100x Rebate Sharing System: Retired Incubus Wants to Marry & Have Kids-Chapter 369 - 368- I Messed Up Lord

Her mind went white for a half-second.

He was pushing her face toward his lap. His hand was firm but not rough — the grip of someone entirely certain about direction, simply applying it, her body following before her brain had assembled a full sentence about whether it consented to the maneuver.

The sheet adjusted. She went under it.

The curtain of fabric fell.

Vivian was on her knees on the floor, in the gap between the bed and the wall, with Viktor sitting above her and the sheet draped over his lap like she wasn’t there at all.

His cock — still thick, still present, the slick warmth of her still coating him — was directly against her face.

She stared at it in the dark under the sheet.

The bedroom door opened the rest of the way.

Gwen’s eyes swept the room the way they always did — the habit of three months running, reading a space in under two seconds, locating exits and threats and the specific shape of anything wrong. Bow arm loose. Not raised. She wasn’t in danger mode, just check mode, but the difference was narrower than most people thought.

The man was on the bed.

Her eyes landed on him with the same reluctance they always did — the part of her that had spent three months making every correct calculation about men in power and was thus required to admit, with deep personal offense, that this one was genuinely beautiful.

The black hair slightly disheveled.

The dark eyes catching the room’s low light with that purple-tinged quality that probably had a supernatural explanation she was going to find irritating when she confirmed it.

He was leaning back against the headboard. One leg stretched. The sheet across his lap slightly rumpled, like he’d been sitting and had moved recently. His shirt was still on.

He looked like a man who’d been resting.

The room looked like a room.

Viktor’s expression didn’t move.

Not the blink that meant caught, not the flicker that meant calculating, not the slight widening that meant oh no — just that same level, lightly amused neutrality that she had been trying to find the edges of since the alley. His dark eyes held hers.

Under the sheet, his cock pushed forward.

Vivian felt it against her cheek.

The slight nudge. The weight of him, still dense, still slick with her, pressing into the side of her face with the laziness of a man who had decided this was simply where he was keeping it for the moment.

’Don’t make a sound.’

’Don’t.’

’Breathe through your nose.’

She breathed through her nose. Her hands were flat against the floor. The wood was cool against her palms, real and solid, grounding — a small mercy because everything else was categorically not.

Above her she could hear Gwen’s voice.

Clear. Close. The particular tone her daughter used when she was pretending she didn’t care about the answer to something.

’Where is she?’

The hands that had been in her hair, that had pulled her down here, were now resting. She could feel the slight weight of them through the sheet. Absent.

Casual. Viktor’s thighs were on either side of her face and she was on her knees between his legs and her daughter was in this room asking where she was.

Viktor’s hips shifted.

Just slightly. Just enough that his cock dragged against her lips.

’He wouldn’t.’

He absolutely would.

"She might have been eating something somewhere," Viktor said. The easy warmth in his voice was almost offensive in its completeness — zero hesitation, zero tells, the particular quality of a man who had simply decided what he was doing and was doing it. His eyes stayed on Gwen. He gave a simple, unhurried smile. "These rooms can be hard to navigate. I’m sure she’ll find her way."

Gwen’s eyes narrowed.

She heard Gwen’s feet shift.

’Look at the window. The door. Him. The sheet.’

’Not the sheet. Don’t look at the sheet.’

"So," Gwen said. The word landed flat, the opener of someone who had decided to have a conversation they hadn’t planned. "You introduced us to your wives."

Viktor’s hand in Vivian’s hair did not move. His voice came out above her, easy as river current.

"I did."

"All of them."

"The ones present, yes."

A pause. Vivian heard her daughter shift weight — right foot to left, the habit she had when she was thinking and didn’t want to be seen thinking. ’She’s folding her arms now,’ Vivian knew, without being able to see. Gwen always folded her arms when she was about to say something she’d already decided on and was dressing up as a question.

"Why."

Viktor’s fingers moved through Vivian’s hair. Slow. Absent. The motion of a man who was conducting two activities at once and was competent at both.

"Why not?" he said.

"That’s not an answer."

"It is one. It’s just not a satisfying one."

The fingers tightened slightly in Vivian’s hair.

Then his cock nudged forward.

’’’

Vivian’s whole body went rigid.

