Villain's Breeding System: Evolving 999+ Harem into an SSS-Rank Legion-Chapter 281 - Arviana’s Sensory Overflow

He crouched.

The drop of his weight — sudden, graceful, the quality of someone dropping into a low position with the same authority they occupied a standing one — and before she had finished processing the ’gorgeous’ he was at her knee level, and his hands had found her right leg.

The prosthetic leg.

His hands on it.

Not the careful, tentative quality of hands that did not know how to touch something unfamiliar and were afraid of getting it wrong. The full, warm, attending quality of hands that had already decided this mattered and were treating it accordingly. Both palms wrapped around the titanium-composite below her knee — the cool, hard, shaped surface of it — and he lifted.

Slow. The easy, unbothered quality of a man lifting a weight that presented him no difficulty.

He raised her leg.

Toward his face.

She grabbed his shoulder.

The reflex — her hand slamming against the muscle of his shoulder to steady herself on one leg, the cane on the ground where it had fallen, the SIG on the ground beside it, nothing to balance against but him. The involuntary, undignified quality of being balanced on one leg in an alley at two in the morning while a man held her prosthetic like it was something precious.

He looked up at her.

Over the prosthetic. Over the titanium surface of it. His dark eyes finding hers from below with the same flat, level attending quality — only from this angle, looking up, they had a different weight to them. Something that was not reverence exactly. Something more considered than that.

He pressed his lips against the upper curve of the prosthetic.

The meeting point. The place where the titanium ended and the real leg began. The border she felt in nerve-endings when things were very quiet.

She felt it.

’That’s not—’

She felt it in a place she had not expected to feel anything.

He lowered her leg. Set it down with the same care he’d lifted it, both hands guiding the placement with the unhurried quality of someone returning something to its proper place. Then he rose. The long, easy unfold of him back to full height — and she was still gripping his shoulder, still on the edge of balanced, her loose dark hair falling across her face and her composure at a location she could no longer verify.

He looked at her.

She looked at him.

’Say something,’ she told herself. ’You are Avriana Menhante. You have shot men tonight. Say something that costs him.’

He leaned down.

The lean of it — slow, deliberate, not toward her mouth. Lower. His eyes stayed on hers the whole way down, the specific quality of a man who wanted her watching while he did something, who needed her to be present in every inch of the approach — his gaze holding hers as his face drew level with her chest, as the warmth of his breath found the exposed upper swell of her breasts above the silk.

Her breath caught.

He bit the edge of her neckline.

Not her skin. The fabric. His teeth finding the silk at the low-cut edge of her dress — the top button at the cleavage — and pulling.

The sound of it was small and final.

Thk.

The button gave.

Silk parting, the off-shoulder dress opening at the top with the abrupt, irreversible quality of something that had been holding and had now stopped. The fabric fell — the top of the dress folding open, exposing the top of her black bra, the full swell of her breasts suddenly lifted out of the silk’s containing architecture and present in the cold alley air.

She looked down.

She looked down at the ruin of her dress, at the precise, deliberate damage of a single pulled button, at the bra she was wearing under it — black, thin-cupped, the kind that did its job with no apology — and then she looked at him.

"Raven—"

His mouth found her nipple through the fabric.

The sound she made was not a word.

"Aah—?!"

High, broken, the short, involuntary cry of a woman whose body has been touched in a place it was not ready to be touched — her hands slamming down onto his shoulders, fingers digging in, not pushing, gripping, the reflex of a woman who needed to hold onto something and he was the only thing.

His mouth worked over her nipple through the thin cup of her bra — the wet, hot, open suction of it, the way his lips sealed around the stiffened peak through the fabric and pulled — the slow, deep, dragging draw of it that sent a line of heat straight down through her sternum, her diaphragm, her stomach.

’Stop.’

She did not say it.

"Hnngh—"

His tongue. Through the bra, through the thin black fabric, the wet, flat drag of it circling, pressing — the obscene warmth of a mouth that knew exactly what it was doing and was in no hurry to do anything else. Her breast swelled against the cup, against his mouth, the tight, aching peak of her nipple straining toward him through the fabric with the involuntary, humiliating eagerness of a body that had not been consulted.

He sucked.

The long, deep, consuming pull — the sound of it a low, wet "mlk—" against her chest, his cheeks hollowing, the suction pulling a sound from her that bounced off the brick wall and came back to her ears and she did not recognize it as her own voice.

"Ahnn—! Hh—"

Her head dropped back.

He pulled away.

The cool air hitting her wet bra cup with the sudden, absent quality of a mouth that had been there and was now not there. She gasped — the sharp, stuttering intake of a woman coming back from somewhere — her chest rising and falling with the unsteady quality of breath that had been interrupted and had not yet reestablished its rhythm.

He looked up at her.

Her nipple was visibly stiff through the wet fabric. He looked at it with the flat, attending quality of a man who had done that and was acknowledging the result.

"Want to go somewhere?"

She stared at him.

The dissonance of it — the torn dress, the wet bra, the cold alley, her loose hair, the dead man six feet away, the gun on the ground — all of it, and he was asking her this in the unhurried, conversational tone of a man suggesting they relocate to a better table.

"What?" she said.

The word arriving in the low, unsteady register of a woman whose voice had not fully returned yet.

"Where?"

He pushed her.

Not hard. The flat, deliberate quality of a hand at her hip guiding her backward — not asking, moving — and her left heel caught the alley floor and then the backs of her thighs found something solid and cold and metal behind her.

The garbage bin.

The large, municipal steel of the Menhante Crown’s alley waste container, waist-height, the cold edge of it catching her at the hip bones with a blunt, specific clang — her breath punching out of her at the impact —

"What are you—"

His hands went to her waist.

And he lifted.

The full, easy, unhurried quality of it — his hands closing around her waist and picking her up with the unbothered authority of a man who had decided where she was going to sit and was now placing her there.

Her thighs hit the flat metal top of the bin.