100x Rebate Sharing System: Retired Incubus Wants to Marry & Have Kids-Chapter 364 - 363 - Test Continues

That was the first thing—not length, though there was considerable length, but the girth of it, the weight of it as it emerged and settled, half-hard and still growing, the kind of weight that announced itself.

Dark and flushed, veined, already interested, already filling toward something that her body registered at a register entirely below thought.

The blood left her face.

Then returned to it immediately, all of it, all at once.

Viktor looked up from what he was doing and found her expression.

Something moved through his dark eyes—satisfaction, at its most fundamental—and his mouth curved.

"The measurement instrument," he said pleasantly, "requires a moment to calibrate."

Vivian’s mouth was open.

She closed it.

Opened it again.

"That is not—" Her voice came out in a register she didn’t recognize. "That is not a ’measurement instrument’—"

"It’s very accurate," Viktor said.

"It is—you are—" She looked at it. Looked at his face. Looked at it again, her brain stubbornly refusing to process the information into anything actionable. "That will not fit," she said, with the certainty of someone stating a law of physics.

Viktor’s smile widened by exactly one degree.

"That," he said, "is what we’re here to determine."

The word ’determine’ sat in the warm bedroom air and did not leave.

Vivian’s eyes moved again—she couldn’t help it, her body conducting its own investigation without consulting her—from his face, down, back up.

The size of him had only grown in the seconds she’d been staring.

Fully hard now. Fully ’present.’ The kind of presence that occupied space the way weather did, not requiring permission.

She pressed her knees together.

Viktor noticed this immediately.

He stepped forward.

Not rushing—that was the thing about him, the thing she was only now cataloguing with the clarity that came from direct threat. He never rushed.

He moved through time at his own pace, unhurried in the way of something that knew it was going to get where it was going regardless of obstacle.

His hands came down and found her thighs through the fabric of her dress, and the warmth of his palms against the heavy outer curves of them registered like a brand even through cotton.

He pushed.

Slowly. Her knees parted under the steady outward pressure of his hands—not force exactly, just ’direction,’ firm and patient, moving her the way water moved around stone, finding the path and taking it.

Her thighs separated, and the dress pulled taut across them, and she felt the cool bedroom air find the inside of her legs and understood with a lurch of her pulse what she was allowing.

"Wait—" Vivian’s hand found his wrist. Her grip tightened. "Wait. This is—this is wrong. This isn’t—"

"It’s an examination," Viktor said. He did not stop. His hands had found the inside of her thighs now, thumbs pressing gently against the soft flesh there, feeling the give of it, the warmth.

"Stop saying ’examination’—"

"What would you call it?"

"I would call it—" She scrambled for the word and found it. "Inappropriate. I would call it completely—’stop’—"

"You agreed."

"I agreed to ’checking.’ I didn’t agree to—" She looked down at what he hadn’t put away, at what stood between them with absolute declarative certainty, and her voice lost approximately thirty percent of its conviction. "—to ’that.’"

Viktor tilted his head. Considering.

"You said I could check," he said.

"With your ’hands’ I meant—"

"I’m using my hands," Viktor said, and his thumbs pressed inward another half inch, finding the place where her thighs pressed together at the crease, feeling the heat that radiated from that specific geography, and Vivian’s breath went entirely sideways.

"That is—" She swallowed. "That isn’t—only my husband could—"

Viktor paused.

He looked at her.

"Your husband," he said, and his voice had changed—quieter, that stripped register again. "The man who didn’t come home."

The words landed with the precision of something thrown with practice.

Vivian went still.

Her fingers loosened on his wrist.

Viktor’s expression didn’t soften exactly—it did something more complex, the particular quality of a person who understood grief well enough to use it and hated that that made it useful. His thumbs stopped their movement against her thighs. He simply held her—steady, present.

"I’m not replacing him," Viktor said. Quietly. Genuinely, or convincingly enough that the difference had stopped mattering. "This is something different. Something that doesn’t take anything from what you had."

"That doesn’t—" She stopped. Her throat had tightened. "That doesn’t make it—"

"I’m just going to check how tight you are," Viktor said.

She blinked.

"That is the most—" She stared at him. "That is the most—you are absolutely—"

"Accurate," Viktor agreed.

"—’shameless’—"

"Thorough," he offered.

"—completely without—what are you even ’saying’ to me, what are you—"

He kissed her.

The protest died.

Not because he silenced it by force—he didn’t press hard, didn’t swallow her words roughly. It was softer than that. His hand came up to her jaw, just one hand, angling her face with the gentlest tilt, and his mouth found hers with the unhurried certainty that had characterized every movement he’d made since the kitchen.

And then simply—waited.

His lips against hers, still, warm, the barest pressure. Asking.

Vivian’s hands were at his chest. They had gotten there without her direction, pressing against the solid wall of him—stopping him, technically, in the most technical possible sense of the word. Her fingers were spread against his shirt. Her pulse was in her throat and her palms and somewhere she absolutely refused to catalogue.

She should push.

She was going to push.

Her mouth moved.

She kissed him back.

Not much—barely, just the instinctive response of a person whose body had been making its own decisions for the past twenty minutes without consulting her, just the slight parting of her lips and the pressure of returning the contact, and Viktor made a sound low in his throat that she felt more than heard, a soft satisfied sound that resonated against her mouth.

His hand at her jaw tipped her further back.

She went.

The mattress received her as she tilted, sheets cool against her shoulders, her back, and then Viktor was above her—braced on one arm, body not quite touching hers but close enough that she felt the heat radiating off him, the specific warmth of someone aroused, and the weight of him hovering was its own particular pressure on her consciousness.

His mouth moved.

Unhurried, the same way everything he did was unhurried. Her lower lip. The corner of her mouth. A slow, specific exploration that kept looping back to find what made her breath catch and then staying there.

’Stop,’ some part of her said.

She did not stop.

His free hand moved.

She felt it at the hem of her dress—not pulling, just finding the fabric and gathering it upward, the cool air following the retreating cloth up over her calves, her knees, the heavy rounds of her thighs.

Her thighs, which were—as she had explained in the kitchen and would maintain to her dying day—absolutely not heavy, they were ’full,’ and the distinction mattered even if she was currently lying on a stranger’s bed while he—

His fingers found her.

"Hngh—"