It was barely movement — the lazy shift of his hips, the blunt warmth of him pressing against her closed lips, unhurried, almost conversational in its suggestion. The slick heat of earlier still on him. The obscene weight of him resting against her face like it had decided this was simply where it lived now and was settling in.

’He wouldn’t.’

She thought that. She kept thinking it. Her record on the accuracy of this thought was, currently, perfect zero.

His fingers didn’t tighten further. They didn’t need to. The pressure of them resting at the base of her skull was its own sentence — an entire paragraph, actually, written in a language her body had apparently been fluent in for longer than her mind had agreed to.

’Open.’

The shape of the word wasn’t spoken. It didn’t need to be.

Vivian’s lips parted.

’’’

"Why are you introducing your wives to strangers at all?" Gwen’s voice had the particular edge of someone who knew the question had teeth and was deciding how deep to sink them. "We’re guests. Technically. Or guests-adjacent. People you dragged here—"

"I invited you."

"—after knocking my mother unconscious—"

"You knocked yourself unconscious," Viktor said, pleasantly. "By shooting at me."

"I shot ’near’ you."

"The fletching touched my ear."

"That’s near—"

"We can debate accuracy later." Viktor’s voice was still warm. Still entirely, offensively level. "I introduced you because you’re in this house and you were going to meet them eventually. Seemed more useful to do it over food."

A pause.

Vivian felt the warmth of him against her tongue and could not make any sound whatsoever.

"You said ’useful’," Gwen said. Her voice had narrowed. "You did that on purpose. You chose that word."

"I use words I mean."

"Which means you think we’re useful to you."

"Everyone in this house is useful to someone in it. That’s how a household works."

’’’

Under the sheet, the world had reduced itself to a very specific geography.

The wood floor under Vivian’s knees. The warmth of his thighs on either side of her face. The shape of him in her mouth, thickening slowly as she worked — slow because slow was what she could manage, slow because speed would make sound, and sound was the one thing in this room that would end everything and also destroy what remained of her dignity.

She worked with her tongue. Careful. Deliberate.

His hand in her hair pressed down once — just once, a small firm push — and she felt herself take more of him, felt her lips stretch around the girth of it, felt the wet heat of her own breath trapped against his skin.

Her eyes had adjusted to the dark under the sheet. She was looking up at the underside of white linen and the shadow of his lap and the heavy hang of him going into her mouth, and if she let herself actually think about what she was doing and simultaneously listening to her daughter discuss household politics from the doorway, she was going to either laugh or cry and neither was survivable.

She swallowed.

The motion of it drew something out of him — a single, barely perceptible tension in his thigh, the muscles going taut for half a second before releasing.

’Good,’ something in her registered, against all better judgment.

’’’

"This village," Gwen said. "Millbrook."

"What about it."

"It’s not supposed to look like this. I’ve seen border settlements. I’ve been through six of them in the past three months." She paused. "None of them had cobblestones. Or glass windows. Or children who looked like they’d eaten recently."

"And?"

"And someone built it up. Fast. Within the past year, from the look of the construction. Which means someone with resources and a reason." Gwen’s voice went flatter. "And now we’re sitting in that someone’s house, not allowed to leave."

"You’re allowed to leave," Viktor said. "Technically."

"You took my bow."

"You shot at me."

"You took my ’bow,’" Gwen repeated, in the tone of someone who was noting something for future reference rather than arguing it. "And my arrows. And my knife. And the backup knife."

"I left you the pin in your hair."

"That’s a ’hair pin,’ it’s not—" She stopped. A pause. "How did you know about the hair pin."

"I notice things."

Vivian heard Gwen’s footsteps. Not leaving — ’moving’. Moving into the room, which was distinctly, categorically worse.

The soft tap of her daughter’s bare feet on the bedroom floor, two steps inward, the creak of the floorboard.

Viktor’s hand in her hair did not move.

His cock in her mouth did not reduce.

Vivian stopped breathing.

"Bella said you’re the lord here," Gwen said. The footsteps stopped. "She said it like she was telling me the sky was blue. Completely obvious. Just: ’oh, he’s the lord, he runs everything, he built the fountain.’" A pause, thick with something. "So I asked her which lord. She said Viktor — V-I-K-T-O-R, not the other one. Which one are you."

Silence.

’Come on, Bella... you are really—’

// I-I am sorry, young lord. I just messed up.//