The Spy by Sophie Lark

14

Ivan Petrov

Twenty-one Years Ago

The party on the HI SO Terrace is intended to celebrate the birth of my son, though no one in Russia would ever call it a baby shower.

I’ve become familiar with many American traditions since marrying Sloane. She clings to few of them, considering herself a citizen of nowhere and a resident of anywhere she pleases.

Still, she likes to compare Russian customs with American.

This is her nature as a chameleon: observing and adapting the practices of those around her, until she might convince you that you’d grown up next door to one other.

She finds the Russian superstitions around pregnancy and birth highly amusing.

She laughed when my soldiers firmly refused to acknowledge her burgeoning belly, even when they bumped right into it in a cramped hallway.

“They don’t want to invite the eye of the devil on your unborn baby,” I informed her.

“I think he already has the devil inside him,” Sloane said, giving me a wink. “Do you remember what we were doing when we conceived him . . .?”

I remember that night well. Sloane and I had just liberated four million in unmarked American bills from an armored truck outside of Gatchina. Robbery is not a usual part of our business, but Sloane had gotten a tip on the unusually large cash transfer, and she was intent on intercepting it.

I had never seen her as energized as she was that night. She insisted that we go, just the two of us, and she organized the entirety of the heist. I let her take the lead for once, watching her work with the skill and precision of a master.

Once we had the money, we hauled it up to the penthouse suite of the Astoria hotel, bribing the clerk for the use of the service elevator.

Sloane spread the money out on the bed, then stripped naked and lay on top of the pile of bills, offering me her body and the cash as our anniversary present.

We had been married four years.

I never expected an heir from her. Dominik had a son to carry on the Petrov name. And I knew how Sloane valued her independence and her physical prowess.

Yet, I must admit . . . every time she showed me her cleverness, her ruthlessness, and that wild joy that bubbled up inside of her like an endless fountain, I thought to myself, What a child we could make, her and I. He’d rule the world.

She was possessed of a kind of madness that night. We fucked like demons, scattering the stolen money like leaves in a hurricane. I took her in every position, harder and harder as she urged me on.

She dug long scratches down my back, she bit my shoulder so hard that it bled, she rode me like a prize stallion in the final stretches of the Triple Crown.

As I erupted inside of her at last, she cupped my testicles in her hands, stroked her fingertips on the underside of my balls, milking every last drop out of me.

We were drenched in sweat, cash stuck to our backs, the hotel room destroyed.

A few weeks later, she told me she was pregnant.

“I thought you were on the pill?” I asked her.

“I must have forgotten to take it,” she replied, in her enigmatic way.

I was obsessed with the changes in her body. Every day I wanted to run my hands over every inch of her, marveling at the fulness of her breasts, the darkening of her nipples, the swelling of her belly.

My lust for her was so intense that I followed her around the monastery from room to room. Nothing ever required more self-restraint than keeping my hands off her when she was in the throes of nausea.

I was rewarded by a libido surge in the second trimester—then it was Sloane who attacked me at odd hours of the day, ripping my clothes off my body and mounting me without foreplay. Her pussy was wetter and warmer than it had ever been, her curves filling my hands in new and satisfying ways. She was a goddess of fertility: I only wanted more of her to worship.

My happiness was violent in the extreme. I felt a new level of protectiveness that probably annoyed her at times.

“Of course I’m going down to the gym!” she scoffed, lacing up her sneakers at eight months along. “Do you think women in olden days sat around eating bon bons?”

“The royals did,” I growled. “And you are my queen, after all . . .”

Sloane flatly refused the Russian traditions of the husband not accompanying the woman to the birthing room and the forbearance of buying any baby items until after the infant’s safe arrival.

“You know I’m always prepared,” she told me. “I’m not giving birth without a single damn onesie in the house.”

“Usually the husband buys the baby clothes while the wife is in hospital.”

“Not this husband,” she said. “You’ll be right beside me, rubbing my feet.”

In truth, I mostly held her hand, brought her ice water, and terrorized any nurses who dared chastise Sloane for cursing.

She birthed our son as she does all things: with single-minded intensity.

She pushed him out and demanded to hold him at once, before he had even been cleaned.

If I had any question whether my wife possessed maternal characteristics, it was answered when the doctor pricked our infant’s foot, making him squall.

“You take one single drop of blood from my son, and I’ll answer it with a gallon of yours,” she snarled in perfect Russian.

The doctor retreated, hands upraised, mumbling apologies and excuses about hospital policy.

I admired our son’s thick head of hair, his lusty screams, and his long frame.

“He’ll be tall,” I told Sloane.

“Of course he will,” she said. “Look at his parents.”

She surprised me by nursing him, and by carrying the baby in a sling everywhere she went.

I suppose I should have known that Sloane does nothing by halves. She would never have a baby only to neglect it.

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

Spotify → geni.us/spy-spotify

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.

With each gulp, I press a little harder.

Then I slide two fingers inside her. Now there’s no mistaking that moan that I know so well. She rocks her hips, riding my fingers like a cock, still clutching my head hard against her breast.

She starts to cum, milk spurting into my mouth.

I keep finger-fucking her, knowing she might kill me if I miss a single stroke.

I rub her pussy until I’ve wrung every last bit of pleasure out of her, giving her the relief she needs in every possible way.

Only then do I release her, covering her breasts once more.

“Is that better?” I ask.

“Infinitely better,” she says, kissing me deeply, tasting her milk on my lips.

Our son slumbers peacefully in the sling between us, unbothered by anything around him.

I rest my hand on his head, marveling how the curve of his skull perfectly fills the palm of my hand, his wavy dark hair softer than featherdown.

Sloane watches me, unsmiling.

“What is it?” I ask her.

“Did you see Evalina Markov’s face?” she says.

“What about it?”

“She had melasma—darkening of the pigment in the skin.”

“What of it?” I say.

Sloane frowns, cradling our son’s warm body in the crook of her arm.

“Usually that happens from pregnancy,” she says.

* * *