6. IRIS #2
I bite my lip, nodding. Words won't come. They're stuck somewhere in my chest, tangled up with my racing pulse and the embarrassing little whimper that wants to escape every time his gaze drags over my naked body.
"Good." He moves toward the bed, all coiled muscle and predatory grace. "I love that you're still so innocent for me, even after I've had you."
The mattress dips under his weight as he climbs on, caging me beneath him. His knees bracket my hips, arms braced on either side of my head, and suddenly the world narrows to just him—his scent, his heat, the way his dark waves fall forward and brush his angular jaw.
"Ivan—" My voice cracks on his name.
"What, baby?" His mouth hovers over mine, not quite touching, close enough that I feel each word against my lips. "Tell me what you need."
You. Just you.
But before I can answer, he shifts his weight, settling between my thighs, and the first brush of his body against mine rips a gasp from my throat.
He's hard and hot and perfect, pressing exactly where I'm wet and aching, and milk leaks from my breasts in response—helpless, involuntary, damning evidence of how completely he unravels me.
His eyes darken. "Look at you," he murmurs, dipping his head to catch a droplet with his tongue. "So ready, milky and fertile for me."
I arch into him, fingers finding purchase on his broad shoulders, nails digging crescents into his skin. "Please?—"
"Please what?"
"You." The word breaks on a moan. "I need you."
"I know, baby," Ivan murmurs against my lips, his breath hot and ragged. "But I'm taking my time with you."
"Ivan—"
He silences my protest with another kiss, deep and claiming, his tongue stroking mine until I'm gasping into his mouth. Then his lips leave mine, trailing fire along my jaw, and I tip my head back to give him access, pulse hammering beneath his mouth.
He drags his teeth down the column of my throat, sucking hard enough to mark, and I whimper. The sound seems to spur him on because his mouth moves lower—to my collarbone, my shoulders, the hollow between my breasts where milk has already started to pool.
"Fuck," he breathes, the word vibrating against my skin. "You're dripping for me."
My face burns. "I can't help it?—"
"I love it." His hands come up to cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples, and more milk beads at the peaks before trailing down in thin rivulets. "I love everything about you."
Then his mouth closes over my left breast, and my back arches clean off the mattress.
The first pull of his lips sends electricity shooting straight between my legs. He sucks hard, hungry, his tongue flicking the sensitive peak, and milk floods his mouth. I feel it—the release, the relief, the impossible rightness of his mouth on me like this.
"Oh God—" My fingers twist in his dark waves, holding him against me, and he groans—a deep, primal sound that makes my core clench.
He drinks like he's starving. Like he's been waiting for this, craving it, and now that he has permission he can't get enough. His hand kneads my other breast roughly, coaxing more milk to the surface, and droplets run down my ribs in warm trails that make me shiver.
"Your taste," he growls against my skin, releasing my nipple with an obscene pop before moving to the other breast. "Fucking perfect."
His mouth latches on again, and this time he's even greedier.
He sucks so hard it borders on pain, but the sensation twists into something molten and desperate that has me writhing beneath him.
My thighs squeeze around his hips, seeking friction, and when I feel how hard he is pressing against my core, I nearly sob.
"Please—"
"Not yet." His teeth graze my nipple, gentle then sharper, and my vision whites out for a second. "I'm not done tasting you."
He switches back to my left breast, tongue swirling around the peak before he pulls hard, and I feel the milk release in a rush. He swallows greedily, jaw working, a low moan rumbling in his chest that I feel all the way down to my toes.
His free hand slides down my body—over my ribs, my stomach, my hip—and when his fingers finally, finally brush between my legs, I cry out.
"Soaked," he murmurs, lifting his head just enough to meet my eyes. His lips glisten with milk, dark waves falling messily around his face, and the feral hunger in his gaze makes my breath stutter. "You're fucking soaked, Iris."
"Your fault," I manage, voice breaking.
His mouth curves into a wicked smirk. "Yeah. Mine."
Then he dips his head again, and I lose all capacity for coherent thought.
His fingers slide through my wetness, slow and deliberate, and I can't stop the broken moan that tears from my throat.
Ivan's mouth is still latched onto my breast, drinking deep, but his attention has shifted—split between the milk flooding his tongue and the slick heat he's discovered between my thighs.
"So fucking wet," he growls against my skin, the vibration sending shockwaves through my body. "All this for me?"
"Yes—" The word dissolves into a gasp as his fingers find my clit.
He circles it with his thumb, gentle at first, testing, and pleasure sparks through my nerve endings like live wire. My hips buck involuntarily, seeking more pressure, more friction, more anything, and Ivan's responding chuckle is dark and satisfied.
"That's it," he murmurs, releasing my nipple with a wet pop before moving to the other breast. "Show me what you need, baby."
His thumb presses harder, and I cry out.
My thighs tremble around his hips, muscles tensing and releasing as he works my clit in tight, devastating circles.
Milk leaks freely now, running down both breasts in warm trails, and Ivan laps it up greedily, tongue swirling around my nipple before he sucks hard enough to make stars burst behind my eyelids.
Then he moves lower.
One finger teases my entrance, barely dipping inside, and my core clenches desperately around nothing. I'm so empty, aching to be filled, and the whimper that escapes me sounds pathetic even to my own ears.
"Please—Ivan, please?—"
"Easy." His voice is rough, strained, like he's fighting for control. "I've got you."
He pushes inside—one finger, slow and steady—and my back arches clean off the mattress. The stretch burns in the best way, his calloused fingertip dragging against my inner walls, and when he curls it upward I see God.
"Fuck—you're so tight." His jaw clenches, muscles in his neck standing out in sharp relief. "Squeezing my finger like you're trying to keep me inside you."
"Don't stop?—"
"Never." He adds a second finger, the stretch intensifying, and this time the burn edges into something sharper. But he doesn't give me time to adjust—just starts pumping in and out, slow at first then faster, his thumb still working my clit in relentless circles.
I shatter.
Pleasure crashes over me in waves, drowning out everything except the feeling of Ivan's fingers buried deep inside me, the wet sounds of him drinking from my breasts, the obscene slickness between my legs.
My pussy clenches rhythmically around his fingers, trying to pull him deeper, and Ivan groans like he can feel every pulse.