My Taboo Harem!-Chapter 292: Prove It (r-18)

"Prove it," she whispered.

So, he did.

Not fast. Not frantic. Not the desperate collision of bodies she might have braced for from someone half her age.

That was what would ruin her sleep for weeks afterward—the slow, deliberate certainty of it. The way he made her wait. The way he made her feel the wait, every heartbeat stretched thin and aching.

He simply looked at her.

One long, unhurried second after another, violet eyes tracing the shape of her face like he was memorizing every micro-expression: the faint, helpless tremor in her full lower lip, the way her pupils had swallowed the blue of her irises until only a thin ring remained, the rapid, frantic flutter at the base of her throat where her pulse hammered against pale skin like a trapped bird.

Then—only then—did he lift his hand.

So slowly it felt like deliberate cruelty.

His fingertips hovered an inch from her jaw, close enough that she could feel the radiant heat coming off his skin before actual contact—a slow-building burn that made her breath hitch and her thighs press together instinctively.

Giving her every second to remember who she was: thirty-four.

A teacher. A professional.

A woman with a planned future, a retirement plan, and a reputation that could still be salvaged if she just said no right now.

She didn’t say no.

His fingers settled against her jawline—barely there at first, a ghost of pressure, the pad of his index finger tracing the delicate bone from just below her ear to the soft point of her chin. Feather-light.

Reverent.

Like she was porcelain he didn’t want to crack—but knew he could if he chose.

Patricia’s breath left her in a single, trembling exhale—sharp, shaky, the sound raw in the quiet room.

"There," he murmured, voice so low it vibrated against her collarbone like a physical touch. "That sound again."

"What sound?" Her own voice cracked on the words, barely above a whisper.

"The one you make when you’re trying not to want this." His thumb brushed the center of her lower lip—once, slow, dragging the soft, plump flesh sideways just enough to part it slightly, exposing the wet pink inside.

"The little hitch in your throat. The swallow you think I can’t hear."

"I haven’t—"

"You have." His hand slid upward, cupping the back of her neck now—warm, steady, fingers threading gently into the fine hairs at her nape, cradling her skull without pulling.

"Every time I leaned close enough for you to catch my scent. Every time my voice dropped. Every time you caught yourself staring at my mouth for half a second too long."

He’d been watching her while they chatted away.

His thumb stroked once along the tendon at the side of her neck—slow, deliberate, feeling the frantic jump of her pulse like a second heartbeat. "You’ve been swallowing those sounds all afternoon. Trying to keep them locked behind your teeth."

"That’s not—"

"It is." He didn’t argue. He stated. Calm. Certain. "And it’s okay."

His fingers tightened just enough at her nape—not restraint, just presence, enough to remind her that he could hold her there forever if he chose. "You don’t have to hide them from me anymore."

His other hand rose.

She tracked it helplessly—breath shallow, chest rising and falling too fast, nipples stiffening visibly against her blouse—as his fingertips found the inside of her wrist.

He followed the faint blue vein upward—light as breath—past the delicate bones of her forearm, pausing at the sensitive hollow of her elbow. There he circled once with the pad of his thumb—slow, firm enough to make the nerve spark like a live wire, light enough to make her want to chase the pressure.

A tiny, involuntary sound slipped past her lips—half whimper, half sigh, raw and needy.

He smiled against her skin—small, private, triumphant.

"See?" he whispered. "Your body remembers how to answer."

Then he turned her wrist over—gentle, unhurried—so her palm faced upward. He traced the lines of her hand with one fingertip: lifeline, heart line, the smaller creases that fanned toward her fingers. Each pass was excruciatingly slow—waking every dormant nerve until her entire palm tingled, until she could feel her heartbeat throbbing in her fingertips like a second pulse.

When he finally lifted her hand to his mouth, he didn’t kiss it.

He simply pressed her open palm flat against his lips—soft, warm, unmoving—and exhaled.

The heat of his breath flooded her skin—slow, liquid wave traveling up her arm, sinking into her chest, pooling low in her belly like molten honey. Her knees locked.

She gripped the edge of the desk behind her with her free hand—knuckles blanching, papers crumpling under her fingers—as the warmth spread, making her nipples tighten painfully against her bra, her thighs clench hard enough to trap the growing ache between them.

He turned her hand just enough that the very tip of his tongue touched the center of her palm—one fleeting, wet flick.

Her whole body jolted—a sharp, electric spasm that arched her back, made her gasp loud and broken, hips jerking forward involuntarily as a fresh rush of slick soaked her panties.

A raw, needy sound tore from her throat—impossible to swallow back, echoing in the quiet room.

He lifted his head just enough to meet her eyes over the curve of her trembling hand.

"Still think I’m just playing at being a man?" he asked, voice soft, dangerous, velvet over steel.

Patricia couldn’t speak.

Couldn’t breathe properly.

Could only stand there—pinned by nothing more than the slow press of his mouth against her palm, the steady cradle of his hand at her nape, and the unbearable, exquisite torture of being touched like something infinitely precious and infinitely breakable.

He hadn’t even kissed her mouth yet.

And already she was coming undone—pussy throbbing, thighs slick, body trembling with the need to be claimed.

Phei leaned in and kissed her.

And Patricia Bloom—years of lesson plans and late-night grading, two hours of steeling herself against this exact moment, thirty seconds of lying to her own reflection in the darkened classroom windows—came apart.

Not with a crash. Not with tears or shouts. Just a quiet, fractured sound against his mouth—a small, involuntary sob of surrender she hadn’t known she was still holding inside her chest, raw and trembling, vibrating straight into his lips.

The kiss was slow.

Excruciatingly slow.

His lips brushed hers once—soft, testing, barely there—then settled fully, warm and unhurried, like he had forever and intended to spend every second of it tasting her. No frantic pressure. No desperate tongue-fucking.

Just the deliberate press of his mouth to hers, the faint vibration of his low exhale against her lips, the way he angled his head so perfectly that every nerve in her body rerouted straight to that single point of contact.

He tasted like danger wrapped in warmth—something faintly sweet, faintly salty, something that made her head spin and her stomach clench low and tight. Something that whispered this is how ruin begins and made her want to lean into it anyway.

She gasped—soft, broken—when the tip of his tongue finally touched hers.

Not thrusting or trying to claim. Just a slow, coaxing slide along the length of her tongue, inviting rather than demanding. Her body answered before her mind could scream stop—lips parting wider, tongue meeting his in a tentative, trembling stroke, a quiet moan slipping free that vibrated between them.

He swallowed the sound.

"That’s it," he murmured against her mouth, voice so low it felt like it came from inside her chest.

"There you are."

Her hands were already on him.

She didn’t remember deciding to touch him. One heartbeat her palms were braced on the desk behind her; the next they were fisted in the front of his shirt, knuckles white, pulling him closer when every rational part of her brain was still screaming push him away.

The fabric was warm from his body, and she could feel the hard planes of his chest rising and falling beneath her fingers—steady, controlled, nothing like the frantic hammering of her own heart.

"This is insane," she whispered between kisses, the words barely audible, half plea, half confession.

"Probably," he answered, lips brushing hers as he spoke.

"I could lose everything."

"You could."

"You’re my student."

"I know."

"We need to stop."