100x Rebate Sharing System: Retired Incubus Wants to Marry & Have Kids

Chapter 707: Chapter 706- Evriana is a Good Boobie Aunt

Evriana’s composure cracked the moment the hall doors shut behind them.

Her hand was locked around Viktor’s wrist, her fingers white-knuckled, dragging him through the entrance corridor with the desperate urgency of a woman smuggling contraband. The guards stationed along the passage straightened at her approach. She signaled without breaking stride. A sharp flick of her wrist. Two fingers raised, then a downward cut.

Leave.

The guards obeyed. Boots echoed on marble, retreating, fading, gone.

The hallway emptied. The noise of the humiliated hall behind them faded to a muffled murmur. Evriana stopped. Released his wrist. Turned.

Her brown eyes were fire.

"What are you doing?" she hissed. The words came through clenched teeth, each syllable bitten off and spat like venom. "Do you know what you have done? You just— you simply—"

She couldn’t finish. Her hands were shaking. Not from fear. From rage. From the kind of fury that a woman who has spent decades cultivating alliances and carefully managing relationships feels when a man younger than her son destroys decades of political work in thirty seconds.

Viktor stood with his hands in his pockets. Relaxed. His posture was loose, his expression mild, the same infuriating calm he wore in every situation. The hallway’s candlelight caught the angles of his jaw, the sharp line of his nose. He looked bored.

"Come on, Aunt," he said. "What are you saying?"

He stepped forward. One step. The distance between them halved. Evriana held her ground for exactly one second before her body betrayed her. Her chin tilted upward. Her shoulders drew back. Her chest pressed forward.

His arms found her.

He pulled. Hard. The embrace was not gentle. His hands found the small of her back, fingers spreading wide, pressing her body against his. The impact drove the air from her lungs. Her crotch slammed into his. The contact was direct, unavoidable, her mound pressed against the thickening bulge in his trousers.

"Stop—Viktor—you don’t—"

Her protest died in her throat. His arms tightened. The fabric of her formal gown, blue silk with silver threading, bunched at the waist where his hands had found the tie. The knot cinched. Tighter. The dress compressed around her midsection, pushing her breasts upward, the cleavage deepening as the bodice strained.

She moaned.

The sound was small. Involuntary. The kind of sound that escapes a woman when her body recognizes a man before her mind can object. Her lips parted. Her eyes, which had been blazing with anger, softened. The brown irises dilated.

His face descended into her neck. His mouth found the skin below her ear. The spot. The one he had discovered two nights ago in the cave. The one that made her knees buckle. His tongue emerged. Licked. A long, slow, wet stroke from the base of her neck to her jawline. The saliva cooled on her skin. Goosebumps erupted across her arms.

"Mmh—" she gasped. Her hands, which had been pushing against his chest, went still. Her fingers curled into his shirt. Gripped. Not pushing. Holding. "Why are you doing that?"

He didn’t answer. His body moved against hers. Not thrusting. Grinding. The slow, deliberate rotation of his hips against her belly, his chest against her breasts. The full-body contact, every inch of him pressed against every inch of her, was overwhelming. The fabric between them was thin. Two layers. Silk and cotton. She could feel his heartbeat through his shirt. He could feel her nipples hardening through her gown.

"You know there were merchants who can instantly cut off good supplies to our town," she whispered. Her voice was shaking. The political brain, the Catorian matriarch, was still fighting. Still trying to be rational. "Or at least this town. When we are away in the capital, they can pull away the Holy Church’s support. Making it hard for the people here to survive. You have just told them to leave. It’s wrong. It’s—"

He kissed her.

His mouth found hers. The kiss was not gentle. His lips crashed against hers with the same authority he had just displayed in the hall. Claiming. Taking. His teeth found her lower lip. Bit. Pulled. The pain was sharp. The pleasure was sharper.

She opened.

His tongue pushed into her mouth. Found hers. The wet, warm contact, the sliding, circling, tasting dance of two tongues, made her body go rigid against his. Her hands, on his chest, fisted the fabric. Her hips, against his, moved. Involuntary. The grinding matched his rhythm.

"Mmm—♡ mmph—♡" The moans came through the kiss. Muffled. Swallowed. Each stroke of his tongue pulled another sound from her. Each push produced a whimper. Each withdrawal produced a chase, her tongue following his, seeking more.

His hand found her breast. Over the gown. Over the blue bra beneath. His palm covered the mound. His fingers found the nipple through the layers. Pinched. The stiff nub, trapped between his thumb and forefinger through silk and lace, was compressed.

"Ngh—♡!" she gasped, breaking the kiss. Her eyes rolled. The brown irises disappeared beneath fluttering lids. Saliva connected their lips. The strand stretched, thinned, broke. Fell onto her exposed cleavage.

His hand didn’t stop. His fingers, which had found the edge of her neckline, pulled. Down. The silk bodice, already strained, surrendered. The fabric slid. The blue bra, lacy and formal, was revealed. Then the bra itself was pulled down. His fingers hooked the lace. Pulled. The cups displaced. The milky white flesh of her breasts overflowed.

Her nipple popped free.

The areola was pink. Wide. The nipple, stiff and dark from arousal, stood erect. The breast, heavy and full, the large mound of a mature woman who had borne children, hung free. The cool hallway air hit the exposed skin. The goosebumps intensified. The nipple hardened further.

"Stop— you—" she started.

He took it in his mouth.

His lips wrapped around the nipple. The warm, wet contact made her cry out. His tongue found the nub. Pressed. Then he sucked. The cheek hollowed. The suction was hard. Deliberate. The milk, the buff-carrying fluid that his Wife Package system had activated, responded.

It flowed.

The milk, thin and sweet and warm, filled his mouth. The taste hit his tongue. His eyes, looking up at her face from her breast, watched her reaction. The expression. The wide eyes. The open mouth. The blush spreading from her cheeks to her chest.

She cried. The tears came. Not from pain. From the overwhelming, ’this-is-wrong-and-my-body-loves-it’ sensation that made her pussy clench and her thighs wet.

"Viktor..." she whispered. Her hand found his hair. Her fingers threaded through the dark strands. Not pulling. Holding. The gesture was maternal. Instinctive. The ’my-nephew-is-drinking-from-my-breast-and-I-am-holding-him-like-a-baby’ gesture that made the scene more obscene than any crude word could have. "You... are a pervert."

He didn’t stop sucking. His eyes, still on hers, twinkled with amusement. His cheeks worked. The milk, continuous, filled his mouth. He swallowed. Drank. The sound, the soft, rhythmic ’gulp-gulp-gulp’ of a man swallowing breast milk, echoed in the empty hallway.

Her pussy was soaked. She could feel it. The fabric of her panty, the thin cotton beneath her gown, was wet. The arousal, thick and warm, had leaked through the cotton and was running down her inner thigh. The ’my-nephew-is-drinking-my-milk-and-I-am-getting-wet’ combination that her body couldn’t deny and her mind couldn’t accept.

He released the nipple with a wet POP.

The nub, wet and swollen, stood rigid. The milk, the residual fluid, beaded on the tip and ran down the curve of her breast.

He possessed her.