Chapter 20: Milk-Fueled Demands
The scream tore from Hyukjae’s throat, a raw, shattered thing that seemed to vibrate in the cramped space of the bedroom. Donghae’s mouth was a brand on her chest, his tongue a hot, relentless stripe lapping up the thin streams that beaded and flowed from her aching nipples. The sensation was too much—a sharp, electric pull deep in her womb that connected directly to the throbbing heat between her legs.
His fingers were inside her, plunged deep, curling and stretching. The sound was obscenely wet, a filthy, rhythmic squelch that drowned out the panting of her own breath. He worked her with a focused intensity that was new, a possessiveness that stripped away the last of his gentle hesitation.
“Tell me you want it,” his voice was a dark growl against her damp skin, his breath hot. He bit down on her nipple, not a playful nip but a sharp, claiming pressure that made her back arch off the mattress, a wounded cry escaping her lips.
“Tell me you need daddy’s cock breeding you again.”
The words shouldn’t have worked. They were crude, a performance, a role they’d stumbled into out of some desperate, dark joke. But something in her—the part that was still him, the part that was now irrevocably her—clenched hard around his fingers at the sound of them. A fresh gush of wetness soaked his hand.
“Fuck,” she sobbed, her hands tangling in his hair, not to pull him away but to hold him there. “Yes. God, yes, I need it. Need you. Need you to fill me up, Donghae, please—”
He didn’t make her beg for long. He removed his fingers, and she whimpered at the sudden emptiness. He sheathed himself inside her in one brutal, perfect thrust, hilting himself to the root. The air punched out of her lungs. He was so deep, so impossibly deep, stretching her in a way that his fingers couldn’t, his cock a solid, burning reality against her tender cervix.
He didn’t start slow. There was no tender build-up, no romantic pretense. He fucked her with a driven, punishing rhythm, his hips slamming against hers, the headboard knocking a dull, steady beat against the wall. Each thrust jolted through her, through the taut swell of her belly, shaking a weak moan from her throat. Her breasts bounced heavily with the force, more milk leaking in thin trails down her sides.
“Is this what you wanted?” he grunted, his face buried in her neck, his teeth scraping her pulse point. “This what you dreamed about when you woke up empty?”
“Yes! Yes!” she chanted, her heels digging into the small of his back, urging him deeper, harder. “Don’t stop, don’t you fucking stop!”
His pace was relentless, a physiological hammering that felt like it was rearranging her from the inside out. The pleasure was a cresting wave, but beneath it was a current of something else—a frantic, clutching fear. This was a claiming. A brand. Every slap of skin, every gasp, was another layer of a new, terrifying reality being carved into them both.
“Gonna put another baby in you,” he choked out, the words ragged and fierce. “Gonna keep you full. Keep you like this. Mine.”
The declaration, violent and sweet, shattered her. Her orgasm ripped through her with a violence that blurred her vision, a convulsive clenching that milked his cock as he shouted her name—her old name, her new name, a tangled mess of syllables—and poured into her, hot and endless. She could feel the pulse of it, a second, profound flood joining the first.
They collapsed, a mess of sweat and come and milk, gasping for air in the sudden silence. The only sound was the ragged saw of their breathing and the distant hum of the city waking up outside.
Slowly, he softened inside her but didn’t pull out. His weight was a comfort, an anchor. He nuzzled her neck, his lips soft now against the marks his teeth had left.
“Sorry,” he whispered, the word barely audible. “I didn’t mean… the things I said…”
She shifted, wincing at the pleasant soreness, and wrapped her arms around him. “You meant them,” she said quietly, without accusation. “It’s okay. I… I wanted you to mean them.”
He lifted his head to look at her, his eyes searching hers. The wildness was gone, replaced by a profound exhaustion. He saw the truth there. She wasn’t scared of his hunger. She was scared of what it meant.
The blaring ringtone of his phone, abandoned on the floor, sliced through the quiet. It wasn’t his usual tone. It was the one he’d assigned to a single contact.
Professor Heechul.
The haze of sex evaporated like smoke. A cold dread seeped into the room. Donghae stiffened, then slowly, carefully, extracted himself from her. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his back to her, and stared at the buzzing phone on the worn carpet.
Hyukjae pushed herself up on her elbows, the sheet falling to her waist. “Don’t answer it.”
“I have to,” he said, his voice flat. “If I don’t, he’ll come here. You know he will.”
He picked up the phone. His thumb hovered over the screen. He took a deep breath, his shoulders squaring, and swiped to answer, putting it on speaker.
“Donghae.” Heechul’s voice was crisp, amused, devoid of the static of a bad line. It sounded like he was in the next room. “You’ve been ignoring my emails.”
“I’ve been busy, Professor.”
“I’m sure you have. I need an update. On our subject.” A pause. “I assume the subject is still with you? Its… condition must be progressing.”
Hyukjae felt a chill that had nothing to do with the air on her skin. It. Its condition. She saw Donghae’s fist clench, the knuckles white.
“We’re managing,” Donghae said, his voice carefully neutral.
“Managing,” Heechul echoed, a smile audible in the word. “A quaint term. I require metrics. Physiological data. A simple video conference would suffice. Let me see. Let me assess.”
“No.”
The word was absolute. A line drawn in the sand of the stained apartment carpet.
Heechul’s tone cooled. “This isn’t a request, Donghae. You are a participant in an ongoing, classified study. The subject is my creation. My responsibility. You are compromising the data.”
“The subject,” Donghae said, the word boiling over, “is pregnant. You never said that was a possibility. You never warned us.”
A beat of silence. Then a low, fascinated hum. “Fascinating. Auto-fertility. A true gestational mimicry. This is beyond my projections.” The clinical delight in his voice made Hyukjae’s stomach turn. “The need for observation is even more critical now. Tomorrow. My lab. Bring it.”
The call ended. Donghae lowered the phone, his head bowed.
Hyukjae pulled the sheet around herself. The warmth from their bodies was already fading, replaced by a creeping cold. The words ‘bring it’ echoed in the silence.
“We can run,” she said, her voice small.
“Where?” He turned to look at her, his eyes hollow. “He funded this. He has connections. He’ll find us. And then he’ll take you. Take…” His gaze dropped to her stomach.
The fear was a living thing between them now. The fantasy of ‘just today’ was over, shattered by a ringtone. Donghae stood and began to pace, a caged animal in his own home.
“We go,” he said finally, stopping at the window. He didn’t look at her. “We go tomorrow. But not for his observation.”
Hyukjae’s heart hammered against her ribs. “Then for what?”
He turned. The grim resolve on his face was more frightening than any anger. “We go to end it,” he said. “One way or another.”