Villain's Breeding System: Evolving 999+ Harem into an SSS-Rank Legion-Chapter 130- Victor acting as a Hero
She looked up.
His face was right there. The rain on his skin. Those eyes, which at this distance were unambiguously purple, no other interpretation available, just that color that shouldn’t exist in human irises and did anyway, and the expression in them was something she hadn’t learned to categorize yet — not amusement, though it contained amusement, not heat, though it contained that too, just the specific quality of a person looking at something they have decided.
"’Shut up,’" he said.
And kissed her.
She had a basis for comparison.
She had seen hollywood movies and she’d been kissed in that hallway by him and she’d thought she knew what it was — the mechanics of it, the particular exchange of pressure and breath, the thing that happened between two people that carried varying amounts of feeling depending on the people involved.
She knew nothing.
His mouth found hers and ’took’ was the only word that meant the right thing — not aggressive, not forceful, but utterly without negotiation, without the careful tentativeness of a person waiting to see if they’re welcome.
He kissed her the way he moved through rooms, with the complete assumption of space, as if her mouth had been his to occupy and he was simply returning to it.
Her protest died somewhere between her brain and her lips.
Her hands, which had been at his chest, moved up. Found his shoulders. Her fingers, which were freezing from the rain and her own nerves, pressed into the fabric there with a grip that had given up on pushing.
His tongue.
The breath that came out of her went sideways — not out through her nose, just — scattered, her body rerouting itself, her knees doing something complicated that required both his arm around her waist and the granite at her back to manage.
He kissed her like she was something worth taking time over.
Like there was no ceremony behind them, no rain, no Victor moving through the garden somewhere, no country of cameras looking for the man currently holding her hips, no world beyond this specific square foot of wet grass and old stone.
His hand moved.
Slid from the small of her back, down — and spread across the curve of her ass, his palm warm and firm through the black fabric of her dress, his fingers pressing slightly, and the moan that came from her throat was:
’"Nngh—"’
Muffled. Against his mouth. Gone in the sound of the rain.
His other hand found her thigh. Slid the fabric up, slightly, his fingers at the back of her leg, lifting — one of her thighs leaving the ground, the motion opening her stance, pressing her more completely against him, and she felt him — the full reality of him against her core, through everything between them, and the world went briefly white at the edges.
"’—mmnh—’" She turned her face slightly. "’—we can’t—someone will—’"
His mouth followed. Found her jaw. Her neck.
Her head fell back against the granite.
"’Raven—’"
His finger slid. Down. Between them. Pressed against the front of her dress, the fabric pulled tight by the way he’d lifted her thigh, and the pressure found her exactly where she was already impossibly, shamefully responding, the damp warmth there that had nothing to do with the rain, and she made a sound she’d never heard herself make.
"’HNNG—’"
High and brief. Her hips moved toward his hand without instruction.
He rubbed. Once. Slow. Through the fabric.
"’Oh god—’" Her voice cracked. "’Please — please I can’t — not here—’"
He was looking at her now. Her forehead was against his chest, her face turned, her breathing completely gone, and she could feel his eyes on the top of her head with the specific attention of someone who is watching something they find interesting.
"’Please’," she said again. Smaller. The word sitting somewhere between protest and the other thing that was also happening, the thing she didn’t have a name for that her body was doing without her consent.
He released her thigh.
Stepped back.
Not far. Half a step. Just enough that the full press of him was no longer against her, just the warmth remaining, the afterimage of his hands on her, her dress still slightly displaced.
Her leg came down.
She stared at his chest. Could not manage to look up.
Her face was on fire. The cold rain on her cheeks was the only thing managing the temperature.
"’You’—" Her voice came out scraped. "’You can’t just—you can’t do that—’"
"’Okay.’"
"’I’m serious—’"
"’I know.’"
She looked up. Fury finally arriving, slightly late, the useful sharp edge of it gathering itself from wherever it had been dispersed. "’Victor is—’"
He turned her.
Both hands on her shoulders, one smooth rotation — her back to his chest, his hands sliding down to her waist, positioning her facing Alexander Dalton’s grave and the path beyond.
"’What are you—’"
"’Your umbrella fell.’"
She looked down. The umbrella had gone at some point during — it was on the wet grass beside the grave marker. She hadn’t noticed.
"’You’re going to catch cold,’" he said, against the back of her neck. His voice was entirely conversational. His hands were still on her hips. Arranged around her from behind with the casual certainty of someone who has decided where they’re standing.
She felt the front of his trousers against her backside.
Felt the specific, unambiguous pressure of him against her, the warmth and the weight and the reality of his cock against the curve of her ass through both layers of fabric.
Her mouth fell open.
"’RAVEN—’"
"’Shhh.’"
His hand slid down. Found the hem of her dress. Fingers at her thigh, gathering the fabric slowly.
"’Don’t—’" Her head fell back against his shoulder. "’Don’t — I’m not—we haven’t—I’ve never—’"
"’I know.’"
The dress rose. Her thighs, bare now below the hem. His hand reaching the waistband of her panties, fingers hooking the edge—
"’YOU BASTARD.’"
Victor.
Elena’s head snapped up.
Victor stood ten feet away on the garden path. He’d come back — around the yew, different angle, faster than he was supposed to be — and he stood with his eyes wide and his face moving through something she’d never seen on it before.
He was looking at his own hands.
Then at Raven.
At Elena’s hem, slightly raised, Raven’s hand at the fabric.
At the unzipped front of Raven’s trousers where his cock — that impossible, obscene, how-does-that-exist cock, pale and thick and fully out in the cold afternoon air, Raven having apparently been prepared in a way that Elena had not been prepared for — was gripped in his own hand, the fat head already pressing against Elena’s panties from behind.
Victor was not speaking.
He was breathing.
"’Hey there,’" Raven said.
His voice was entirely pleasant. His hand hadn’t moved from Elena’s hip. His cock rested against her ass with the casual weight of something that lived there.
"’Just wanted to deflower your wife pretty quick.’"
Victor made a sound that was not a word. His face had gone through several colors. His hands had become fists.
"’I’LL KILL YOU—’"
He moved.
Fast — Victor was not slow, was a man who’d spent money on knowing how to move — his hand going to the suitcase he was carrying — ’why was he carrying a suitcase at a funeral’ Elena’s brain registered at the edge of everything else — and he swung it.
