It was her idea to throw the party, though baby showers aren’t common in Russia. She said it wasn’t a shower, only an opportunity for our friends to offer their congratulations.
It’s an elegant affair, held on the rooftop of the SO Sofitel, with strings of golden lights drowning out the stars, a stunning view of Saint Isaac’s Cathedral, and the famous cellist Leonid Gorokhov playing a suite in the old style.
Every Bratva family in St. Petersburg is here to pay homage to the new scion of the Petrovs. Even some of the Moscow Pakhans have made the journey. They hate missing out on any event, particularly one as posh as this. Sloane may not care much for parties, but she damn sure knows how to throw one.
I believe the real intent of this particular event is to solidify our standing as the most powerful couple in the nation. She knows exactly how it looks, presenting our son and heir to the world. She knows the meaning of the pile of luxurious gifts weighing down the receiving table. She issued a call to the Bratva, and they answered with obeisance.
I make the rounds through the crowd, shaking hands and accepting congratulations from friends, allies, and rivals alike. I kiss the hand of Jori Zaitsev’s new bride and accept an introduction to Pavel Veronin’s eldest son, who requests a private meeting the following week.
Hilo Stepanski has come all the way from Minsk. He presses a wrapped package into my hand, telling me, “This is a gift for you as well as your son. It’s a Rolex from his birth year. You can wear it now, and later you can pass it down to him.”
“Very thoughtful, Hilo. Thank you,” I say, tucking the package in the breast pocket of my tux. “How is business?”
“Volatile,” he replies with a significant raise of his thick salt-and-pepper eyebrows. “Have you heard what Moroz has been doing?”
“Yes,” I say shortly, not wanting to mar the festivities with the stain of the dark rumors swirling out of Kyiv.
“Upheaval can be good for business,” Hilo says. “But only if there’s anyone left alive to do business.”
I’m not sorry when Hedeon Markov interrupts us, accompanied by his son Kristoff, his daughter Evalina, and her fiancé Donovan Dryagin. The Markovs are one of the only families who supported me during my bloody battle with my rival Remizov. The Markovs’ loyalty will not be forgotten—they will always have a place at my table.
I’ve already helped Kristoff Markov to secure an appointment as Minister of Culture. I’ll offer my assistance to Donovan Dryagin as well, once he marries Evalina.
Hedeon Markov has a broad, taciturn face with a thick shock of snow-white hair combed straight back from his brow. His hands are harder than iron, and he’s rumored to use them freely on his wife and children, despite his age. His son Kristoff, barrel-shaped and black-haired, shares his father’s dour expression.
Only the daughter displays the famous Markov beauty—or at least, she used to. When last I saw her, she was slim and vivacious, with brilliant blue eyes and a daring manner that earned her several severe looks from her father and brother.
Tonight she looks pale and doughy, leaning on her fiancé’s arm as if already exhausted, though the party is just beginning.
She barely glances up as I take her hand.
“Welcome home,” I tell her.
Sloane greets Evalina warmly, asking how she’s enjoying her time at Kingmakers.
“I’ve decided not to return for my final year,” Evalina replies, quietly.
“Surely Donovan can wait a little longer?” Sloane inquires, with a glance at the tall, stern fiancé.
“It’s Evalina’s decision,” Dryagin says. “I was content to allow her to complete her education.”
I see the slight curl of Sloane’s lip at Dryagin’s magnanimous tone, but she lets it pass.
Her eyes are fixed on Evalina’s somber face.
“We’re glad to have you back,” she says.
Evalina nods. Her eyes land on our month-old son, tightly swaddled and cradled in a sling across the breast of Sloane’s gown. His sleeping face peeps out, dark lashes laying against his round cheeks and small mouth making a delicate sucking motion as he dreams of milk.
Evalina’s hands make a convulsive, clutching motion in front of her chest, as if she’s been afflicted by a sudden pang—heartburn, perhaps.
“Excuse me,” she says, turning and heading in the direction of the ladies’ room.
Hedeon Markov begins to talk of market futures, barely noting his daughter’s departure.
Later, when the party is in full swing, I corner Sloane so I can kiss her behind a potted banyan tree strung with lights.
Wolf — Boy Epic
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Apple Music → geni.us/spy-apple
“Don’t squish the baby,” she teases me.
“I think I squished him plenty while he was still inside you.”
Sloane’s smile turns to a wince.
“What’s wrong?” I demand, my voice too rough as my heartrate spikes.
“Nothing,” she says. “Only my tits are killing me. He hasn’t woken up to eat.”
I look at her breasts, heavy and round as a porn star’s, when usually they barely fill my hands. The skin is stretched painfully tight over their curved tops, her nipples stiff against the material of her dress.
I take her hand.
“Come on.”
She follows me down the staircase to the lower level of the SO Sofitel, which houses several rooms for board meetings and luncheons. I take Sloane into one such room, with a gleaming oval executive table, and a freshly-cleaned whiteboard mounted on the wall.
“I don’t want to wake him up,” she says.
“We’re not going to.”
Gently, I put my hands around her waist and lift her up so she’s sitting on the edge of the table, her feet resting on one of the plush leather chairs. Then I pull down the bodice of her black velvet gown, exposing one tight, swollen breast.
Her nipples are larger than usual, and darker. The point stands out from the breast, already beginning to leak milk just from the stimulation of air against her bare skin.
Supporting her breast with my palm, I close my mouth around her nipple.
I suck gently at first, lightly massaging her nipple with my tongue.
The milk begins to flow at once, first in a thin stream, then a rich and creamy torrent. Sloane lets out a low moan of relief as the let-down initiates. The moan is distinctly sexual—my cock stiffens inside my dress pants, jutting upward to the waistband.
Her milk is slightly sweet, as if mixed with honey.
I gulp it down.
I drink enough to give her relief but I leave her breast half-full in case our son wakes hungry. Then I move to the other side, still painfully taut and already leaking milk, dampening the velvet dress.
This time Sloane holds her breast, feeding me the nipple. She cups the back of my head, pressing my mouth against her flesh, gasping at the first touch of my tongue.
As her milk begins to flow into my mouth, I reach up under the hem of her gown, running my fingers up the inside of her thigh. Her temperature grows warmer and warmer the further I travel, until I reach the steady-burning furnace of her cunt.
She’s already wet, as I knew she would be.
As I nurse from her breast, I rub the ball of my thumb in circles on her clit.