Chapter 512: Chapter 511- The Reason for Her Lactating

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.

The slow, ’I am moving you the way I move things that belong to me’ lift — his arm sliding under her belly, drawing her up off her knees until her back arched against his chest and she was kneeling upright, supported against his body, her thick thighs folded under her, his forearm crossing her belly just below her breasts.

She gasped at the sudden uprightness.

Her breasts swung free — both of them, heavy and leaking, the wet tips catching the moonlit air, milk running in thin tracks down the undersides where his hand wasn’t holding. She felt every place on her back where his muscle pressed against her. The warmth of him. The ’his chest is wider than I remembered chest being’ solidity of a body built with the comprehensive intention of being capable.

His other hand came up.

Both breasts now. Both hands. Kneading, working, pulling the milk from her with the thorough, patient ’I know this body’ attention of a man who was not in any rush and who had, apparently, been paying attention longer than she knew.

"Hnngh~... ah—Viktor— my— they’re so—"

"Should I tell you a secret?" he said.

His mouth was at her ear. His voice was warm and quiet — not a whisper exactly, but the ’I am putting this close to you’ register of a man choosing proximity over volume.

Eliantra’s breath hitched.

"What?"

"Your milk." His thumbs circled her nipples. The milk ran over his fingers in steady, uninterrupted streams. "Have you wondered why it started?"

She froze.

Her hands — which had been hovering in the ’I do not know where to put them’ uncertainty of a woman being held from behind — dropped to his forearms. Gripping. The ’I need to hold something’ grip of someone receiving a sentence whose ending she could not yet see.

"I— it just—" she started. "It just began one day, I thought—"

"You went to the waterfall," he said. "Do you remember?"

’The waterfall.’

Three weeks ago. Or four. The days had blurred.

She had gone alone — or nearly alone, Senna trailing at a distance with the towel and the ’I am giving you privacy while remaining responsible for your safety’ positioning of a servant who had served for thirty-five years and knew the difference.

She had been exhausted.

The county did not run itself. The Count was in the capital for the third week running, as he usually was, as he increasingly was, leaving her to manage the correspondence and the tenants and the accounts and the household and the fact that their daughter was at an academy three days’ ride away and wrote letters that contained less information with each passing month.

Her shoulders had ached.

Her back had ached.

That deep, ’I have been carrying things for a long time’ ache that lived between her shoulder blades and never fully left.

The waterfall was cold. Clear. The kind of cold that the body registers as relief rather than discomfort when it has been warm and tight for too long.

She had undressed at the bank.

The towel held across her chest — the brief, ’I am still covered’ courtesy extended to the trees and to Senna standing twenty paces away with her eyes politely elsewhere. Her thick body in the afternoon light — the generous hips, the belly with its honest softness, the heavy breasts she had long stopped finding remarkable about herself, the dark hair below that she maintained out of habit rather than vanity.

She had let the towel drop.

The air on her skin. Just for a moment — the ’this is mine, this body, this moment, this cold air’ private ownership of a woman alone.

Then she had waded in.

The water rose around her thighs, her hips, the cold closing up around her belly as she moved toward the rock she always sat on — the flat one, the one at the right depth, the one she had been sitting on since she was a girl and which had developed the ’I have been here before and the rock knows me’ familiarity of repeated use.

She had sat.

Let the waterfall run over her shoulders. Closed her eyes. Tipped her head back.

The ache between her shoulder blades had loosened, fraction by fraction, the way tight things loosen in cold water when you stop fighting them.

She had exhaled.

’There.’

The county could wait. The correspondence could wait. Everything could wait.

She had been sitting there — eyes closed, the cold water running over her, her naked body finally still after weeks of it being in motion — when something pressed against her.

Low. Between her thighs.

She had assumed — she had ’assumed’ it was the current. A stone. Some underwater protrusion she’d never noticed.

She had shifted, slightly, the small adjustment of a woman moving to accommodate a minor discomfort.

The pressure had moved with her.

She’d opened her eyes. Looked down.

The water was clear. She could see her own thighs beneath the surface, the dark hair between them swaying slightly in the current, and—

’Something.’

A darkness. A shape. Something that had not been there before and was — pressing. Circling. The ’deliberate’ movement of something that had intent.

She had reached down.

Felt nothing.

The pressure had withdrawn. Like water. Like current. Like something that could become the environment it moved through when it chose to.

A thing entered her pussy and suddenly vanished.

She had looked at the water for a long moment.

Then she had decided the waterfall was simply stronger than she’d realized and had gone back to closing her eyes.

She had not thought about it again.

Until she had started leaking milk soon after and had not had a good explanation.

Until now.

The memory released.

She came back to the moonlit room — Viktor’s arms around her, his hands on her breasts, her milk running over his fingers — and her body had gone completely still in the way of a body that has just received information it was not ready for.

"That was you," she said.

Not a question.

He sucked her nipple.

The full, ’I have this now and I am taking it’ pull of his mouth closing over her tip from the side, his tongue working against the hardened flesh, drawing the milk from her in a slow, thorough pull that her body cooperated with entirely regardless of what her mind was doing.

"Mmph—"

"That was you," she said again. Her voice came out cracked. "The waterfall. That was — Viktor, that was—"

"Just wanted to poke you a bit..."