my stomach clench.
"Tell me you're satisfied with this," I murmur, my voice low, teasing.
His lips curl into a snarl. "For now."
I smirk, leaning in to press a kiss to his jaw. "Good."
His hand tangles in my hair, pulling just enough to make me gasp. "You're really pushing it, karamelka."
I stroke him faster, my thumb circling the crown. "This is your punishment."
His breath hisses between his teeth, his hips thrusting into my grip. "Fuck."
I watch as he comes, his release spilling over my fingers, his body shuddering. For a moment, there's nothing but the sound of our ragged breathing, the scent of sex and milk heavy in the air.
Then he pulls me against him, his lips crashing into mine, his tongue sweeping into my mouth like he's claiming every last piece of me.
And God help me, I let him.
Because this is all he'll get… for now.
The café hums with the low murmur of conversation, the scent of coffee and pastries thick in the air. Egor slides into the booth beside me, his thigh pressing against mine, his presence a constant, suffocating weight. He sets a plate in front of me… blini, smothered in sour cream and caviar.
I push it away. "I don't want this."
His jaw tightens. "You need to eat."
"I want something else."
His fingers flex against the table, the only sign of his frustration. "What?"
"Eggs. Scrambled. With toast."
A beat of silence. Then he nods, heading to the counter.
I watch him go, my stomach twisting. It's been like this since I decided to go back.
He does whatever I ask without complaint.
He's trying. I know he is. But every time I see him, I feel the doubt lurking beneath the surface, that he will do the same thing.
The booth dips as Sergei slides in across from me, his movement sharp as a blade. "You're picky today."
I force a smile. "Just hungry."
His gaze drops to my belly, lingering just a second too long. "Funny. Egor's been the same way since you got back. Obsessive, even."
My fingers curl into my palms. "What's your point?"
He leans in, voice low. "Just wondering if he's sure that's his kid."
The words hit like a punch to the gut. My breath stutters, my pulse roaring in my ears. "Excuse me?"
Sergei shrugs, all false innocence. "He's planning a paternity test. Didn't he tell you?"
The world tilts. I open my mouth, but no sound comes out.
Sergei shrugs. "Guess not."
The words claw up my throat, hot and bitter. "You're lying."
He raises an eyebrow. "Am I?"
My nails dig into my palms hard enough to leave crescents. "Egor wouldn't?—"
"Wouldn't what?" His voice drops, low and mocking. "Do this? When he's done this before?"
The café blurs around me, the clatter of dishes fading into a dull roar. My chest burns, my throat tight. "Leave."
"Or what?" He leans back, arms crossing over his chest. "You'll cry? Go running to him like a good little?—"
I shove the table into his ribs. The plates rattle, caviar splattering across his crisp white shirt. His eyes flash, his hand shooting out to grip my wrist before I can pull away. "Watch it."
"Let go of me."
"Or you'll what?" His thumb presses into my pulse point, hard enough to bruise. "Go ahead. Let's see who Pakhan will believe. The woman who betrayed him, or the man who has been by his side since he became the leader of the Bratva."
My breath comes in sharp, uneven gasps. I yank against his grip, but his fingers only tighten. "I said?—"
"Emilia."
The voice cuts through the haze of my panic like a blade. Sergei's grip loosens instantly, his body going rigid, but he doesn't let go. I don't have to look to know Egor's standing there, his presence a storm at my back.
"What is happening here?"
Sergei turns. "Ah. Perfect timing." His gaze flicks up, over my shoulder. "We were just discussing the baby."
Silence.
A beat. Two.
Then Egor's hand closes around Sergei's wrist, wrenching it away from me. The movement is sharp, controlled, but the air between them crackles with something darker. "Don't touch her."
Sergei doesn't move. "How can you trust her Pakhan?"
Egor's voice is a growl. "I said?—"
"After what happened, you should get a paternity test. The baby might not be yours."
The words hang between us, thick and suffocating. My stomach twists, my vision swimming. I don't dare look at Egor.
I don't want to see the doubt in his eyes.
He turns, gesturing for us to follow him. "Let's handle this with the Bratva."